sense of being

i’m pissing. i’m exhausted. i haven’t slept properly in days. barely eaten in days. my appetite left when she did.

there’s a smell that my body gives off when i’ve been having regular sex. it’s the smell of the woman’s thighs. it’s particular to the woman, but generic all the same. same same. nothing else smells like it. nothing else.

it is delicious. it is delirious. it makes me delirious. i am delirious right now and i am pissing.

and i haven’t had sex in over a week so i can’t even begin to understand how i can be giving off that smell right now. but i am.

10 days ago i went home with someone. we met at a party. later we sat outside in the seattle cold at le pichet and shared a drink. looking her in the eye i said, ‘i’ve always wanted to sleep with you. can i go home with you tonight?’

she smiled. smiled again, ‘really? that would be nice. my bed is always open.’

a moment later she stood from the table and waved. a taxi pulled over. that was very smooth. she’d seemed very full of nervous energy all night, but that was a very smooth thing to do.

in the back of the cab she told me, ‘you’ll have to pay…’ which was fine. i’m an artist: always broke. but i didn’t care. i was drunk. she smelled like cigarettes and whiskey. i love it when women smell of cigarettes and whiskey. i wanted to kiss her in the back of the cab, but i knew that she’d be better if i waited. that sentence makes sense.

only a few months ago i’d been with someone else. someone who could make me reel just by being there.
we’d spent a month and a half together. every day. no pauses. london. marrakesh, barcelona. all day. every day. holding each other into dreams. waking up in sweat from the generations of two hospitabling bodies. one of the best times of my life.

her smell rode me like a satan. like a spirit. like a sickness.

i could taste her in my morning coffee over its bitterness and excess sugars. she dominated the surface of my tongue a surfeit of flavor masking everything else.

my lips carried her across 3 continents and out of an island nation.

but she left. out of heathrow with tears and kisses and the threat of the sickness of separation. and on the long plane ride back to the wretchedness of my own befouled nation, america, i dreamed of fucking her and of how we’d fucked and thanked the god i can’t believe in for smell-cancelling recycled cabin air to kill her on me for a half-day and for delivering me to her in the first place so many months before. and when i disembarked that vassal vessel her smell left just like she’d done.

i can still feel her odor and her taste, even if i can no longer invoke them. she is like an atmosphere to me. i cannot make her smell or her taste invade me again, but i can feel her on me like some cloak of stars all milk pouring across my planet body.

she called me last night. from her studio. ‘i just wanted to hear your voice.’ and i could see her in the environs of her dance studio. i could see all the students whose voices i could hear milling in the halls around her. and i could taste the bile in my belly knowing that someone else is fucking her when it’s my body that was gifted to her, a sacred vessel in sacred space. sacred within the sacrosanct divisions between her thighs.

but we are so far apart. so i get drunk at parties and fuck syrian girls whose smell haunts me when i’m pissing at work. or is it because she called me last night from her studio with the smell of of the new boy coming on her breath over a transpacific phone line to my bed. his taste on the slick flatness of her performance belly.

and i have to wonder, as i hold my cock in my hand pissing, whose smell it is? hers, the syrian girl’s or mine.

* special thanks to models ‘dan’ and ‘jane.’

---

Possibly related posts: (automatically generated)

• Girl Talk Thursday – SMELLY