“Can you smell your dick on my breath?” I asked my spouse.
I had just been going down on him–now I kissed his mouth.
“Yes,” he said.
“Does it smell good?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
Every once in a while I’ll notice a friend or housemate smell their own hand. I wonder what they’re smelling for.
It reminds me of that famous lesbian novel I read when I was a young person Tipping the Velvet. Yes, historical. I remember a scene where a character’s hand smells of oysters or cunt.
What is my friend smelling their hand for? Blood, garlic, pussy? Their own genitals, or the genitals of another person? I never ask, but they’re getting some kind of sensory information. It’s a moment I witness and release.
My spouse’s dick has a great flavor. I know him well, after so many years of love.
There’s deep trust. I’m grateful for his impeccable hygiene. I know I’m safe to suck his dick at any moment. He keeps his dick clean, so I can get into his pants and enjoy what I find there at any time.
Dick on my breath is a good smell, but it’s subtle. I trust that having conversations afterward, from the usual personal space distance of a few feet, the smell would not be detected.
Oral sex is a skill, and I’m sorry I have so much chronic pain around my neck and shoulders. I wish I could blow my spouse more often and without ouchie consequences.
What if there was a Center for Sex and Culture in every city, and I could take a class or workshop on disabled sex? We could learn and share how to do sex in ways that work for many kinds of bodies. What a world that would be.
When I think of what I need that doesn’t exist, and I realize that a lot of people might enjoy it, I wonder if I have a responsibility to create that thing.
I wish I had more energy and time. I wish I had an easy way to find collaborators who have money and want to band together for good. Meanwhile, I make art and write blog posts like this one.