Cross your legs for this one guys!
At the back of my garden is a small patio, surrounded on 3 sides by walls. The back wall leads to a load of trees, so it is very private.
Alone in the house, me and my girlfriend at the time (this was about 2 years ago) decided we would try and have sex in every room in the house. It was an amazing day, and we decided to bring it to a 'climax' by having sex on the wall. It was just the right height for her to sit on it open-legged and for me to stand between her legs going at it.
Unfortunately, she enjoyed it a little too much, and as she came, she fell back off the wall....any blood? Not really, few grazes.

The injury came when I stumbled as she fell, and I scraped the length of my 'old gentleman' down the wall.
The wall exchanged little bits of skin and flesh for little flakes of wall embedded in my unmentionables, and I almost passed out from the pain.

We broke up shortly after...I cant imagine why......
(bobman500 enjoys a grope as much as the next fella, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:51, Reply)

Recycling is supposed to be good, yeah?
not for me it isn't.

A while back, when our kerbside recycling service was still new, I was still washing out tins. Thoroughly. Now they get a quick rinse and bunged in the box.

So there I was, at the sink, cleaning the tin from which had flowed the delicious baked beans that would have us all farting good-style later. I glanced down, and noted that a single, solitary bean had remained stuck in the bottom of the tin. Without thinking, I stuck my hand in to dislodge it.

The inside rim of the tin was a little bit sharp. Well, actually, it was razor-sharp. I sliced my hand open right down the outside, about three layers deep. It bled heavily. So I'm stood at the sink, attempting to stem the flow with kitchen paper, and the phone rings.

My daughter answers it and wanders into the kitchen with the words "It's Dad for you". As she tried to hand over the phone, which I was in no position to accept, she glanced at the sink. The sink had a thin layer of my blood coating it. She gave a little shriek and announced to her Dad that "Mum's bleeding all over the kitchen".

I told her that I'd call him back and she hung up. Ten minutes later, MrWitch comes charging into the house, half expecting to find his beloved wife bleeding to death. (Or expecting me to have already bled to death and trying to recall exactly where the life insurance policies were kept!) To find that I'd succeeded in stopping the blood flow and had covered the wound with a plaster. We had a little chat with our daughter about exaggerating.

Every time I curled my hand up for the next couple of days it seeped a little blood and hurt like hell. I had a scar for months and the recycling never got washed quite that thoroughly again.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:51, 1 reply)

Missing Fingertip
After a good party for someone's birthday my brother decided the usual open gate exit was not to his liking and instead a 8 foot razor wire topped fence was in fact his preferred choice of exit from the party.

He got to the top no worries but as his last leg was swung over he slipped and fell. Not too bad you would think, however his finger got tangled in the razor wire and as he fell he stripped most of the skin off and lost the tip including nail. He can now only count to nine and a half *snigger*

On a plus note he is sending the photos the doctors took off to nuts for the "Dont Look" section so keep your eyes peeled guys (and not your fingers)
( palmr The speaking clock says:, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:50, Reply)

Its pen
You've got red on you
(Rich T has a clever and witty sig, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:47, 2 replies)

Not mine...
I worked in a factory that prepared microwave meals before becoming the hunched, pixel obsessed designer that hobbles before you today. One terrible shift I had to 'prep the cook bags'.

Fair enough, never heard of it before, but I'll do it.

Turns out I had to shovel sliced liver out of a wheelie bin sized container into bags to heat-seal them ready for the ovens. Lots of liver. In a bathtub full of blood. Sometimes my shoveling hand got sucked in due to the vacuum and I had to slide it out without losing my glove. This involved twisting my arm round and letting blood run down into the glove. And if blood got onto the heat-sealing heads it burnt, adding to the heady stench of death already around me.

Come the end of the day I was covered in blood, from my tits to my testes. And let me tell you, blood fucking stinks. Left the next day, but I'll never forget the smell.
(noswalrm, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:44, Reply)

my accident prone dad...
well my dad, is terribly accident prone, and his accidents include being outwitted by an automatic door, to stepping on a newspaper and paper cutting in between his toes...anyway

at work one day, he decided it would be a good idea to drill towards his face, using a dremel bit. the drill slipped off the metal and went straight into his face, cue broken skin, and as im told plenty of blood.
Also about 2 weeks later whilst in a caravan in wales, he aggressively pulled open a cupboard door, to find that it had a false draw attached, resulting in him taking a blow to the nose, which again, resulted in lots of blood :)

woo first post, shame it was a crap one :(
(JonnySniper In accordance with the prophesy...., Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:39, 5 replies)

Fine!
You see if it blends.
(SSSSS, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:39, Reply)

blood
Got out of hospital an hour ago after a nose operation.

I'm telling you this, sitting around with a plaster thing over your nose feeling it fill up with blood isn't fun.
(lei, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:39, 1 reply)

Sitting up with a chest drain in
Watching the blood ooze down into a bag is enough to put anybody off being stabbed for life.


Also, I used to get nosebleeds at least 8 times a day. Massive ones. How the hell I didn't die from blood loss, I'll never know, but I do have a bump in my nose from when it bled so much that I passed out on my front, smacked my nose off the corner of the tower of a school computer and knocked myself out. I ended up bleeding all over the keyboard and rendering it permanently useless. The result led in hypertrophy of the bone/cartilage part of my nose. SEXY.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:21, Reply)

Waking up one morning
I turned over, and put my hand up to rub my face, which felt a bit tight. Hang on a minute - what's this? Oh god, I'm covered in blood! Did I kill someone? Did someone kill someone else while I was sleeping? Have I cut my head open during the night? Argh, I'm going to DIE!!!!!

Turns out, I'd had a bit of a nosebleed. Ah well, all that panic for nothing, eh?
(Pretty strangers and promises, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:14, Reply)

Somerfield
when it used to be the mighty Gateway (to nowhere), opened a store not too far from where I lived. In the midst of our A'Levels as we were, my friends and I all applied to work there on Saturdays. We all got jobs. Much fucking fun was to be had from then on, because we were all simply arsing around all day, barely earning our miniscule pay, so we could all head over to Newquay in the evening and piss it all up the wall (in a manner of speaking).

I performed various functions; yes even that sort, as cherries popping were not only to be found in the greengrocery aisle. However, I digress...

I worked mainly on the tills: chewing gum, chatting to the girls on the adjacent tills, whizzing tins through at high speed in order to crush all the fruit, basically performing all the duties you look for in your checkout wench. But I also managed to wangle a stint in the butchery section.

Wangle may not sound like the right word; you might think 'be lumbered with' to be a more appropriate description. But when one of the butchers is a lunatic with a determined propensity for fun and the other one you're shagging, there is much potential for enjoyment. And blood. (Fortunately not during the shagging.)

Daily tasks included scraping the block (loved doing that!) and chopping things up (why didn't I stay in butchery, I wonder?). We also had to save any blood we could in a large bucket which was stored in the chiller. I never questioned this, just added the mortal liquids of various unfortunate animals to said bucket and headed off to join in The Great Warehouse Toilet Roll Fight, or whatever (for instigator of said fights, see Hugh G. Rection who lurketh here somewhere).

The day came when I found out what the blood was for. One of the assistant managers was due to leave and a lovely surprise had been arranged for him. At the end of his last day, he was dragged from the shop floor to the loading bay, where he himself was loaded into a cage and subjected to a pelting. Sadly for him, though this pelting began with flour and eggs, someone threw a tin and it went downhill from there.

And there, at the end of it all, stood the lunatic butcher with his bucket, to which had been added entrails and eyes and other pieces of animal that not even Gateway would try to sell, and which had been allowed to stand outside the chiller for the last few days. The butcher called to the assistant manager, who blinded by most of the contents of the last delivery turned to face the direction of the voice. Seconds later, the contents of the bucket were in his face, eyes, ears and mouth.

How proud I felt to have contributed to such fun. For the record, once he'd finished being violently sick and been home and showered, we did take him out and get him truly wrecked.

Footnote:
The butcher had a bit of blood left over; the next day he made a small hole in the base of a polystyrene tray and stuck his thumb through, so it looked like it was lying on it. Then he dripped blood all over it and went running to the hapless first-aider, claiming it belonged to the other butcher. She fainted, so it was handy to find out she couldn't be relied upon if any genuine chopping- related emergencies arose.
( thealternativefact, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:14, 4 replies)

Only recently
I had a mishap while rolling home from a mate's house (hence the current sig). Basically managed to land in some broken glass.

Fuck it I thought, and I soldiered on home. It was raining and I was pretty much soaked. I knew vaguely that I'd cut myself, but I had no idea how badly until I got home.

Took my t-shirt off and a scene out of Alien was present. Large chunks of semicoagulated evil dropped down my chest, followed in no short order by a gushet of blood that turned my geek-pallored chest a disturbing red colour in no short order.

Anyhoo, ambulance was called and I was bundled into the local Hospital. Had an operation to stitch the flapping hole in my neck together. Woke up the next day with a head full of bad karma and unicorn sick.

Finally got home and saw the damage I'd done to the house when I'd examined myself. There was a veritable pool of blood in front of the sink where I'd stood after taking my shirt off, there were smears and stripes of blood down the walls where I'd stumbled about; there was blood all over the lino, blood down the stairs; blood fucking every where. Took me hours to clean it up.

As I jokingly remarked down the pub the following weekend, it looked just like the time I'd murdered that prostitute. This got a cheap laugh which turned to looks of horror when I pulled out the polaroids for comparison*.

* this part may not be strictly true. I'm admitting nothing here, copper.
(_(_(_(_(_(_(_(_(_ =o.o=, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:09, Reply)

banjostring
split at the base of it actually.

feeling sick amidst vinegar strokes is not a physical sensation i wish to repeat readily.
(magictorch, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:08, 2 replies)

Friend of mine was at a teen disco when he was younger...
About 15-16 years old,to be kind of precise. He was the type that was the super cool guy, showing up in brand new clothes, and having a way with the ladies.

He met a girl there and they got to talking. Sure enough, they start kissing and then retreat to a dark corner of the club. All the other lads,having nothing better to do, were standing nearby doing their usual routine. i.e shouting jokey comments such as "Get it up her" and "She's really a dude". The usual.

So anyhow, the pair are in the corner for about 5 minutes when she runs off crying to the toilets, followed by some concerned friends chasing after her. We were all wondering "What did he do to her?" when he emerged from the shadows.

With period blood all over his white shirt.

He told us how he "thought she was just enjoying herself too much" so he thought nothing of his fingers having gotten really damp all of a sudden as she was on top of him.And how he then thought nothing of wiping his (now blood-covered) hand on his jeans as he couldn't see in the dark that it was blood.

The lot of us all wretched a bit and then laughed our collective asses off.

The best part of this adventure?

When his parents arrived at the end of the night to pick him up. As he sat in the car, they saw the badly cleaned blood on him and demanded to know what guy he had beaten up so bad as to draw blood out of them.

If only they knew...
(Zigmund can't think of anything good., Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:00, Reply)

sofas
I have only one story about blood that I can recall. It's short and (possibly definitely) shit.

I too have bled everywhere. From my head (they're always the killers). All over our lovely cream sofas too (which was the point when I realised I was bleeding in the first place). That's not funny or interesting really, unless you're interested in my sofas.

The stupid/humorous bit is that I managed to split my head open on..


the


ceiling.




Twat.
(beanojam isn't really Ricardo Flange, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:58, Reply)

Every single day
when I look in the cellar, it reminds me.

Why couldn't you just shut up? Just once.

It needn't have ended like this.
(SSSSS, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:52, Reply)

A mate of mine
Had an experience many years ago that still makes me wince when I think about it.

In the summer holidays, he sometimes used to go and stay with his Gran in the picturesque (ask Legless) coastal village of Alnmouth. Being a coastal village, it has a particularly nice beach, and being a summer of 25+ years ago, wasn't repeatedly pissing with rain. So he did what any 8 year old boy would do, and played in the sea. Splashing, swimming about, and pissing in his swimming trunks. As you do.

Exiting the sea to go and have a lie down on his towel and dry off, he felt his toe snag on something slightly. Jerking his foot, it seemed to free easily, and he continued his walk towards the shore. This being the North Sea, the water was still pretty cold despite the warm sunshine.

On reaching the beach and starting the walk up to his towel, he suddenly became aware of a stinging sensation and looked down at his foot. To see his big toenail flapping around happily and sand working its way into the soft, horribly bloodied skin beneath it...

His toe has got snagged on some driftwood, but the coldness of the sea had acted as a temporary anaesthetic so he didn't feel a thing until he exited the water. He still reckons it's one of the most painful things he's ever had to endure, and that the 20 metre walk up the beach to his towel was akin to a marathon as he tried to keep his toe out of the sand.

Ow...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:49, 5 replies)

Revenge of the moo
It's fair to say that in my college days my cooking skills weren't up to much, so with nothing but a tin of corned beef and some potatoes in the cupboard, I thought a corned beef hash would be in order.

I'd always found those stupid little keys you use to open the lid really fiddly, so wasn't too surprised when the sliver of metal broke off a couple of centimetres from the end.

The tin was so close to being open, I thought I'd just finished it off manually. Gripping it with the fingers and thumb of my right hand, I gave the lid a sharp tug, but it didn't budge.

Instead, my fingers slid silently and effortlessly down the razor-sharp edge of the lid. Within a couple of seconds, they were pishing blood like a de-clawed Freddie Krueger.

Each finger, plus my thumb, now had its own gill that was spattering blood all over the lino. Stemming five separate wounds was impossible, so I rather pathetically gripped my wrist and ordered my flatmate out to the shop to get plasters.

For the next few days showering was a nightmare, and my sex life was ruined. ;)

I still made and ate the hash, mind, but the very next day turned veggie. Twelve years on, I'm still vegetarian, and it's great to see people wince when I tell them why.
(Scoobah, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:46, 3 replies)

Kids, hey
"Wouldn't it be cool" I said to the younger sibling "if you put your coat over your head and I lead you along by the sleeve".

"Yeah" said the deeply naive 10 year old.

"Wouldn't it be cool" I wrongly thought in my head "if I accidentally caused him to collide with that wall over there"

"Yeah" sneered the wall as it split his head open upon contact.

He still has the scar, and he frequently reminds me of just how cool it wasn't.
( Moey, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:45, 1 reply)

oops
You know, if you'd said 'Is it time for new blood' you might have got away with it.

edit: This was meant to go elsewhere, sorry.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:35, Reply)

Glass bowls hurt a lot
A few years ago me and my family where enjoying a film and such - as families tend to - it was around christmas time so a lot of my family where around (I have a lot of siblings) and we had emptied 4 big bags of popcorn into a glass bowl. To cut a long story short (no pun intended) one of my brothers managed to knock the bowl onto the floor - where it smashed - and a large part of it bounced across my foot. I felt a bit of pain - but because the glass was so damn sharp it took a good few seconds for me to look down and notice the carpet around my foot pooled with blood and a 2 inch slice spurting blood like a broken pipe. I'm not at all squemish around blood and such - (I'm often the one who winds up clearing up after incontinent pets or the occasional savaged rodent my cat drags in) - so I can only assume that it was the loss of blood that made my vision fade and nearly pass out. Fortunately I got some stuff on it in time - and the doctor sewed it up. Still slightly annoyed that my parents where more upset about having to replace the carpet than the mortal wound inflicted on my poor foot!
(Fredz A graveyard of hopes, a dump of ambition, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:33, Reply)

Bloody eye
I've never managed to bleed profusely in any really interesting fashion, but I did have a blood vessel in my right eye burst and turn the sclera a grim and ugly red.

I was seven or something at the time, so I used it to thoroughly freak the hell out of the rest of the primary school. (Walk around with said eye closed, when someone asks why, open it with an evil grin and step closer. Worked like a charm)

Basically it happened when I was listening to The Lion King on one of those old school tape recorders using headphones.
My lovely twin sister, bless her, decides she wants to listen to something else and I refuse.
She retaliates by yanking the power cord of the tape recorder so hard it flies out of the socket, describes a startling curve through the air, ending with the plug prong-first in my eye.

Cue blood.

Worse than that though, and something I can (thankfully) only half-remember, was the method of draining the blood out of my eye. It involved a small needle.
Needle.
Eyeball.
*shudders*

Still have a little patch of permanent-bloodshottedness in my eye, looking at it...
(Sundayturkey has the biggest mug of tea, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:30, Reply)

Because of a wobbly tooth that I pulled out slightly prematurely
I was able to spit out blood for the whole day!
Also, despite having a nose, I have never had a nosebleed. Beat that.
( waffle1 is lurking on, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:27, 2 replies)

Blood related stories eh?
Sort of related...

As soon as I left college, and keen not to languish on the dole for too long, I was prepared to do anything. Literally anything. As with many arty types, I knew that there may be great waves of being 'between jobs' and figured that I would try to always remain gainfully employed, whatever the circumstances.

My ex, who was temporarily working in the local jobcentre, took this willingness to work for blood money quite literally, and got me packed off to work in the local jam rag factory (long since shut down, and which is now a 'Pirate's Island' kiddy indoor adventure playground).

If any lady b3tans reading this received a free gift* of a lovely pink plastic wallet with their bumper-sized packets of Kotex, thus enabling you to discretely keep a handy 'out and about' selection of off-road wear in your handbags, chances are that it was yours truly that packed it...


*The promotion was in the Summer 1990 and I lasted two weeks before getting a proper job...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:26, Reply)

Work
I work at a small hospital in the UK: such is it's size that the wards are mostly run by the Nurses with the HCAs helping them as required, with the doctors popping in to see their patients as and when they need to.

Obviously, there is a need for a Doctor to be around permanently as well, so we have three or four RMOs (or Resident Medical Officers) who are mostly foreign, and live in the hospital, popping out to do any prescribing or tests as required. They will often take blood as well.

I was in a patients room one morning, when the RMO came in for some blood from the patient. Bloke sighs, having had lots of it taken in the last few days, but lets her get on from it, with only the quip: 'ahh, the vampires are back'.

At which point the RMO replies with a completely straight face in her thick accent: 'Vell yes, I am vrom Transylvania'.

The look on the patient's face was priceless.
(Merrep, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:23, 1 reply)

I don't have a story about blood
Buuuut being a political type person I did like the Thatcherism debate last week so much so that I think there should be one every week.

The Lib Dems, would they be good as a new, fresh party in office?

Discuss.
(RDFCRob Please God let Obama win!, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:22, 3 replies)

First Blood
Well I guess someone is bound to tell us the story of their first period…it may as well be me.

I was an early developer - 5'4" by the time I was 10, took a size 5 in a shoe and a size 10 in proper ladies clothes. I was taller than pretty much all of my teachers in my last year of primary school and so it was naturally time for my body to start the messy business of growing up.

Except….

I was a good Catholic girl from a good Catholic family who went to a good Catholic Convent school.

Sex didn't exist.

Babies were planted by divine flashes of light and earnest prayers.

'Family planning' consisted of saying Hail Marys and having a funky sense of rhythm.

I knew that sex existed, I knew it was fun - I can't say where I got these ideas from but I remember playing with the girl next door and our Sindy dolls would have sex - I had a doll with short hair so she was the man and he would lay on top of the long haired woman Sindy and writhe around in pink plastic ecstasy.

I had no conception of how babies were made. None.

And because of this I had no idea whatsoever about periods, menstruation, and even less idea about the male reproductive organ…

I was, dear reader, a total innocent at the grand old age of 10.


And it was at this age that nature decreed I should climb aboard the cycle of female life that is menstruation.


I don't remember the moment I started producing blood but I do remember running constantly to the loo and then fashioning makeshift sanitary towels for myself from toilet paper.

It was the school holidays so only my mother noticed my strange behaviour.

My mother kept asking what was wrong with me, had I diarrhoea?

No, I was fine.

I kept this up for three days before I finally cracked.

I honestly thought that it would go away if I ignored it.

I was fine.

I was bleeding to death slowly.

I was fine.

It would go away.

It just kept on coming.

I was ruining pair on pair of knickers.

Finally on the morning of the fourth day I got up and discovered it still hadn't stopped so I gave in and ran into my parents' bedroom crying,

"Mum! Mum! I can't stop bleeding!"

The look on my mother's face was that of pure fear and horror.

My dad sighed and got up to make breakfast.

My mum took me into the bathroom and talked to me while I had a bath.

She gave me the basic rudiments of knowledge - ladies have these so they can have babies.

No, they don't go on forever, you get a break - they only last for around five days each month.

I asked a similar question some months later when I was taken to purchase my first bra - Will I have to wear this all the time - in bed too?



And with that my mother handed me my first packet of stick on sanitary towels. She was modern - none of this looped stuff for her! But sadly these lumps of wadding bore more in resemblance to a shedding cotton wool house brick than an all action skinny winged piece of freedom.

So my days of wearing two towels, two pairs of old knickers, no swimming and avoiding PE began.

Once my mother had finished talking to me she got straight on the telephone to my grandmother and my headmistress to tell them that I had become a Woman.

One benefit was that I got to use the staff loo at school as it had a bin in it.



And the sex education?

Eventually when I started senior school - all girls' Convent - we were given five pages of notes on human reproduction to read for homework in the first year (year 7).

Thank god for magazines like Just 17 - my parents were only too happy to order these from the newsagents for me. I became an expert.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:16, 16 replies)