Period Sex C.1982

by Lise Colas

You sent me a mixed tape to get me in the mood — remember? Then a few days later, you saunter down the street and ring the bell. Shuffling your feet on the doorstep.

The Strict Baptists next door twitch their nets, believing the Antichrist hath cometh in a black biker jacket and drainpipe jeans.

I let you in, your grey eyes question mine — Cup of tea?

— Please.

You smoke a roll-up in the small upstairs kitchen. I try to open the sash behind the sink and you make your move, toppling over a bottle of detergent — both your hands on my breasts, squeezing.

— I can’t, I’m on, I say.

— Doesn’t matter, you reply, as you kiss the back of my neck.

I take you downstairs, to my dungeon bedroom thankfully gloomy, even in the day.

You strip off everything and so do I — a mad race to get under the covers (it’s cold and it’s February). Our kisses smother each other to death, almost. I come up to breathe, your hand between my legs.

— Fuck, forgot to —

You find the string and start to tug at the bloody thing.

— Just a minute —

— I scramble up and forage around for a plastic bag, pulling on the mouse’s tail I toss aside my royal red pellet. Good to go.

I grab a hand towel and lay it on the bed like a picnic cloth — your dick is thick by now and I recall your peculiar sigh as you press inside — all that mucky stuff, clots of old blood and drizzles of fresh, your pestle mixing it up with my generous spread of damson jam.

— It’s quite safe — relax, you whisper in haste. I wait for your climax. I fear mine is lost, but when you come, you come like a river of warmth bursting my banks, and it’s oh so nice, and there low-down, is a beat of tiny wings and my tongue chances a last dance inside your slack mouth, before you collapse on top of me and I feel you shrinking, slipping away.

You push back, in order to check — and curious, I rise up to take a look. Between your hands a detumescent single rose, a wilted valentine of sacrificial red, to be wiped ineptly on a corner of the towel.

We flop down together once more, on our picnic cloth of blood and cum, content, with our arms around each other, gazing up through the filthy panes at the filtered grey light of afternoon.

Lise Colas lives on the south coast of England and writes poetry and short fiction. She has a BA (Hons) in Fine Art and used to work in the archive of Punch Magazine. See her poetry/art blog at