Until I met James, my injuries during sex were pretty much limited to carpet burns, the odd bite-mark, and, since my skin is pale and tends to blacken on impact like an overripened banana, no small amount of bruising.
But on our last date, right after several martinis and a very energetic session between the sheets, I felt intense pleasure – followed by a shooting pain in my right eye.
“Baby, the room is spinning,” I said, panicked.
“Yeah, I know, that felt totally amazing to me, too,” he said, taking my hand in his.
“No… everything is out of focus. I can’t see!”
So our romantic evening ended in casualty, where I was wedged between a guy with a hacking cough and a woman with three feral children trying to choke each other. I read an out-of-date magazine with my good eye and tried not to freak out.
Finally, it was my turn, and after a brief chat with the nurse I was sent to see a young, fit doctor. After asking what medication I was on, he got to the, “So, do you have any idea what caused this?” question.
I blushed, before blurting out that it happened when I had an orgasm. “What I think you have here is a popped blood vessel,” he said, “it’s not that uncommon, so you shouldn’t be embarrassed.”
Even in my humiliated state, I found it seriously
hot that this man was taking charge.
When he leaned over me to shine a light in my eye, I noticed that he had amazing hands. I’ve always been attracted to powerful men, and at that moment it felt like he held my life in the balance.
I started to fan-tasise about him ravishing me on the hospital trolley, so I tried to make small talk. “Don’t worry, we see some crazy stuff in A&E with sex,” he said, and went on to describe broken penises, fractured pelvises and rogue vegetables. “The guys who masturbate using vacuum cleaners are not just an urban myth,” he added.
Meanwhile, James texted to say he was leaving, because it was 3am and he had an early meeting. “Thanks for your concern,” I wrote back. “What if I end up going blind?” OK, I was being a drama queen. The truth is, I was pulling the (mostly male) tactic of trying to start a fight because I didn’t want to feel guilty about what I was going to do next.
“So, Miss Townsend, we’re all done here,” the Clive Owen lookalike said. “You can go back outside to join your boyfriend, if you like.”
“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend,” I said. I wanted to ask him if he was single. But I had to play it cool.
“Um, that was really interesting, what you said about sex disasters. I may do a piece on it, so would it be alright to give you a call?”
“Sure,” he said, and gave me his mobile number. Between the fluorescent lights reflecting off his blond hair and my damaged eye, he seemed to have a halo. Then again, everything was out of focus.
I’ll definitely call him this week. And if he doesn’t reply, I could always fake an injury.