Why should a little blood spoil the fun?

I don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll just get right to it. I met a guy at his apartment for dinner and we were having some wine when a knife slipped off the counter and he, in a moment of reactive non-genius, tried to catch the knife and well, technically speaking, he did catch the knife… unfortunately, the knife lodged in the middle of his hand and he had to pull it out. Normally, when I say a date “had to pull it out,” it’s followed by lots of sex, sucking, and some occasional midget porn, but not this time. Ok, so where was I – oh right, the blood squirting all over me. Again, normally when I say a date was “squirting all over me,” it’s after the part about me giving him the best fucking blowjob of his life but again, not this time. Although, I have worked around lots of injuries with varying degrees of blood, I had never actually been squirted with blood and as gross as it was, I kept my cool and by "cool", I mean pissing myself and throwing things across the room by way of telekinesis. He’d clearly hit an artery and 911 had to be called. Upon our return from the hospital, his apartment looked like a virgin whorehouse. Seeing as how the doctors had completely numbed his right hand (and yes, he’s right handed), I helped him undress, made him comfortable, and helped him “relax”. (his hand was hurt, not his dick)

Seeing as how he was rendered virtually useless and not just useless in the typical “men are useless” way, I spent the rest of the night packing his things (business trip), getting the kitchen back in order, and scrubbing blood from the walls – when I say blood squirted, I wasn’t kidding.

So that is where one story ends and the other begins… more tomorrow (no time today).