or I Don’t Wash After Sex
I don’t wash after sex.
I don’t need to. Sex doesn’t make me dirty, it makes me clean.
Why would I wash you off when I’ve spent so much time and energy getting you on. I want the evidence of you covering all of me from my flushed cheeks to my frazzled feet. I love being seeped in you like a freshly-brewed sex tea. Lots of sugar, lots of cream.
I love your smell on me.
I love getting it on me, and I love having it on me. I love leaving it on me.
I love that when I walk around, people don’t directly know what they’re smelling but they sense something. Some primal part of them must recognize the sweet, forbidden musk and it brightens the day of the sensual few while the squeamish many wrinkle their noses in subconscious shame.
I love the polarizing nature of you on me.
I love the irony in the thought that so many people spend through the roof on designer scents crafted specifically to attract sex to you, and then turn up their noses at the smell of real sex. Why invest so much in your crusade for the aphrodisiac Holy Grail of fragrances, when you can just have actual sex and wear that fragrance.
I know I’ll have to wash you off me eventually, but not until it fades first in my wake. I want to give your smell to the breeze and share it with everyone lucky enough to cross aftermaths with me today.
Your smell is exhilarating and spine-tingling and precious to me, and I don’t want to waste a single drop of it. Your smell slakes my appetite for your afterglow.
I’ll shower tomorrow.