When my Beloved Bleeds! by Bruce Lyon

When my beloved bleeds it can seem like the battle of culloden has recently been fought in our living room. I love the mixture of pride and embarrassment that comes over her once a month as the bed, the floor, the furniture and our bodies start to put on their scarlet plumage. Her blood takes over. She is its creature and it’s rich red power begins to paint her soul the same fiery colours as her hair. I love her so.

I spent many years at sea learning to listen with my eyes and body to the signs of a coming storm. The taste of water in the wind, the dark shoulders of cloud bunching on the horizon. The growing electricity in the air. Once i got caught in a big blow that I could not outrun and so had to turn my trusty lumbering craft directly into its eye. Gradually everything began to be stripped away. The hatches blew off, the mast crashed down, the waves cleared the decks and foamed back over the stern.

When i had done everything i could, including sending out the mayday call and getting the flares ready, i gradually passed through my own eye of fear as the hours passed and I stayed afloat. A wild excitement began to arise in me and then awe. The primal raw power of the storm started to summon my soul to dance. I began to shout and sing, the words ripped out of my mouth by the wind. My body thrumming, one hand lifted into the sky while the other gripped the wheel. I can feel that exhilaration still singing deep in my own bones.

I am also grateful for the way that experience prepared me to meet the wild raging blood storm that rolls over us each month when the moon is a few days past its fullness. Now I can’t wait. The thing I love most about my beloved is she is simply irrepressible. No doubt her parents, teachers and the deeply repressed civilisation of the last few thousand years tried their best to shape her. They were singularly unsuccessful. She is shameless because her blood vibrates so strongly with its inherent wild innocence that nothing can stand in its way.

Perhaps, because of this irrepressibility, she does not seem to suffer the moods that accompany a struggle with feelings. She does not fight them underwater and sulk like I do. In her surrender her fire just burns more fiercely. This includes her sexual fire. The power of her blood does not simply take her, it takes me as well. And I willingly surrender.

Our first wild lovemaking was on her moon and the power of our bodies meeting left us shaking, breathless and filled with awe. Roars erupted from creatures living in caves deep down in the bowels of our souls. Wave after wave crashed through our hearts. Red and white dragons exploded together. There was nothing we could do about the state of the room.

I have this fantasy that I will create a room for us. It will need to be padded and sound proofed. The walls and floors, sheets and ceiling will all be scarlet. Every surface the colour of her blood. We will worship together in that most ancient way then roll our pale bodies in each other until they disappear into the rich red fabric of life itself. But then I remember that reality is better than fantasy, take her hand and lead her deep into the forest where everything is already red with life and we make love standing up against a tree, our bodies smeared with passion, our souls one with the wild crimson heart of the world. I love her so.

Bruce Lyon, 62, NZ