Monday, 2 January 2017

MASC-U-RIM-ITY by Stephen Jackson

I didn't know quite what to expect.
I've imagined how I'd hoped it would be
but with pornography as inspiration 
my imagination may have spiralled into absurdity. 
Reality somehow retains originality.
I certainly was not expecting coffee and cake with a stranger.
I was expecting all strangers to be on time. Some never turned up.
Two were punctual, excluding myself, one was hosting and the other I'd met before.
A soldier.
But he didn't recognise me at first.
I'd grown a beard since.
I consciously ignored any awkwardness as I undressed.
With my face between his cheeks
my tongue reacquainted itself with his pleasure and my dick inside him, 
a handshake of sorts,
familiarity returned.
But in a strangers bed.
Who didn't wait for us to cum.
He wiped himself down, sprung off the bed and nonchalantly packed his gym bag.
He said we could continue somewhere else.
This was no time for a commercial break.
On the street, I felt confused
the soldier evaporated into the lazy summer Sunday afternoon.
The stranger who arrived late caught my attention and we recounted the details over cake and coffee.
My beard needed a wash.
I could wipe away cake crumbs with a napkin but it retained a particular scent. 
Not sugar and spice and all things nice 
nor whatever little boys are made of.
This smell is what men are made of:
a mature, intimate, addictive fragrance.
He went to meet his friends 
and I went to the gym.
Opportunity buzzed in my pocket
as I approached the turnstiles.
And my phone guided me to Elephant & Castle.
His flat was a little too tidy for any lasting friendship to bloom between us. 
This was purely help to unload.
Pleasure was impatient under the weight of foreplay's frustration.
He was slight enough for me to flip him over with one hand. 
I pulled his hips towards my face and dived, tongue first into his inviting crack.
After ten minutes hearing noises they usually make, he pulled away and said, 
"I'm really sorry, I don't think we're connecting."
He slipped on his underwear 
and raised his eyebrows as the waistband snapped against his youthful hips.
Perhaps to break the silence as I dressed.
Back on the tube to the gym.
I could smell two guys asses in my beard.
It didn't occur to me that other passengers might too.
I could smell two distinct flavours of masculinity.
I don't think other passengers made the same oldfactory observation.
I thought I needed to wash my beard
but deadlifting behind the squat rack
my line of vision inhaled the natural rise and tightening of shorts
as he lowered himself to the floor and
I wondered if another lick of this oldfactory puzzle would help answer 'what smell makes a man?'

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