Smell of Sex on a Sunday

I smell of sex. Constantly. It is that post sex smell that is already drifting towards staleness. It is the smell of sheets that should be washed soon. I smell like the end of sex before sex has even begun. I wonder if they have ever noticed. My various lovers from so long ago. I wonder if he now, can smell me when I drift past and if so, why the smell, like I have been with other lovers recently, doesn't pique his jealousy, make him grab for me.

There have been no other lovers. He knows this, and therefore he catches a whiff of me and lets me pass by. It is just the scent of my thoughts straining towards unexplored potential. It is just the low level hum of desire that constantly distracts me from my work and my life. I lie on the couch and there are other smells captured in the soft velour surface of it. Other people, sweat and dead skin cells, a pheremonal fug. I can not concentrate on my work because of the smell of it.

As soon as I am sated I begin the quick climb towards longing once more. And I smell of sex, not the sex in porn which smells of fresh rubber and an overcooked stale McDonald's reek, I smell of sex in a garden at night with the acid of sap and the undertone of fresh turned soil. I smell of wormy slipperiness. I am in an olfactory loop of desire. The smell of me makes me think of sex and I think of sex and that releases more of the scent onto the couch where it will mingle with the perfume of others.

Also I am sticky and damp. This is unusual, but I have found that I have experienced this more frequently of late. I touch myself and there is a texture on my fingers that makes my throat dry. I swallow. Everything is sex. It is a cacophony. I need to work. I must work. Then there are the dishes and the mini skip and all the detritus of our life that I must remove from the back courtyard. There are things to do, but instead I lie and breathe in the smell of sex and slowly melt into this slippery Sunday afternoon.