A red-headed prostitute, Rebecca, that I found on a website was watching me as she stood next to the mini freezer; there was a biohazard sticker plastered on the front, but there was no need for it, not really. We were in the safe confines of my bedroom, the white walls protecting us-protecting me-from exposure. My left arm was resting across the wooden top of a pedestal desk, then I felt it.
Pinch!
The butterfly needle went in, bevel up, finding little resistance as the tip penetrated my median cubital vein. I grimaced in pain since the isopropyl alcohol was still wet, although the stinging sensation quickly subsided.
A flash of blood entered the tubing and I picked up a purple 3 mL vacutainer to push inside the holder. Once it was engaged, the needle acted as a straw, allowing the vacuum to suck my blood into the tube. The stream eventually slowed to a dribble, and I pulled it out, replacing it with another. I repeated this action with 12 other tubes, making sure to invert them 4 times before setting them on the stainless steel rack.
I released the rubber tourniquet with a sigh of relief as the feeling and blood rushed back into my limb. Its ivory tone was slowly returning when I pulled the needle out and activated the safety device.
"Phlebotomists aren't supposed to leave the tourniquet on for more than a minute, but it's a challenge to pull it off when you're only using one hand," I said, attempting to fill the awkward silence.
Rebecca shifted uncomfortably, her outer thighs rubbing against the silk of her crimson red sheath dress, not knowing how to respond, but it was reasonable. She didn't understand why I was showing her this, and to be honest, I didn't completely understand either. I suppose part of me was tired of hiding this, keeping it to myself in fear that I would be judged for this sick, twisted fetish.
Rebecca parted her soft, glossed lips, making a clicking sound with her tongue, then pressed them together, realizing she didn't want to voice her thoughts. Normally, I let women reply in their own time, but her teeth clenched together, making me nervous.
"What?" I inquired, holding a gauze pad firmly against the site.
"I'm just confused, sweetheart. Why... why are you showing me this?" She swallowed hard, glancing from my face to my arm. "I don't understand."
I know I could have just told her the truth before she came, but I wanted her to understand I wasn't hurting anyone or myself. The few times I had flat out told people I loved to masturbate with blood-mixed with lube, mind you-they thought I was joking at first, but were all terrified when they realized I was serious. Somewhere in their mind, a misconception had formed about my fetish and they acted as if I was a sadist, only capable of deriving pleasure from someone's pain. It cost me many relationships, but it was my own fault for not showing them the process I went through.
How could they have understood something they had never seen?
I let go of the gauze and reached for the roll of coban sitting next to the rack. I tore myself a good length and struggled a bit while wrapping it around my elbow.
Unfortunately, I can't adequately explain why I have this fetish. I could assume something horrific happened to me as a child, but that wouldn't be realistic. Not everyone who has a bizarre kink can blame it on a childhood trauma, especially if they can't remember any. Many individuals figure that's the reason people enjoy BDSM; they can't accept that anyone in their right mind would enjoy something like that, so they try to rationalize it. Some typical explanations they come up with are that they must have been abused, molested or raped, but that's just ignorant.
"Well... you provide a specific kind of service and..." I paused, trying to keep my voice steady. I had a good idea of what I wanted to say, but I was also anxious about how she'd respond. "And I was hoping you'd help me-"
"You mean to tell me you like blood play?" she questioned, interrupting my train of thought.
My eyes fluttered in surprise. I mean when you put it that way...
"I-I, uh... kind of, I guess," I answered, stammering a little. "But it's not like I want to bathe in your blood or anything. I just want you to... stroke my dick, uh... with my own."
"You never thought to use fake blood or like... some other substitute?" She sounded judgmental, but I knew she was just concerned-maybe afraid; whether it was for me or herself, I didn't know.
I nervously laughed. "It doesn't turn me on when I know it's fake. I just... need you to do this for me. You can even wear gloves and I'll pay you however much you want."
"I-I'm sorry," she apologized as her voice quavered and face started to turn red. "But I can't. It's just... not what I expected."
Rebecca stared in disbelief for a few moments while pessimistic thoughts ensnared her mind. She tried her best to suppress her emotions, but her nose wrinkled and upper lip raised, displaying her disgust. She grabbed her red satchel bag off my bed and raced across the white oak, almost breaking an ankle in her high heels.
It wasn't until after she slammed the bedroom door behind her that feelings of deep shame and regret finally hit me. I couldn't bring myself to go after her; there was no point because I couldn't change her mind. Her reaction was only to protect her emotions and morals, not that she had many to begin with.
Another loss...
I wanted to be normal, I really did, but this-this fetish-would always be there.
Who's going to accept that?
It's as though I chase off every girl I meet with honesty...
I pushed the despondent feeling aside, ignoring my emotions the best I could; I needed to be a man. My hands grasped the rack and I stood, painfully straightening my posture. I sighed before sauntering over to the freezer. When I placed it inside, the stainless steel clinked against the grate, and the cold breeze dissipated as the gasket sealed the door shut.
I suppose these tubes are the only commitment I need.
They'll be there for me, sitting in the cold, waiting for my touch-for my skin.
