Weekend Plans

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Yes, that is how I roll.  I must suss out all weekend possibilities now.  Yes, I know it’s just Monday.  But there is a Bounce show with Big Freedia (FREEDA) at Public Works on Saturday.

Mama wants to dig it out.

I need a serious dance it out session.  I did a little groove and shake the weekend before Valentines Day, but it was not my cup of tea music wise.  Sometimes you just got to dance to the record that’s on the turn table.

Some times you get to pick.

This weekend I am going to pick.

There are actually quite a lot of good shows going on, but I figure the best thing to do is plan it out, that I am actually going to go and then get a posse of people to go with me.  I will get aspirations to go slam on the dance floor day of and then not having  a distinct plan, I will ditch it.

I have plans for Sunday.  I will be hanging a wall mounted paper towel rack.

Yeah, so um, I can sleep in on Sunday.  Big Freedia and Hard French.

That sounds like sex in my mouth.

Of course, as everything and its god damn brother looks good to me, this could be a dangerous venture.  But if I don’t get laid soon, the next best thing is a hard night of sweating on a dance floor.

Since I made this decision to be in a relationship before establishing intimacy, it has been a bit of a dry spell.

My hormones are a little peeved with me.  Everything smells.

Everything.

Right now everything smells delicious as I am burning a Pacifica candle in chocolate mint.  Smells pretty tasty up in here.  Plus it’s cozy and warm.  The space heater Mrs. Fishkin lent me is cranking out the heat and my ordered one should be delivered any day now, lending the pleasant smell a richness for the warmth its accompanying.

That being said, my poor nose has been on high alert for the last day or two.  I can smell you from a yard a way.  Some times you smell really, really, really good.

Unfortunately, sometime you do not.

Yesterday some one in my close vicinity smelled like diaper rot.  Old, worn out, been sitting in shit, diaper.  Generic, I don’t wash my clothes with decent laundry detergent that can’t quite cut through the fact that in some recent wearing of the track suit, it was shit in.  Maybe not a lot, maybe a little.  Maybe this person just did not wipe his ass well enough.

It smelled.  I thought I was going to gag.  I was also trapped where I was sitting and could not move.  I explained to Carolyn yesterday that it was an apt metaphor for where I am at with certain things in my life.

I can sit in the shit or I can get up and get the fuck out.

Some times, like earlier today when I caught the best whiff of Chanel Number Five, you smell hands down glorious.  This woman trailed just the sexiest, faintest, but distinct wake of scent.

I am not a lesbian, but I might have followed her around for  a while just to smell that.

Favorite smells: wood smoke on an ocean beach, bonfire, fresh-cut evergreens, hot apples and cinnamon, vanilla, vertiver–I love this smell, love.  I like warm musky scents with a sultry edge to them.

On men I like how sweat smells, but depends on who it is.  Some guys, the sweat is so off-putting, acrid, and wrong, it’s like the inside of a chicken soup can lining that’s rotting.

I should have prefaced this with two things: 1.) I have a very developed scent palate  and 2.) at certain times of the month, it is off the chart how sensitive I am to smell.

For instance, no one else in that room yesterday smelled that rotting diaper smell that hung in a little invisible stink cloud around my general vicinity.  It was too faint, unfortunately it was not faint enough, but I doubt if anyone else caught it.  It smelled like soul rot and poorly processed meat products left out to spoil.

Sexy, eh?

I also like how certain colognes smell on a man, Chanel Platinum, Calvin Klein Eternity, oh god, I’ll fucking admit it, Drakkar Noir in small doses can be done right, Tom Ford’s got some nice ones.  I like scents evocative of clean pressed cotton shirts, naughty sex in the afternoon on warm bed sheets, wood smoke, sea salt.

My poor body.  All tortured and on high alert.

It’s like a five alarm bell going off inside, “hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, your eggs are going fast”.

My body and my brain or is it my body and my heart, don’t sync up right now.  My heart says wait, my body says, ‘let’s get it on’ all smooth and sultry like.

My brain is allied with my body, which I should always remember.

Just ignore that alarm jangling off in a corner of your endocrine system, it’s nothing.

Feels like I can smell the night air streaked with pale jasmine.  Feels like Cupid’s perfume.  Feels like Eros and….

Oh shit, feels like spring.

Days are getting a little longer, cherry trees blossoming, time to get your rut on.

Of course.  It’s spring.  My body is coming out of hibernation and wants to know what’s up with the whole Calling in the One scenario.

Where are we on that?

It doesn’t apparently give a good god damn about the one.  I am pretty fed up with that.   I just want the ‘one’ date at this point.

So, instead of letting myself get all headstrong and stupid.  I am going to plan a night of going out and dancing.

Maybe it shouldn’t be to Hard French and Big Freedia, there’s gonna be a lot of sex hormones dancing about at Public Works, nah, if I can’t have it, at least I can hang out along side some people who are getting some.

I’m gonna go bounce it out this weekend.

Thank God for dirty, sexy, grind it out music.

 

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