I thought my period started during sex – it was my boyfriend’s blood

‘Oh no, wait – I think I’ve started my period,’ I said to my boyfriend, Max*.

It was a Sunday afternoon and we had just had sex for the third time that day – but as he had pulled out of me, so had a burst of blood. 

I pushed him away from me to look at the white sheets, where a small red pool was forming.

Shocked, I investigated further by unhelpfully patting down my crotch – I wasn’t sure how else to confirm the blood was mine.

Then I realised I had finished my period a week ago.

‘It’s not me…’ I mumbled.

I looked up at Max’s face – which was bright red with anguish – and then back down at his dick, which was covered in blood.

That’s when he screamed. And then I screamed.

I had never experienced a sex injury before, and was – rightly – absolutely terrified.

As was my sweet Max.

I had met him during a temp job I had at an office in 2009, when I was 25, undertaking menial administration tasks to try and make some money after graduating. He was only a couple of years older than me but had the soul of a much more secure person, despite his age. He had a job, for one thing.

So we started going on dates after some office flirting, and when my temp job ended a week later, we started sleeping together. 

By the day of the sex injury, we had been dating for a month. We were in the honeymoon period – which meant that every moment we spent together, we were either making out, having sex or thinking of having sex.

He was an incredibly sweet and loving nerd, with a shockingly high sex drive.

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As Metro’s brand spanking new sex columnist, I’m here to bring you stories from my sensual past. I’ve gone through it all – from toe sucking to raunchy injuries – and I’m here to share it all with YOU.

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Read more by Sydney Summers:

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One minute he was buying comic books, and the next he was ripping my clothes off. It was very hot.

This particular Sunday, we had cancelled plans we had with friends, abandoning them at a beer garden so we could spend the day naked in bed with pizza.

After a few weeks of letting our friends down on multiple occasions to do just this, I can safely say they were expecting it anyway.

No feelings were hurt. Only dicks.

That afternoon, after two long, passionate sessions rolling around in bed, we sat up dehydrated and speechless, our bodies sweating out the liquid we so desperately needed.

Deciding we needed a break, I put on Jurassic Park. But our intoxicating passion couldn’t be stopped by Jeff Goldblum’s chest – or maybe it egged us on. Either way, we were back at it in no time.

Maybe we should have rested for longer, though – because when we finished this time, blood covered my newly purchased, pristine white sheets.

Max was in such shock from the pain, it hadn’t immediately hit him. But when it did, he was silenced by the sharp agony emanating through his body, while I was patting around my crotch in search of a period leak.

While we both screamed, I frantically looked for my phone to call 999.

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My immediate thought: His penis was going to fall off.

I had no medical training, but that was my professional opinion at that time – one that I luckily kept to myself.

While I dialled, Max grabbed my sheet and wrapped it slowly and firmly around his wounded appendage while crying in agony. I felt so bad for him.

My second thought: Did my vagina do that?

Waiting for the ambulance, we sat on the bed while he held himself, rocking back and forth. The only support I could offer was to stare at him, horrified.

The ambulance came quickly – within 30 minutes – and the medic told us everything was okay. They said Max had a ‘frenulum tear’, also known as a ‘snapped banjo string’, but that it was minor.

It did not look minor, but I was relieved to hear that his penis wasn’t going anywhere. He went to the hospital to check for infections, and I stayed at home to clean up.

I asked if he wanted me to go with him, but the medic said not to worry; that most men didn’t want women around during these kinds of injuries. My eyes moved from this male medic onto the female medic who was unwrapping the sheet from my boyfriend’s dick and I nodded mindlessly.

I guess hospital workers are genderless.

A few hours later, Max was back and in happier spirits. While his penis throbbed, there wasn’t any more sharp pain, and he said he simply had to be careful until it had healed.

‘Two weeks’, he told me, shrugging.

‘No sex’, I shrugged back.

I wondered how we would fill the time.

A few minutes later, a friend texted: ‘We’re going to another pub, come join us’; so I happily joined.

In those two weeks, I spent more time in beer gardens with friends than since I’d met Max, which was a lovely reconnection with my mates that I didn’t realise I was missing. 

And I became closer to Max, getting to know him by chatting to him instead of our marathon sex sessions.

We lasted a year until we amicably parted ways – but for the rest of our relationship, every time we had sex, we had the gentlest, slowest sex I’ve ever experienced.

In fact, it helped me experience sex mindfully, by taking time to feel my body and his. Instead of rushing for an orgasm, I began to realise that sex wasn’t about a goal, but about the experience.

Sex felt newly invigorating. 

And now, I don’t rush to inadvertently break dicks – I never want to see that agony on a partner’s face again.

*Names have been changed

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