We all have our quirks. We all have something we’re into, that we just can’t explain. It’s our little habits and behaviors that make us each unique.

My quirk is one I haven’t found in anyone else. I’ve looked. I’ve tried the internet, I’ve tried my friends. I haven’t found anyone who shares this quirk with me, though. (If you know someone, or if you share this quirk, please share your stories! I’d love to hear them.)

I have a blood fetish. That’s what I like to call it. Whenever I say this, people automatically assume I’m talking about vampires, and that I’m “Team Edward,” or whatever. That’s not what I’m talking about. I don’t fantasize about someone swooping in, and biting my neck until a couple drops of blood trail down my collarbone. That actually tends to scare me. All I can think about is the bacteria in someone’s mouth, and the possibility of them puncturing my jugular. Okay, I know the chances of them killing me that way are probably slim, but it still scares me a little.

I prefer knives, or a razor blade. Whatever it is, it has to be sharp, and clean. I try to keep my utensils disinfected, in case I find someone who is willing to accept that they aren’t hurting me.

The cuts need to be on the midriff. I don’t want my boobs damaged, and I especially don’t want anything sharp near my vagina. They don’t need to be deep. I don’t need to scar. I just need the blood. I need the blood to be able to drip off of my skin, mix with my sweat, and smeared across my body.

The cuts don’t need to be long. Like I said, I just need a little bit of blood.

This last step is where I usually lose people. Because I love the taste of blood, I want my lover to lick the blood from my cut, and then kiss me, with my blood still on his or her tongue.

So far, I’ve only found two men brave enough to try this with me. Both times, it was an exhilarating experience. The first time, I was nervous. I felt like my life was in his hands. I had him tie me down to the bed, so I wouldn’t squirm and make the cut worse. After the initial puncture of the razor blade though, I felt free. He had no problem licking me clean, and even smeared some of my blood on his cock for me to clean off.

The second time was even better. It was with my current boyfriend, and it was after a day of us sharing, and coming closer to each other. It was the same day he revealed some of his fetishes to me. I wanted to share myself with, all of me. I didn’t need to be tied down this time. I laid back, closed my eyes, and barely winced when I felt the knife puncture my skin. He was careful not to cut too deep, and kept asking me if he was doing it right. I could faintly taste my blood on his tongue when he kissed me. We were one being in that moment. We made love, allowing my blood to mix with our sweat, and smear across our chests.

I’m not sure where I came up with this fantasy. I have searched long and hard for porn that reflects this, but haven’t been able to find much. There hasn’t been any erotica that I have found that matches my wishes.

I think it started when I was a child. I’m not really sure. I’ve always loved the taste of blood, the feel of it on my tongue, the salty, irony taste absorbing into my taste buds. Wherever I came up with the idea is a moot point now. All that matters is that this is now one of the quirks that make up who I am.

Anyone who is willing to try this, or curious, make sure to take the necessary precautions! Make sure you and your partner are clean, since diseases can also pass through blood. Also, this type of situation is the perfect situation where a safeword should be used. Discuss how large the cuts should be, and how deep, and where. Don’t play anywhere near a large vein or artery. And don’t forget, always use a condom when doing the deed.

And Loving Every Minute of It

I have been called every name in the book. Before I lost my virginity, I was a slut, a ho, a whore. Before I learned how to stand up for myself, I was a bitch, a twat, a cunt.

I came to accept these words. The labels became me. I embraced them. Everyone thinks I’m a bitch? Fine, I’ll start fights with everyone. They think I’m a slut? I’ll sleep around.

I learned early about sex, which upset my parents who kept me extremely sheltered. At fourteen though, I had lost my virginity, and by fifteen, I had already had my first one-night stand, experienced phone sex, sexting, and cyber sex, all with different boys.

By sixteen, I had started skipping school to sleep with guys. I didn’t know how to say ‘no’. I didn’t know how to tell them that they weren’t my future, but my education was. I was an outcast for most of my life. Until I started spreading my legs, I didn’t get the attention I believed I deserved.

By seventeen, I had already had an audience. A bunch of trashed rednecks watched my boyfriend of two weeks and me fuck like bunnies in a tent. They then proceeded to pee all over the outside of the tent.

By eighteen, I had anonymous sex. I didn’t care what his name was, and he didn’t bother to ask mine. We were drunk, met at a frat party, and he was just visiting his friend for the weekend.

I wasn’t a self-proclaimed slut yet. At eighteen, I had only slept with ten boys. That equaled two-and-a-half boys a year since I had lost my virginity. I shouldn’t be judged for that.

The tenth boy, though, is the one that made me truly embrace my sluttiness. The irony is he was frightened I would be a slut. He hit me, several times, when I wouldn’t sleep with him, or when he thought I was cheating on him, which was basically every night. Then he would hold me down, and fuck me. Sometimes he was passionate, kissing my neck, careful not to brush against the bruises. Sometimes he was rough, holding me down by my throat, hissing the words “slut” and “ho” in my face. I began to believe it.

He was arrested.

I went four months without sex. Four long, painful, dragging months. My fingers became super nimble, and I learned more about my body than I ever could have learned before. Those were the longest four months of my life.

I worked with a nice boy, who asked me out one night. We did everything right. We went on dates, we talked, we learned about each other. And then I told him I was a slut. We jumped into bed. He was probably the best guy in the world to get me back on my feet.

He found out I was moving, and got upset with me. We called all things off.

I decided then, that I wasn’t good enough for a relationship. Besides, I enjoyed being a slut. I liked anonymous sex and being used.

I had a party at my house. It was mostly guys there. We got trashed. I can’t tell you how, but somehow I ended up in bed, with four boys. I had one dick inside my twat, and one in my mouth. The other two were in their hands, waiting impatiently.

I moved. No more labels. That’s what I told myself.

I danced on the table for a group of Marines at a local bar. I told them I was a slut.

Within a month of moving, I had slept with a Marine, the DJ and his brother, one of my friends, a co-worker, a frat boy, and one of my professors.

My number doubled in a year.

It felt like I had my label tattooed on my forehead. Everyone knew if they wanted to get off, give me a call.

I somehow ended up in a no-shit, honest-to-god, relationship. He had been a fuck-buddy, and not a very good one, but I could hold a conversation with him. We worked together. I trained him in bed. I rocked his world.

Then, he got bored with me. We dated for a year, but somewhere in there, he decided he didn’t care about my sex anymore. I had nothing else to offer him.

I cheated. I didn’t mean to. I held off as long as my pussy allowed me to, but, being the slut that I am, I couldn’t control myself. It also didn’t help that I had gone six weeks without getting laid. SIX WEEKS. AND I was in a relationship! I should’ve been getting dick every night.

The man who I cheated with knows I am a slut. We had been good friends, and shared fantasies and sex stories. He is twelve years older than me, and gives me everything I need. He lets me be a slut, and when we go out, he’ll be the one talking to guys, asking them if they want me. He knows I’ll make out with anything that moves, and brings girls around for me.

He also treats me like a lady, though, which is what no man had ever done before. He cuddles with me and tells me he loves me. And I have never in my life been happier to be a slut, because I am HIS slut.

I grew up in South Florida, and starting in middle school, students were offered, but not required to participate in, a week of learning about sexual health. That was when I first encountered her. I don’t remember her name, and I vaguely remember her face. What I do remember, is her story.

She was young, a teenager, when she was diagnosed with AIDs. It wasn’t HIV, it was full-blown AIDs. She received this diagnosis in the late 80’s, early 90’s, when it was still a taboo subject. The only people who contracted AIDs, according to the media, were prostitutes and gay people. The men, yes, men, who had brutally raped her, were spending their lives behind bars, she said. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t walking around without the scars from the abuse. She not only had to recover from the mental trauma, but she had to battle a physical illness, everyday. She was lucky though. Her children both tested negative.

After hearing her story, I have dutifully made sure to get tested periodically. Not many people are willing to subject themselves to an STD screening, though. It is believed, at least where I am from, that if you need to get tested, you must be extremely promiscuous, and you are frowned upon.

According to the Centers of Disease Control and Prevention, it is estimated that almost 1.2 people living in the United States are living with HIV infection, or AIDS. Twenty one percent of the Americans living with HIV, or AIDS right now, are unaware they are infected. In 2009, it is estimated that 42,000 people were diagnosed with HIV infection, in 40 of the 50 states. Those are some scary numbers.

Are we ready for scarier numbers? Let’s move on to geography, race, and sexuality.

In 2007, of the estimated 35,962 new AIDS diagnoses, 46% were in the south. Florida is third in cumulative AIDs diagnoses, as of 2009.

In 2009, African Americans represented approximately 44% of new HIV infection diagnoses. Latinos represented about 20%.

Homosexual men accounted for about 61%.

I’m not here to freak you out. Well, I sort of am.

I’m really here to remind everyone to do their research! Getting tested doesn’t take long, at all, and Planned Parenthood will do it for a discounted price. If you don’t know if there is a Planned Parenthood around, check out their website. They will tell you where their closest locations are, and what services they provide, although I have not found one that doesn’t offer STD screening. For college students, most universities offer health services, including STD screening, for real cheap.

What is the harm in knowing for sure? For an hour of your time, you could potentially save lives, including your own.

And always remember to practice safe sex! Use a condom. Don’t be pressured to not use one, by anyone. Anyone who refuses to wear a condom, or let you wear a condom, isn’t worth your time. Be prepared! Guys, keep one on hand, and girls, tuck one in your purse. It’s 2011, almost 2012. We should all be educated, and ready, at a moment’s notice.

For more information, check out the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website, and Planned Parenthood’s website.

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