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http://coffeeslut.tumblr.com/post/82712619542

coffeeslut:

When I let him into my apartment building for the first time, the stairwell smells distinctively sweet and strong, some combination of cream and honey, jasmine and orange blossoms. He exhales dramatically, “Woooof! The last person in here put on a little too much perfume.” But gardenia is a scent…

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theparisreview:

The Good Idea
While asleep, a man gives birth to an idea of a woman. He wakes and finds it curled comfortably against him.
He takes it in his arms and kisses it. It responds perfectly. He wallows in the feel of its round breasts, smooth thighs, soft pubic patch. Its warm breath and little sighs drive him wild. He keeps thinking the words “Drunk with passion at last.” He makes love to it. It’s the best he’s ever had.
They stay in bed all day. When the phone rings, they giggle and ignore it. They agree about everything.
In a lovely office, the man’s boss throws a fit, swears to fire the man, but cools down, reconsiders. While outside a giant hand works on a picture of the sky, finally blacks it all out, throws in a moon and stars, and goes away.
—Charles Webb. Photography: Csilla Klenyánszki (via).

theparisreview:

The Good Idea

While asleep, a man gives birth to an idea of a woman. He wakes and finds it curled comfortably against him.

He takes it in his arms and kisses it. It responds perfectly. He wallows in the feel of its round breasts, smooth thighs, soft pubic patch. Its warm breath and little sighs drive him wild. He keeps thinking the words “Drunk with passion at last.” He makes love to it. It’s the best he’s ever had.

They stay in bed all day. When the phone rings, they giggle and ignore it. They agree about everything.

In a lovely office, the man’s boss throws a fit, swears to fire the man, but cools down, reconsiders. While outside a giant hand works on a picture of the sky, finally blacks it all out, throws in a moon and stars, and goes away.

Charles Webb. Photography: Csilla Klenyánszki (via).

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More than putting another man on the moon,
more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga,
we need the opportunity to dance
with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance
between the couch and dinning room table, at the end
of the party, while the person we love has gone
to bring the car around
because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart
if any part of us got wet. A slow dance
to bring the evening home, to knock it out of the park. Two people
rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.
A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.
It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting
on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.
Your hands along her spine. Her hips
unfolding like a cotton napkin
and you begin to think about how all the stars in the sky
are dead. The my body
is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained Melody,
Stairway to Heaven, power-cord slow dance. All my life
I’ve made mistakes. Small
and cruel. I made my plans.
I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.
The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like children
before they turn four. Like being held in the arms
of my brother. The slow dance of siblings.
Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,
one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,
and when he turns to dip me
or I step on his foot because we are both leading,
I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.
The slow dance of what’s to come
and the slow dance of insomnia
pouring across the floor like bath water.
When the woman I’m sleeping with
stands naked in the bathroom,
brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit
into the sink. There is no one to save us
because there is no need to be saved.
I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed
the front yard. When the stranger wearing a shear white dress
covered in a million beads
comes toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,
I take her hand in mine. I spin her out
and bring her in. This is the almond grove
in the dark slow dance.
It is what we should be doing right now. Scrapping
for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutang slow dance.
Slow Dance, Matthew Dickman (via seafeel)

(Source: seafeelsarchive, via comportare)