Poor, Sweet George [PSG]

I get a nosebleed the first time I have sex with someone new almost every time. I am quite sure this is psychosomatic and nothing to do with a physical problem in the slightest; it’s got to mean something, right? It has PTSD and anxiety and trauma written all over it. Do I consult someone psychologically adept to help me work through that issue until I find a comfortable resolution? Absolutely not…I push through and pretend it’s not a problem – why change the habit of a lifetime? Besides…I really don’t have that much sex to be terribly affected by this affliction and it makes for some really funny stories – totally liveable.
It’s not that I’ve had so many conquests that I can call this something that happens without fail – I’m still in single figures so it isn’t exactly habitual, but it’s happened to me more times than it hasn’t, put it that way. When it happens I am always on top, and I feel my nose starting to run as I grind away, lactic acid burning in my thighs while I consciously position my body to create the most attractive view for the gentleman between my thighs. I start to panic, knowing that the trickle in my nostril is almost certainly going to be blood. I furtively wipe my nose with the back of my hand and try to catch a glimpse of the smear that is left there while gracefully and considerately continuing to bob up and down. Sure enough, a red smudge is in situ and I now know I have mere seconds to climb off the man and rush to the toilet before a tidal wave of biblical proportions bursts from my face.
One time just the thought I was going to have sex with someone gave me a nosebleed of such unrivalled measure in the middle of a date on Leicester Square that we had to get a taxi home. The taxi driver almost refused to let my companion into the cab under suspicion he had beaten me. By the time I got back to the privacy of my own home my nose had bled so badly (in front of the very eyes of my date in the back of aforementioned black cab) that when I peeled my bra off my itty bitty titties were stained with dried blood in the exact shape of the cups I had just removed. I didn’t get laid that night.
However, the worst – the absolute worst – was Poor, Sweet George [PSG].
PSG was my rebound after Wasteman Wes. He liked me far too much far too early and I did not mirror the depth of his affections. After Wes’ mistreatment I indulged in the attention and revelled in the positive reinforcement that men can be nice occasionally so I am sorry to say I used PSG to my own ends.
Credit where it is due, PSG was a nice looking guy. He was very tall, though very slim, with curly brown hair and a friendly, kind face. He was a friendly, kind sort of guy all over to be honest. Free spirited, he was always travelling somewhere or planning his next adventure and I met him between trips. He sometimes wore tiny, purple tie-dye shorts that cost him less than £1 from Thailand emblazoned with batique elephants just because he was that guy and weirdly, he pulled the look off. I always half expected him to drag out a mandolin and start strumming ‘Kumbaya’ around me to celebrate how ‘zen’ and ‘radical’ the divine forces of the universe are.
PSG’s main problem and the barrier that prevented me from ever being able to see him as anything more than a rebound (aside from the fact that he was very definitely a rebound) was that he smoked way too much weed. Having come from a relationship with a boy who frittered away both my money and his own on every class A-C under the sun I couldn’t bear the idea of being with anyone who used drugs recreationally. Before Wes I was open minded though uninterested in illegal substances but Anno Wes I cultivated a deep-rooted hatred for drugs. PSG was aware of this and, while he made a point of never smoking around me or when we were due to meet, he was also open about smoking when away from me. But what did it matter to me? I was never going to marry him so how he spent his leisure time was of no consequence; it just made me think he was a tiny bit of a pathetic loser.
PSG and I had a good first few dates despite his penchant for blazing – I made him wait well past the obligatory third date before I would even consider fornication, partially because I wasn’t sure if I fancied him but mostly because I feared he would have a pencil dick. I don’t know why I thought this; I think perhaps because he was a long and skinny guy and therefore his penis would likely be shaped similarly (I was, incidentally, right on the assumption). Is there anything less attractive than a pencil dick? So as we drew closer and closer to the date upon which I tentatively placed all my clitoral hopes I anticipated he would be keener than ever before, gagging for a dip in the fleshy pie I had been denying him all this time. At this stage I had still not experienced an orgasm and I therefore held my breath in anticipation that the next man to visit my labia might be the one to tip me over the pleasurable edge.
It was at this point though a strange contradiction emerged. PSG was still very very definitely interested – you know when you just know? But he was not forthcoming with asking about that date after which I was going to blow his mind with my vulval tricks. I couldn’t understand it; he was texting me morning, noon and night. He asked how my day was, what I had been up to…all the usual shit you fill the texting phase with that is mundane and uninteresting but you can’t progress it further. But where before he had been eager to get something pencilled into the diary, now it seemed like this was the very last thing on his mind. It became a sort of Mexican stand-off between us; I was waiting for him to ask me on that date and he was avoiding the mere mention of seeing me again despite the fact he clearly wanted to. I didn’t even care about seeing him or going on the date but I felt slighted that he wasn’t asking – he needed to want me every bit as much as I didn’t want him. My hard ambivalence to PSG soured and turned to a frustrated determination to get that date in place.
I consulted a mutual friend and she confirmed he was definitely still eager to see me and she couldn’t understand why he had taken his proverbial foot off the accelerator either. I became increasingly more irritated upon hearing this. Who did this guy think he was? I didn’t even know if I wanted to sleep with him but I knew I wanted to be given the choice! There he was being all sweet and dedicated with his 50 million text messages a day, none of which had even the sniff of a mention of seeing me. I was bored of seeing his PSG name pop up on my phone screen…he was exasperating me now with his stonedness and his slow pace.
As the days rolled on and began to near weeks I decided enough was enough. I didn’t want a pen-pal, I wanted someone to come and knock some happy endorphins into me and PSG clearly wasn’t the man for the job. I felt like a bottle of champagne; fizzing and bubbling away inside ready to be popped…I could feel someone loosening my cork but they had just left me in a state of readiness, cork teetering between fixation and escape. I didn’t care enough about PSG to worry about behaving in any way that might be off putting and so I sent the following:
‘I’m bored now. Are we going out again?’
He immediately sent a reassuring message saying he had been wanting to go out again and some bullshit excuse which I immediately discounted because, frankly, it didn’t interest me. He was there to boost my self-esteem and that was it. I told him to come to my flat that Friday night to which he heartily agreed. I didn’t know what had come over me – who was this woman so full of gumption and confidence? When you behave like that it’s always a sure sign you’re not interested in the person at the receiving end.
Well…when Friday night came around and I heard PSG’s reluctant ‘tap tap tap,’ I pulled back the door to greet him and got a face full of the reason why he had delayed so long in asking me for another date.
Blossoming from between his dark brown eyebrows was the biggest cyst I have ever seen in my life. It looked like a purple tick suckling the life from his cranium. Angry and swollen it drooped precariously towards the bridge of his nose like a pustuley globule encased by stretched flesh. The swollen dangler was suspended between us – a tumescent, pulsating reminder of all the days I had felt frustrated that PSG was dragging his feet; all the while he had been nursing what can only be described as a secondary head.
My eyes were drawn immediately to the facial haemorrhoid and hovered there for far too long, taking in the hideousness of the situation. I blinked and realised he was obviously extremely self-conscious about the growth as he put his head down and walked past me through the threshold. For a time we both tried to act as though the third person in the room wasn’t there and went about the familiarities of our greeting without acknowledging there was a pinkish-purple beach ball on his forehead but soon the time came where we could ignore its presence no more.
‘I’m sorry I waited so long to do this…I was waiting for this bloody thing to go down before I saw you again,’ PSG muttered apologetically.
My voice was squeaky in mock-calm as I replied, ‘don’t be silly! It’s totally fine – I just didn’t want so much time to go past that it fizzled out.’ Such bollocks…I just wanted him to want me. And it was becoming more and more evident to me that it actually didn’t matter how much he wanted me, I didn’t want him. What percentage of that was to do with the facial testicle he brought along with him, I couldn’t be sure.
I drank my way through the misery and disgust of the evening and as the wine warmed me and dulled my senses I began to find the cyst was no longer such a big deal. I had gotten used to its purple presence and as we laughed through the night the polyp almost disappeared in a frenzy of hilarity and raucous merriment. He was definitely shifting his skinny body closer to me as the festivities progressed but as long as he didn’t brush me with that mollusc looming over us both it wasn’t bothering me any more than the usual progression of a man moving into my personal space.
Meanwhile my new Siamese kitten (who is now the elder of my two treasured pussies) flitted around the house playing with shoelaces and PSG’s headphones like a mischievous little scamp. Finally, he tired and found somewhere to sneak off and go to sleep…or so I thought.
It was far too late, and we were both far too inebriated, to insist PSG left when I started to feel my eyeballs burning with fatigue and my bed was beckoning me. I told him he was welcome to stay if he liked. This had been the night I had been planning I would give it up anyway and we had had a really fun evening so if something happened that was fine, but equally if he stayed on his own side, turned over and didn’t choke on his own vomit or swallow the ganglion in the night I’d also be thrilled. He opted to stay over and as we proceeded through to the bedroom PSG grabbed me from behind in a display of sheer masculinity and started to kiss me on my shoulders and neck.
I froze initially because I hadn’t been expecting the physicality of the situation, momentarily suspended between despising the feel of his lips on me but also enjoying the sensation of being kissed. Somewhere in the gulf of my addled brain I acknowledged I did not want him to be touching me but, at the same time, I was enjoying the attention and I felt mildly turned on by the sensations. In short, I decided to just let it happen.
We kissed all the way to the bed and as the backs of my knees met with the cold metal of the frame I began to lower myself down while PSG stood in front of me. As I moved further onto the bed, my feet lifting from the carpeted floor beneath, PSG’s drunken state must have knocked him off balance and he flopped like a salmon onto the bed, throwing himself to one side to avoid crushing me beneath him.
No sooner did his skinny, white body hit the duvet than he writhed upwards as though someone had just stabbed him right between the shoulder blades. His rib cage protruded towards the dusky ceiling as his chest swelled and his arms jutted down, slamming into the mattress.
‘What the fuck is that!?’ he asked, panicking. He threw himself upwards and off the bed with such fervour he almost fell forwards into the wall opposite. Inspecting the area from whence he had just lolloped like a dying fish I noted a very large, very round, very wet patch on the duvet. My new kitten had, unbeknownst to me, taken umbrage to our gentleman caller and decided to mark his territory all over his side of the bed. Hats off to my little feline, he’s the protective man of the house my brother failed to be.
Understanding that PSG had just landed directly into the contents of my kitten’s jealous bladder dawned upon me as I stood with my back turned to my formative lover, staring at the puddle – a stenching reminder of my lack of attraction to the man in the room. I turned and unashamedly explained, ‘the kitten has peed on the bed. He’s never done that before.’ I changed the bed and got the spare duvet out of the cupboard, all libido wiped from my drunk and tired body. I was ready for one thing – sleep. PSG was in the shower, probably cleaning his pencil dick ready to seduce me again while I clambered gratefully into the warm embrace of my cradle to slip into a deep slumber.
No sooner had I dozed off than I sensed PSG sliding between the sheets beside me, renewed and luxuriating in his freshly washed state. ‘Are you awake?’ he whispered hopefully. I said nothing. I heard the unmistakable rustle of Egyptian cotton as he crawled closer to me, so close I could feel his hot breath on my spine. He walked his fingers over my hip and flopped his arm across my body dominantly. Still I remained with my eyes clasped shut but I was sure my face had taken on a cringed expression. I felt him lowering his head to start kissing my neck and mentally queried how much longer I could keep up the pretence that I had fallen into a sleep so deep it would rival Snow White’s coma.
Tenaciously he continued nuzzling at me like a horse might nudge its owner for a sugar cube. Reluctantly, I feigned waking up slowly and felt obliged to return his advances – he had landed in my cat’s piss, after all. We started kissing and from kissing, dry humping naturally ensued. We all know I love a dry hump – I closed my eyes and imagined it was someone I wanted much more than PSG who was here with me and let myself glide into the fantasy.
(It was at this point my suspicions regarding the girth of PSG’s little PSG were confirmed. It was definitely to scale with his body shape.)
As the smooching deepened and the dry humping advanced to the stage where the rubbing almost becomes uncomfortable I climbed atop PSG to take some element of control over the situation, pretending he was not this skinny white stoner from Staines but actually Anthony Joshua or someone equally as masculine and sculpted from pure heat. I leaned down to kiss him while moving back and forth over his scrawny member.
And then I felt it: the trickle.
Oh dear God say it ain’t so! Even drunk and relatively uninterested, the nosebleed of horrors was still going to happen. I was incredulous…betrayed first by my cat and then by my own body – my own face! I sat bolt upright in an attempt to save PSG from droplets of plasma hitting him right in the kisser.
I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and sniffed at the same time (attractive, I know!) The metallic taste slithered onto my tongue and down the back of my throat, a tell-tale sign that the tsunami was gathering energy on its path to destruction out of my nostrils.
In the split second it took for me to decide that I needed to curtail sexual proceedings rapidly, PSG seemed to go into a zenith of wild panic. Had I bled on him? I didn’t think so…the gore had not yet begun running out from my orbits. Why, then, was he flailing like a madman beneath me? He grabbed me by both hips and threw me unceremoniously from astride him. He ran, Forrest Gump-like, to the bathroom.
I sat dumbfounded for a moment, forgetting briefly the flow about to materialise from my snout. What the effing heck had just happened? My quandary was interrupted by warmth descending downward from my adenoids and I grudgingly arose from the bed to join PSG in the dimly lit bathroom.
As I pushed open the door, there he stood in a semblance of half-undress, boner pointing forwards aggressively as he bent over the sink, one hand held to his forehead.
‘Don’t look!’ he commanded, giving me the side eye with his face pointing into the basin.
But it was too late…I had seen, with sickening realism, the teabag had finally burst. His face was beetroot red and from between his brows leaked the now-emptying haemorrhoid. Whitish pink liquid dribbled into the drain. He made for a toilet roll to staunch the pus as it flowed out in a repulsively satisfying current to the porcelain waiting beneath.
My stomach churned as blood now streamed from my nose, pooling into my awaiting hands which were cupped beneath my chin. PSG and I stared at the state of one another, now completely sobered by the hideousness of the situation. We were vile, grotesque, leaking creatures of the night.
But worse even than the sight of his forehead seeping mucus into my sink while my nose gushed with my own life force was the realisation that I had nowhere to pour the crimson fluids I was secreting. With a heavy heart I bent the knee, submitted to the floor and emptied my sticky hands of blood directly into the toilet bowl.
How had my life come to this? Just days before I had taken the bull by the horns and ordered a man I was using to come to my house so I could expend his sexual resources before throwing him away like garbage and now here I was: on my knees, naked from the waist down, blood discharging in two rivers out of my nose directly into the latrine that stood before me. I was a mess…and PSG was even worse for wear as he still seemed totally aroused going by the pokey pushing forth from inside his Calvins but oozing discharge in dribbles from a face I never wanted to see again.
I reached for a loo roll, trying and failing to resurrect some impression of decency and grace by wiping the bloody residue away and as I did so I noticed there was a significant amount of blood on the floor. Too much, realistically, to have all come from my nose. Where on earth had all that come from? I looked behind me to note there was even more around the entrance of the bathroom door.
And that is when Mother Nature hit me with the final heinous embarrassment of the evening’s events. I had, of course, unexpectedly come on my period and bled like an unspayed bitch all over the laminate floor.
Suffice to say I sent PSG home just as soon as all the residual sputum had drained from his facial testicle. Sickened, I had been forced to glance upward as he squeezed the last remnants from the cyst, a look of pure joy and relief on his face that the world’s biggest zit had been popped at last. I cleaned myself up and vowed never to use a man for sex again; karma had taught me a valuable lesson this night. If it doesn’t feel right, do not push it. I didn’t even want the sex – I didn’t crave the man. I just wanted him to want and crave me and this was utterly the wrong reason to allow someone access to your precious vagina.
I saw PSG one final time after this monstrosity of a date – I couldn’t let his lasting impression of me be one where I was stooped over my own toilet bleeding like a madwoman from every orifice with hands like Lady Macbeth’s. The night had involved the exact opposite of the body fluids intended and I wasn’t one to go down like that so when he asked me for another date, clearly thinking he was on a promise, I accepted. I made sure I looked as good for him that final time as possibly could. We never slept together and I left the vicinity of that final date very quickly. I blocked PSG before I had even reached my awaiting car – he didn’t deserve that but I had to scrub the awfulness out of all existence. I’m sure he understood in the end.
So the moral of the story is this – listen to your body. If it’s telling you that some delightfully lovely but skinny hippy guy in cotton shorts is just not worthy of frequenting your lady parts, leave it. PSG was a nice guy, but nice guys finish last unfortunately (or don’t finish at all for PSG); especially when they’re the rebound sent to seal your heart back together with their lean penis and moral kindness alone. Failure to listen when that woman’s intuition is shouting at you may very well result in a mortifying engagement involving every disgusting body fluid known to man exploding from all the wrong places. Finally, and most importantly: if they look like they have melanoma sprouting from between their eyeballs it’s probably better to puke and retreat swiftly.

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