Teeming with humanity.

The sound of cars on wet road, the dirty rain landing on my hands, on my fingernails, warming my hair as it soaks its way in; a crass collection of scents mingle in the air above my lip, combining with that old smell, the one that lingers on the nostril hairs. I smelled it quite deeply, pressed against those furs, the last time was over a week ago; but the moment it returns, all time is forgotten, and once again embrace, and coalesce, and ravish. That scent is all that remains physically, an hour after the fact, the liquids now passed through the system, long forgotten by the senses.

Sat on that same wall I sit on every week, waiting for that same bus. It's awful really, the people who live around these parts. They all have those faces full of stories. Some of them must have lived through the war, although I think their souls are still lost, wandering around in Willeseden underground, looking for their lost father, scattered against the wall by the Luftwaffe. They all have those faces, all lost. They get on at one stop, and get off at another, but they don't really know why. I can see it in their eyes. They have no hope of redemption. No one in this world has that going for them anyway. Not since the old days.

I digress.

Sat on the wall, staring at my ugly shoes. You'd think if I was going to put so much effort in in the bedroom I would at least try to dress nicely. Fuck the shoes though, I thought. They're going to be taken off just like the rest of the fluff when the time comes. Little attention paid to the outer layers, it is only the skin that counts. Only the flesh that has to match the other flesh. But what of the flesh that doesn't match the other flesh? What of that? Is it criminal? Do we worry? I worry. But soon enough it doesn't matter and he has his eyes closed and I am in a very powerful position anyway so I suppose he won't really much care for my clothes, or what I look like under them.

He is a pretty man, and pretty men are dangerous. They are just as unfulfilling as the ugly ones. This is troubling, and worrisome. I lie awake for hours worrying about it. If a man I am greatly attracted to produces the same mediocre results in the head and the heart as the quick fuck I bucked as a way to kill time on an idle sunday then what hope is there for humanity? Or at least my humanity. Here is a beautiful man and licking the same soft neck and same supple waistline presents a pleasant but not altogether exceptional experience, and the conversation is nice enough, but it feels forced and that's not exceptional either. We are playing at liking each other. It is all pretend and fictions and make believe. Even the orgasm can't be trusted any more. I mean certainly the old moloko did flow, and freely, and the ejaculations from his mouth certainly would lead one to suspect that fun was had; it all feels a bit dollhouse. And that is truly troubling.

Walking out the door is always the worst. The awful feeling that you have done something criminal, coupled with a mild sense of self-fulfilment. It pains me to say it, but on a number of occasions, a mad hysteria sometimes comes at me, brought on by that smell above the lip, the wild eyes flare beneath the sunglasses, and I think momentarily about throwing myself into the road and not worrying any more about whether or not the government shall fail to support the weight I so lazily push down upon society, and not think of the guilt as I am enraptured under the sheets of some Lounge Lizard. More often than not, however, I do not commit suicide, and remain stalwartly married to my bus stop, awaiting the number 226 to take me away from my cruel and inattentive husband. The bus gives me a better stiffy that's for sure.

I get carted away eventually, back to the room where so much grotesqueness has been bandied about, the whole air of the place stinks of the foul sweat of the elderly, ploughing their fields, and planting their seeds. Oh, to think I was party to it. It nearly makes me want to wretch.

Of course I always think of giving in, becoming a nun, castration, the one way ticket down into the earth. But the lure is too much, my mind is weak, and the body is strong. I waltz down the street, erection in hand, asking anyone to take me in hand and learn my ways, some new fresh blood.

I wear sunglasses because I do not want people to see the despair in my eyes. They might want to help, and I couldn't allow that. They might see the old airs and graces, buried beneath years of built up grot. A filthy layer of grease and slime covers my entire being. It is the filthy rot of experience, gnawing away at me from the outside in, gargantuan, and terrifying, it yearns to seep into my heart, blast around the veins and corrupt my entire being. But it will not. It cannot. I can still smell that novel above my lip - teeming with humanity.