rated PG - being about sheets, blood and sex.
The sheets on my bed are spotted with blood, small daubs where the cats bloody foot touched down. It may come out or it may not but it’s the impetuous to get new sheets that I needed.
Not that there is anything wrong with the ones I have that couldn’t be cured by washing them however the desire to replace them has been with me for a while. They remind me of stuff - I like my bed to remind me of me and these sheets don’t.
I’ve never understood the concept of "a notch in the bedpost" as if anyone would want to have some sort of physical reminder of past sexual encounters. New lover - New bedsheets would be my motto. If I needed one. Sometimes I feel as if I would like to burn the bed I have and start over in a fresh arena altogether, not that the loss of the bed I have would be any great hardship - being as it is a poor excuse for comfort.
I think perhaps that if a notch is left anywhere it’s left on me somehow. Is that the alternative to bedpost notching - ritual scaring? A mark left by every past liaison as a warning to those that follow. Not that many of them would be significant enough to warrant much of a mark. A nick here and a faded scab there - my flesh mostly unblemished by past lovers due in part to being thick skinned from the outset. You would have to dig deep to mar me these days - the visible wounds I wear now are mostly self-inflicted.
The bed used to smell wildly of bear - he was a musky cat, when he came in from the rain his funk could burn the eyes from your head. It was a smell that only I could love and I could smell him on my sheets long after he was dead. These days they smell of me a little too much, no night perfume or anyone else’s sweat. The occasional sex with [X] leaves little trace on them.
Once I sat in CR and was pulled from my daydream by an odd sensation. "this coffee smells like pussy" - then later while shopping "this sainsburys smells like pussy" and outside "all of camden smells like pussy - what the fucking hell is going on?"
Suddenly I remembered the previous night - her hunched above my head, growling and grinding down into my face so hard I thought my lips would split. Flowing down over my cheeks and filling my mouth and nose - thick and sweet - drowning me in honey.
My nose was still full of her - and so the whole world smelled of it. No amount of clean sheets will ever make me forget that moment, a notch.
Not that there is anything wrong with the ones I have that couldn’t be cured by washing them however the desire to replace them has been with me for a while. They remind me of stuff - I like my bed to remind me of me and these sheets don’t.
I’ve never understood the concept of "a notch in the bedpost" as if anyone would want to have some sort of physical reminder of past sexual encounters. New lover - New bedsheets would be my motto. If I needed one. Sometimes I feel as if I would like to burn the bed I have and start over in a fresh arena altogether, not that the loss of the bed I have would be any great hardship - being as it is a poor excuse for comfort.
I think perhaps that if a notch is left anywhere it’s left on me somehow. Is that the alternative to bedpost notching - ritual scaring? A mark left by every past liaison as a warning to those that follow. Not that many of them would be significant enough to warrant much of a mark. A nick here and a faded scab there - my flesh mostly unblemished by past lovers due in part to being thick skinned from the outset. You would have to dig deep to mar me these days - the visible wounds I wear now are mostly self-inflicted.
The bed used to smell wildly of bear - he was a musky cat, when he came in from the rain his funk could burn the eyes from your head. It was a smell that only I could love and I could smell him on my sheets long after he was dead. These days they smell of me a little too much, no night perfume or anyone else’s sweat. The occasional sex with [X] leaves little trace on them.
Once I sat in CR and was pulled from my daydream by an odd sensation. "this coffee smells like pussy" - then later while shopping "this sainsburys smells like pussy" and outside "all of camden smells like pussy - what the fucking hell is going on?"
Suddenly I remembered the previous night - her hunched above my head, growling and grinding down into my face so hard I thought my lips would split. Flowing down over my cheeks and filling my mouth and nose - thick and sweet - drowning me in honey.
My nose was still full of her - and so the whole world smelled of it. No amount of clean sheets will ever make me forget that moment, a notch.