He passed behind me, and I wondered if he’d seen me at all. I waited the appropriate moment or two before I followed him to his seat and smiled hello.
“Oh! hello darling,” He grinned in his ever-charming way.
How are yous exchanged, I asked if I could sit with him and he happily presented me with the worn, almost-soft seat beside him.
Sitting in place I took our my pen, my notebook, my glasses, and settled into my usual role; assiduous student and copious note-taker.
It wasn’t until then, sat and contented, that the acrid scent of him reached my nostrils. I bristled and drew in the smell again. Like a mouth ulcer you can’t help but tongue, eliciting ecstatic agony in your head, I found myself breathing in the foul odours again and again.
It was alcohol. And sweat, and tobacco smoke. And the thousand other fumes that polluted the city. I couldn’t bear it. It burned my nose, my throat, my lungs. I wanted to cough and push it out, and then draw it in again. I wanted a clean, toothpaste-fresh atmosphere in my body for his sour smells to invade.
And all of a sudden it was too much; the ecstasy was gone and I turned my head, rested it on my other hand, smiled to another friend, trying to focus on work and knowledge, anything to ignore him.
It didn’t work. I found myself drawing him deeper as I worked; the more I tried to ignore it, the more it polluted every pore of my skin. I felt saturated with him. I longed to be home, I longed to be soaking in the steamy cleanliness of a warm bath. I wanted my skin scorched and red, begging to be clean. I wanted to scrub until my body was pink from the friction of my pumice stone.
As the sensation and the desire grew, his odours became more sensual. I thought of my skin, and he seeped into me.
Like that ulcer, painful, open, bitten, I poked it again, and allowed him to imbue my senses. And somewhere deep in my distasteful taste buds, I began to like it. Sick fascination; something real; something human. I found myself leaning closer, and closer, drawing it more deliberately, more consciously. The ebb and flow, the unclean honesty of him.
I thought of leather. I thought of the deep, wonderful scent of expense and quality. Dark wines. I imagined him drinking and smoking. Working. I knew, in every part of my being, how real, how close he was, and I wanted to be closer. I wanted to taste what I could smell. Human. Male. Worked and working. His sweat was no longer sour or acrid; it was earned. His hazy expression was no longer drunk; it was decadent.
I wondered what he would taste like as he pushed inside me. I imagined the force of his cock, the lump in my throat that always chokes me with desire when I am penetrated, and what it might be like to feel it rest on my tongue, between my lips.
I wondered if I would be able to taste and smell and breathe in the steamy skin of him as he curved over me and fucked me into my clean bed linen.
I wanted to lick the palms of his hands. And then the head of his cock. I wanted to suck his balls into my mouth, and adore the sweaty, spent taste of him. I wanted everything true. Everything real. Everything that wouldn’t let him hide. I wanted to taste the wealth of his life upon his body.
Breathed again. I tasted wine; I drew in smoke; I licked salty skin.
As we left the auditorium he leaned over to light my cigarette, cupping his hands beneath my chin, before we walked in opposite directions.