Tricolour Sex Diary: Girls aren’t the only ones who bleed in bed

How a nosebleed killed the mood

An open diary on a desk.
Photo: 

Last school year, I didn’t date much. I justified it by telling myself I was too busy and it was smarter to focus on school work than on my love life. When I decided to stay in Kingston for the summer, I found that I had a lot more spare time and, like Kingston’s snow, my previous logic melted away.

So I turned to Tinder.

I met a nice guy who we can call Mike. Mike was a graduate student living in Kingston throughout the summer while finishing his courses. He was tall, buff, cute, and super easy to get along with. From the first time we met, things were easy. We laughed a lot together and liked the same music, TV shows, and movies—I even got him hooked on Queer Eye.

He was fun, attractive, easygoing, and I knew I wouldn’t miss him when he left at the end of the summer. It was exactly what I was looking for.

After our first date, we went back to my apartment to watch a movie. I opened Netflix and he saw that I was halfway through the Ted Bundy movie, Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile. He said he was watching that before he left to meet me too, and it turned out that we both paused it at the same scene.

If I were a romantic, I would have taken this as a “sign.” Instead, it gave us something to talk about, and an easy out from spending 30 minutes searching for something to watch.

As the summer went on, we kept seeing each other. It was the quintessential summer fling. I couldn’t believe my luck.

Then, a few months in, I was at his place—watching Queer Eye—and he started making his go-to move. By this point I knew that if he shifted his position on the couch and put his hand on my thigh, it wouldn’t be long before we moved into his room.

After relocating, he put on a playlist of songs by my favourite band. A cute move. Then he started to kiss me.

Eventually I started to feel something on my chin. It was as if he was drooling, which grossed me out, but I wasn’t going to shame him for it, so I pretended not to notice. A few minutes later, the drool started to make its way onto my cheeks and nose, and I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I reached my hand up to wipe my face as slyly as I could, so that I didn’t embarrass him, then kept kissing him.

Then it seemed that he started to get bothered by it too because he pulled his face back to dry his own mouth. He opened his eyes and then jumped back. I don’t know if this has ever happened to anybody else before, but having someone look at your face and physically throw themselves further away is not a great feeling.

He yelled, “Oh my god!” and I sat up in his bed to ask what was wrong. If he thought that it was my saliva, he’d be sorely mistaken. No way was I taking the blame for this.

Then he went to flip on the light and I saw blood all over the lower half of his face. When he started touching his nose, it clicked. He said over and over that his nose was bleeding and he was so sorry.

In spite of how awkward it must have been for him, I began to laugh and couldn’t stop. The more he apologized, the more I laughed. I must have looked like Carrie from the movie Carrie—if she heard a really good joke.

He ran out of his room to go wash his face, leaving me sitting on his bed alone with blood all over my face and hands, laughing like a psychopath. Then he came back and explained that his roommate was showering in their only bathroom, meaning we couldn’t wash our faces yet. I laughed harder.

Once we were all cleaned up, we really didn’t feel like continuing where we left off. I had to go to work anyway, so I left his house. Even on the walk to work, I kept having to bite my inner cheeks because I still couldn’t stop laughing.

That night, after I texted all of my friends to tell them what had happened, I decided to tweet about it too. He didn’t follow me on Twitter, and I wasn’t going to name him anyway.

Turns out, this isn’t an uncommon thing. Three girls replied to me saying the same thing has happened to them. So I guess it turns out girls aren’t the only ones who bleed in bed.

Want to submit your own tricolour sex diary? Email journal_lifestyle@ams.queensu.ca and tell us a little about yourself.

When commenting, be considerate and respectful of writers and fellow commenters. Try to stay on topic. Spam and comments that are hateful or discriminatory will be deleted. Our full commenting policy can be read here.