Tuesday, April 28, 2009


I'm not seeing a whole picture. I'm seeing soft brown eyes gone wide, the curve of neck to muscled shoulder, the pale-tan skin of a man who might be dark if he didn't live in Seattle. What I'm mostly seeing is the ceiling but I'm focusing about ten miles past that. I can't see most of his body but later I will remember every inch.

I can't hear the things I'm saying. Sometimes during sex I say things that I don't entirely mean. Or at least, if you did do in reality what I'm asking for, I'd prefer if you used lubricant.

I hear the man perfectly. Every little grunt and breath means a lot to me. Some of it's my needy little ego and some of it isn't, but the noise he makes at climax, whether a scream or a squeak, will stay with me for a long time. It'll come back at odd moments. I'll be driving to work in the morning and remember a man who squeezed his eyes and groaned, I'll be buying lentils at the supermarket and my cheeks will suddenly go red and I'll even close my eyes a second when I remember a man who rolled his hips against me and muttered "you slut..."

The smell part is so individual. Every man smells different, and each man always smells like himself no matter how clean or cologned he is. It's not a subtle thing either. Like they've got their own face, everyone has their own sweat and their own come.

The taste is something like raw eggs and piss. I don't like it when guys try to ask me if it tasted good, because it didn't. I mean, I sure as hell wouldn't buy it at the supermarket. I'd rather a guy just ask me if I liked eating it. I usually did.

Touch is the only sense that isn't a "special sense", the only one that isn't isolated out to a single organ, a single bit of the brain. If sight is seeing and smell is smelling, touch isn't just feeling, it's being. Touch is my whole damn body and it's his. Touch is what we're here for. The other stuff is nice decoration but touch is sex. Sex is touch.

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