How strange it is that love makes us ugly. In return, we are able to forget our usual senses and see something else, perhaps only our own desire, reflected beautifully on such a graceless foil. Love is an altered state, a state of ritualized transgression in which the categories of a working state are dissolved. It is the greatest trauma to remain critical during lovemaking, to remain detached and self-aware in a working state.
"Are you into it?" Of course you say yes, what else can you say, but god, oh god, I'm hurting you. You squint in your mind 'til it's twisted and wild, yet nothing's making much sense. "What is this act, this imitation of bile? I'm lost and I'm finally alone." But no, I say, "I'm right here. I'm strange and I'm flesh but I'm yours all the same; just come under this spell like the bed that we've made." But once it's been broken (the sheets are cast off) it's just me and I'm swollen, pubescent and vile. And you, you've just started laughing the laugh of a businessman.
How do I smell to you now?
