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It is over a day since I said goodbye. Twenty-six hours to be precise.For all of her talk about fragrance sensitivity, it is now me talking about scent.I can still smell her on me. I know that can’t be happening. I showered this morning, washing off the remains of yesterday. Washing off the touch, the embrace, the kisses. Washing off the outward connections made over the course of a day. I know it can’t be happening.Yet I can still smell her on me. I close my eyes and inhale and she is sitting next to me. I open my eyes and it…she…is still there next to me. With every breath, I take in the oxygen that sustains my life, and I take in the fragrance that sustains my imagination.I imagine again the softness of her lips as she gives me two tentative and gentle kisses on my cheek.I imagine again the feel of her arms around my body, as she holds me tightly against her.I imagine again the taste of her kiss. The kiss that betrays the soul within and its intent. The kiss that cannot possibly be our first kiss, on the first day we have met face to face.I can still smell her on me. Does she know what her fragrance did to me yesterday? Could she possibly know? It is still winter, travesti istanbul in spite of the calendar date saying it is spring. In the chill of a Canadian spring, we both dress for winter. Layers to keep out the cold, but layers that also shield ourselves from curious eyes.Could she possibly see what her fragrance did to me yesterday? And now, across the distance between us, could she possibly know what her fragrance does to me now, as I lie here alone, contemplating? Remembering? Imagining?Could she see the flow of blood throughout my body? The flush in my cheeks as I inhaled her fragrance? The flow to my sex, the flow filling the vessels and arteries and capillaries, bringing a turgid rise beneath the layers of my Canadian winter armour?Does she suspect? She must. A tour of photographs accompanied by her fragrance. Yes, I know that was art, and it was more than a decade and a half ago, but her naked form still aroused my imagination. It aroused my desire, which was already in a state of shock and awe. How does she compress time, to make me feel four dates in the space of a few hours on what is really our first date? How does she make time move as she wills istanbul travestileri it? She turns a closet into a root cellar, the inside of a closet into a farm house from a century earlier? How does she make time stand still, a three hour date turning into a full day, and yet each minute containing a lifetime? She commands time, it seems. She possesses magic.Does her magic allow her to see through my armour? Does it penetrate all of my defences? Can she see my rising sex, primed and waiting, straining against all boundaries and yet bound to be held in check? It was not the time. It was not the time to remove my armour.But time is fluid and the fragrance that ought to be dissipated, washed away, it yet remains. It persists in the face of time, and I can still smell her on me.Naked, our bodies would touch and connect, and her scent would be upon me. Then I could understand today, still smelling her freshness and arousal upon me and in my nostrils. But we were not naked and all of the clothes I wore, they are elsewhere, and I wear a fresh set of armour today, not imbued with her scent. And my skin was cleansed of my experience. So how do I explain?Her scent istanbul travesti lingers still, and my flesh once again becomes firm. Can she sense that from where she is? Does she too imagine the flesh, my flesh or her own, as part of this twisting of time, where yesterday becomes today, and where past becomes present and future? Does she control time to that extent, where she can place herself beside me, where our bodies once again touch, but this time with no armour and with no boundaries?Can she feel my hardness in her own hand, as I now take it within mine? Can she feel the pulse of desire throbbing as she cradles it in her palm and then engulfs it in her fist? Does she feel the resoluteness of my sex as she strokes it, seeing the colour change as the blood fills it and darkens the flesh into a solid reminder of the fluid nature of our experiences?Does she touch her own flesh as she imagines mine? As I inhale and recall her scent, does she too smell her own arousal? Does she imagine my hand and recall as I touched her own armour, knowing what lay beneath? Does she imagine me breaching her boundaries and touching the flesh without armour, touching the softness of her own sex?I can still smell her upon me. But I imagine myself lowering my face to her sex, and inhaling her arousal, with no doubts remaining that the gentle fragrance is one that emanates from within her flesh, and not from a bottle used to wash or to moisturize.
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