In the most recent issue of Filthy Gorgeous Things, I wrote a piece about scent. My editor in her infinite wisdom changed the original title, which had been something horrible, to a line from the text, "We Are Mammals Under Our Thin Skins." Here's an excerpt:
I wish I had scratch-and-sniff remembrances for all my favorite lovers. I imagine thin cards, slick and white and vaguely clinical. A swift scratch on the rough patch and the sudden call to mind of this one, his roasty rosy odor; or that one, her perfume of strawberry and algae; or that one, his strange but not unpleasant dusty must. I’d love to collect them all, and in the dark of night summon them at will.
The first time that I thought I fell in love, I was twenty, an impressionable age. My boyfriend, this young guitar player who bobbed in the attitudinal ether somewhere between punk and hippie, had this tie-dye t-shirt that was ripped and held together by safety pins, sort of Sid Vicious on a lesbian dairy collective. This guy wasn’t large with the personal hygiene. He bathed when it mattered, and he felt passionately about his hair gel, but his pits and his tender bits had a tendency towards the funk.
You can go here to read the rest. It’s free. It's also, I might add, not at all visually safe for work unless you work at home or at Playgirl. While you’re there at FGT, you should take a moment and spend a buck to read my friend David Olimpio’s piece too. His is actually much better than my own, and that’s just a downward-facing dog fact. I’ve never been accused of false modesty.
Writing this FGT piece, I drew heavily on a post I’d written earlier for my blog—earlier and, I need to note, not so well. It’s good to see that I’m improving as a writer because, wow, yeah. Enough said about that earlier draft. That’s why pencils have erasers and computers have memory chips, I guess. Revision is the key to a long and healthy literary life. Do-overs are a blessing, except for when they aren’t.
And now I end enigmatically. More to come, as they say, except for when they don’t