detached

Why am I telling this story backwards? Because I can. Because I need some kind of device to keep me writing at all.

(Sorry for lack of spaces between sentences, Blogger just keeps swallowing them and I can't figure out why

Afterwards, we sit side by side on another couch. His one hand is on my legs again, below my skirt. I finger the cold metal of his bracelet, complimenting him on it. He tells me where he got it from.

There are only a few minutes left to sit like this.

“It is too bad, you know…” I say, starting off brazen and losing ground fast, “…that we are all about the… pure.. fucking.”

“Well,” I hesitate, “at least, has always been like that for me, from the beginning…”

There is nostalgia in my voice and it embarrasses me.

“Yes, I know.” he mumbles. “It’s just.. something more intense …”

Neither of us bothers to finish our thoughts. He says it might not be insurmountable yet. It is too soon to decide.

I talk about my parents, about how they want me to leave here, want me to ‘find someone’. I’m not sure why this is what I bring up.

He says the pressure must be difficult but I shrug it off. I say I am used to it. I am. There is nothing more to say about it.

I know that once the excitement fades, the bitter after-taste of dissatisfaction awaits me. I do not actually see that there is any hope that we will ‘surmount’ this.

It doesn’t seem to matter right then. The flush of our bodies’ orgasms holds us siege, forced into relaxation.

I trail the icy braid of his bracelet with my scented fingers, round and round.

dessicated

I've talked of something like this before. I'm a Bitch err Dog: I can't help the obsession with the olfactory.

Hours later, entering a friend’s washroom, I swear I suddenly sense the scent of T’s cock in the air. And with it the secret, fresh memory of having just held it in my hands. Of having breathed onto it, taken it into my mouth, felt its warm skin on the wet inside of my bottom lip, heard it gurgle for a moment against my trapped tongue. Of having laid my body flat and rubbed it in my fist with his pushing body above me, let it spurt into my palm, wiped the residue off, brought the tip of my fingers to my nostrils to smell it still…

But not on my hands this time. In the air. Pervasive. Close to me.

Impossible.

Reaching over to turn on the tap, the scent only seems to intensify.

I spot the clump of roses and sprays of babies’ breath, dried, all in a pearly vase next to the sink.

I lean over near the wheat-colored, paper-curl edges of the rose petals and take a whiff.

It is not just my imagination; sweet with a uric edge, a note of his announces itself through the mix like a brass bell, clear and compelling. Cloying and concentrated.

Persistent and preserved.