#lich_tropism

[lichfield-tenant]

cool and aloof whore of a guy who tells you he's interested only if there's absolutely no strings attached because he doesn't do romance but ends up whimpering 'i'm yours i'm yours i'm yours' over and over again when you fuck him hard enough. that's all

[lichfield-tenant]

boyfriend whose left hand is muffling your pathetic whimpering while the right one is raping you <3

[lichfield-tenant]

so much to explore in the erotism of scent. like intimacy.

with my face smothered against his boxers, i feel completely surrounded by his scent. his skin, his sweat, his arousal; the odour of each is singular and unique to him, as is their ensuing combination. and i could go further; i could draw a whole catalogue of his person by mapping differences in the qualities of his scent onto time, assigning each names of memories; 'friend birthday party', for example, would describe the odour of the drunken blowjob, set to a background of faint lavender soap, that i gave him in our friend's bathroom.

but this already loses sight of intimacy by abstraction. because at that moment when he's pressing my face against his groin, when every one of my inhales is suffused with him, the scent absorbs me and overwhelms my usual methods of understanding the world; my eyes already closed, i give up the security of sigh; my nose rubbed against the damp fabric of his underwear, i give up the distancing powers of thought. instead of trying to think (which is to say, to oversee as thought i were outside the situation), i'm forced to be there, extant, completely, and reconcile headfirst with the carnality of the world. i surrender to the fact - to love his scent is to love his presence.