Filth

Arousal diminishes disgust. In day to day life we avoid people; we give strangers on the street a wide berth. We avoid crowded elevators. It is an undesirable thing to catch a hint of a stranger’s bodily scent, someone’s strong perfume. We do not like to see their sweat, their blood, their sick, their piss.

But it is different with the people we fuck.

When a lover sweats, bleeds, drools, pisses a little in the act of coming… these things are not disgusting at all. To me at least, they become erotic. When I want someone badly enough, almost nothing they do is disgusting.

I want their body. And their body comes with scents. Sweat. I’ll inhale the smell of their sweat, grease my hand through their armpit as I reposition them to fuck them better. I’ll take the fluids of their cunt too, sometimes clear, sometimes whitish, something saline with my own come. The taste of their genitals – the chalky taint of their asshole. Their tongue probing mine.

I love putting my hand on a lover’s skin and finding it too slippery to hold. Or when she confesses to me that she threw up in her mouth while going down on me, twice, and swallowed it down both times, and asks if I could feel it.

I love fucking while someone bleeds. It’s messy and frictionless. Slimy. And the blood that is out of them stains sheets and dries, becoming a series of stubborn, dark smears.

And I love that this effect lasts. After a good, messy fuck I like to sleep wrapped up in the sheets that smell of them, that are stained with their sweat and their cum. Bitter, slightly damp. A room that smells of sweat. I am cosy in that space.

Days pass. The traces of them become fainter. The memory of the things we did more distant. It’s only then, once the immediacy of our fucking has faded, that I even think about washing my sheets.