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Karma is a bitch.
When I was in college, I was in a semi-long distance relationship, if you could even call it that, with a guy who lived about 45 minutes away from me. He graduated a few years before me, we met in a club, we were still in the “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, we just hook up all the time and spend every possible second together and share a dog,” stage or as I like to call it, denial.
During a month-long religious holiday that he celebrated once a year, he had to fast from sun up to sun down and couldn’t be participating in anything that would be considered “impure.” This meant no drinking or partying and definitely no sex during the fasting period. Oops.
It was a random Saturday afternoon, while he was in his fasting period and I decided that it was go time. I’m a horrible person, I’m aware of this, but I’m also human. I initiated sexy time and he went with it. It takes two, people. Plus, it’s not like God was going to strike us dead right then and there.
I was on top, riding him when his penis slipped out of my vagina. The ceiling fan was on because this was mid-summer. Sometime between his penis slipping out and my sitting back down to continue, the wind from the fan and the angle that his penis went back in were a deathly combination. We both froze.
I didn’t feel any pain initially, but by the look on his face I knew something was seriously wrong.
So. Much. Blood. I’m talking horror movie, spurting out, I may die, blood. He was freaking out, as any guy would, asking if he should call 9-1-1. I calmed him down, told him to ice his penis (he was sure it bent completely in half), grabbed my dog and left.
I then proceeded to drive to my apartment, which was in another state, to meet my roommate who was already informed about the situation. Obviously, I immediately called her sobbing on my way home. We then drove to my parents house so that I could have my little sister who was pre-med student at the time tell me what I should do. With one look, I knew the answer.
Fast-forward to about 4 hours later, I was still bleeding and it was decided that I should probably go to the ER. I had to tell my mom what happened because at the time I was still on my parent’s insurance policy, so she’d see that I was in the hospital. At all costs, we could NOT let my dad find out.
So, my mom did what any mom would do and came up with an excuse; she cut herself shaving. Really? Good one, mom. Now, my dad is making fun of me. He was telling me how dramatic I was being and I how I should just stick a Band-Aid on it. K.
My best friend took me to the hospital. The nicest woman at the front desk instructed me to sign in and asked what my reason for coming in was. I tried to whisper what my reason for being there is to the receptionist. She tells me to speak up and of course when I raise my voice ever so slightly, everyone stops talking and heard it all. You could hear a pin drop. Seriously, it was the most embarrassing moment of my life.
After visiting the triage stand, the nurses finally realized the severity of my situation and got me into a room.
I’m not sure which was more unsettling at this point; the fact that my best friend had never been in a hospital and looked like she was going to pass out or throw up at any moment or the fact that the ER doctor didn’t believe my story and thought I was sexually assaulted.
After about 20 minutes of questions to rule out that this was in fact an accident and not an assault, the doctor started to sew me up. Gross. I was asked everything from “was I assaulted” and “was this against my will” to “were large toys involved” or “other people.” I was mortified.
Basically, it was concluded that the angle at which my boyfriend’s (for lack of a better word) penis hit the side of my vagina, split my skin because of the wind from the fan causing a Y-shaped cut. My best friend is now sitting down fanning herself because she almost passed out while the doctor was sewing in the stitches, all 36 of them.
I didn’t think that this night could be any worse, then I heard the doctor say, “All done!” finally. I asked if my vagina was going to look horrible once it healed and the doctor responded in the most serious tone, “I think it’ll be just fine. Do you want me to take a picture with your cell phone so you can see?” Wait, what?
He told me my stitches would dissolve in a week or so and I’d be fine.
I shuffled my way out of the ER and headed home, to my parent’s house where I decided to spend the night, since it was late. When I woke up the next morning, I passed my dad in the hallway. In the most smart-ass tone I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth, he said, “What’d the doctor say? Use a Band-Aid?” to which I responded “Or he just gave me 36 stitches.” The look on his face was priceless.
Two weeks had gone by and the stitches still hadn’t dissolved completely, so I made a visit to my regular gynecologist. I was informed that the hospital should have admitted me, contacted my gynecologist and a plastic surgeon to administer the stitches. Awesome.
My gyno removed my remaining stitches, which was the weirdest feeling ever. After this whole ordeal, my boyfriend stopped complaining about his bruised penis. Stitches trump bruises every time.
Four years later, I’m still with my boyfriend and my vagina healed completely fine, as if nothing ever happened. I was extremely lucky.
I learned my lesson and will not be having sex or disrespecting any religious holidays or beliefs of my significant other or anyone, ever again. Karma is real and it will bite you in the ass, or in my case, the vagina.