He lets me sniff his armpits and says he likes it when we’re both sweating and have the day stuck to our flesh. He smells like figs and laundry and dirt. A man, a muse. I wonder what my scent reminds him of. Whenever I wake up from a nightmare, covered in sweat, I immediately go to the bathroom and take a washcloth to my neck and pits because I am nauseated by my own primal stench, humanity. But, he likes it. He likes me when I’m real, when I have my disturbed dreams or daily wanderings clung to my hair. He asks me to wear socks for days, feet tucked in boots that allow the moisture to settle. Says a few hours won’t satisfy him - needs the neighborhood walks, grocery store trips, outings with my girlfriend to permeate and become one with me. So, I do what he says because how could I deny him with his blue European eyes and hardworking hands that choke me whenever I ask and even when I don’t? I will give him the nastiest parts of me, the ones that make him weak and fall to his knees in submission. A man who savors you for the parts you find hideous and try to mask is a man worth rewarding. And I understand him, I do, because I need him in his raw and motion fueled form, too. He works in the Georgia summer heat, rain or shine. He wears his boxers to job sites and finishes in them when he gets home because he sees me and knows I’m just as much of a pervert. I will never envelop my face with that passion filled fabric in front of him, but he knows when I’m in my office, drinking whiskey at 3am and darkness takes over, my mess will mingle with his in my clenched fist. I covet him from afar, I desire him in the form of a hedonistic paramour. Bend me over until I break, stuff my toes down your throat and close your eyes with bliss, hit me hard until my ears are ringing and he is the only thing that brings my blurry vision to stability. Tell me you need me sweaty. Tell me you yearn for me naked as I came. Say you’ll never find someone that fuels your passions just right. We will never love, but we will always perspire. Who needs a shower when we have our tongues?