(Spoiler: It’s still about feelings)
I’m farting and drinking wine.
I appreciate the fact that I know my own gaseous smell and – this is a big confession – I actually kind of enjoy the scent. I think I like it because I recognize its familiarity, because it’s mine, because it’s comforting.
But, I also feel privileged to breathe in the bodily smells of others – whether from sweat or desire or hotboxing – of those whom I have made myself romantically vulnerable to (i.e., the men I have loved, “loved,” or those whose roots have in some way intertwined with mine). Those ruddy, dusty, sincere smells without the Old Spice, or sometimes because of the Old Spice, have literally raised every pore and emotion in my being.
It’s sharing that intimacy and exposedness on the most basic level. Of knowing and loving and appreciating someone in a moment when there is no control, when there is no filter.
So thank you for that, boys.
Thank you for your farts.