So in case you missed what that shrill whistling type gasp and moaning was early Sunday morning, Lucas, well over one hundred pounds of Lucas, at a dead run, launched himself off of my bed by planting one of his back paws dead center of my crotch and then springing. I was just lying there reading so I was totally nude and unprotected. One of the nails on the paw of the Loki Mutt dug into my privates and left considerable damage and I’m pretty sure there is permanent hearing loss. For just an instant I gulped enough air to cause a slight vacuum in the time space continuum. I think I saw a unicorn.
There’s a lot of stuff located in that region of the body. There are a lot of nerve receptors whose job is to herald in great tidings of joy, ecstasy, and heaven felt goodness. Their job is to make sure that no matter how terrible the sound of a crying baby might actually be, the pleasure of sex can and will outweigh the memory of a two year old driving all the other patrons at Red Lobster to pick up your tab just to get you the hell out of the place before someone put your kid in the tank with the live crustaceans. A loud kid is like having all the nails ever done by Asian women wearing masks being drawn over all the chalkboards ever drawn on by third grade teachers whose cats would be the only living creatures ever to sleep in their beds. If sex was not as great as it was the human species would have died out right after the first kid began to wail inside a cave. The nerve endings there are what keeps us all alive and happy and not even evolution can stop the quest for orgasms.
I lay wheezing for breath. I knew it was bad. I had been reading a book on the Battle for Guadalcanal and suddenly I felt like that guy, from “Band of Brothers”, who after being hit in an explosion has his friend rip his pants open to see if he’s all there. It’s one of those common fears of men in war zones and men who have large dogs with claws. You’d think that Lucas would know better by now, or I would know better by now, but that has nothing to do with me open mouth gasping like a fish while trying not to cry in front of a book about World War Two. How unmanly would that be?
But it is equally unmanly to draw your hand away from your, uh, manly area, and there to be fresh blood there. I knew I would have to look and see how bad it was but there was a full minute where I was hoping something else might happen. Maybe the world would end and save me the discomfort. I checked for blood again and there was more blood. Oh, shit! What if it’s serious? I had to look.
Okay, because I was reading, “Starvation Island” which has nothing to do with a 747 full of cheerleaders on Spring Break crashing landing on a remote island with only myself and fifty cases of tequila, my , uh, well, everything was stashed away in an accordion sort of way. Lucas’ nail caused a three inch gash running vertical near the bottom of the, uh, main attraction, that was deeper, not so deep, deeper, not so deep, deeper, not so deep until the wound hit the, uh,… boys’ room …where the wound was deepest. At least it was bleeding which with a wound made by any animal, it’s important to get cleaned up quickly.
Now how to cleanse the wound came down to a do what you have to do and get over it. Usually a man cleaning that part of his body for that long hasn’t been reading nonfiction but I had to know the real damage. Soap hurt. Hot water hurt. Hydrogen peroxide hurt. And worst of all, I kept having this vision that at that very moment, some women I knew was going to show up and say, “You know, I’ve never said anything about before, but I’d like to come in and just let you take my clothes off and see what happens.”
Can you imagine the amount of self-deception that it takes to have that fear at that moment? Oh, yeah, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig on a Sunday morning and you have no idea how bad it might be, so the first thing you need to worry about is whether or not this is going to cause you some sort of problem when a random sex partner appears without warning!
I love being a guy. I mean, a woman would have never, in a million years, had that cross her mind with that sort of injury. But a man? Oh damn, I’ve been mauled by a bear, I hope Angelina Jolie doesn’t run out of gas and walk up to my door right now. Men will keep this species going, ladies, as long as at least one of you is too drunk to laugh at us and who forgot to take her pill this morning.
So the rest of the day I read and I bled. I lay on the bed with a towel under me and a washcloth on the afflicted area and I kept things clean and open and threw harsh words at a certain dog who wanted to get up on the bed again.
Last night it was hard to get comfortable and I despaired that I was leaving spots of blood on the sheets, which I knew I would. That’s when it hit me; this is exactly what women go through once a month. Ouch and damn. So there I was, having this thought and I realized that me leaking blood from a place I rather not was something every thirteen year old girl had already considered.
The next morning I found myself deeper into the neighborhood of womanhood. I was still bleeding. How in the hell can I still be bleeding? I took a shower and cleaned the wound off and it started bleeding anew. Maybe I should go get stiches. Or a pad.
So during the day I would have a meeting and I had an appointment with the dentist. I was going to wear my kakis but they’re light colored and I thought maybe I needed something darker. Do women dress for blood? It occurred to me that every tampon commercial I had ever seen was filled with women wearing skin tight white yoga pants doing gymnastics while riding rodeo horses during earthquakes. Oh my dog I bet they do have to dress with blood considerations. It was sobering.
First, I never wear underwear unless I’m running or working out. I don’t like to have the boys bouncing around too much when I’m exercising but I want everyone to hang loose otherwise. It occurred to me that women who really need sports bras can relate to this. But underwear seemed like a good idea. I took a bandana and folded it up and stuffed it inside just in case then looked at myself in the mirror. Shit. It looks like I’m a porn star. Hey, wait, no, try toilet paper. That worked. Women have to go through this once a month, you know, trying to get ready for work while trying not to bleed all over everything.
It was even worse when I got to work because I was walking funny. I realized that I had to pee and knew that would be getting everything out of position then back into position. I checked for blood and there were still a few spots on my clothes but the rest was a small mess. Gross! This is…what women go through.
I fought off the urge to reposition everything and pull and tug all day long. I felt invaded and the pain came and went in waves. There were certain positions I did not put my legs. I found myself snapping at people and I also fought off the urge to see if I was leaking and people could see.
It’s like this, isn’t it?
I survived the day, the dentist, and when I got home, took a shower and checked the damage. The wound still looks raw but it isn’t bleeding anymore. It’s still oozing clear liquid but the area around the wound isn’t red and puffy. There is no swelling, thank dog, around the afflicted area and I don’t think there will be for a while. All in all, it looks like the worst is over but I’ve developed a newfound respect for blood management.
I truly apologize for all those bloody end of the month jokes I’ve made. Next time I get the urge to make one I’ll just plug it.