They told me before moving down to the Great Southwest that it might as well be renamed “No Sexico.” This makes it easy to make excuses: forget antisocial tendencies, lack of personal hygiene, or the apocalyptic horse of self-esteem: being just plain boring. Being interesting is currency anywhere, in love, in romance. Of course, it’s the lack of humidity in the air (the scent of rain acting as lubricant), the unattractive “townies” (all the attractive ones are attached in blissful, Disney-esq monogamy).
Sometimes I feel strong and creative: standing lumber legged on the mountain, red throated and heady. Other times I feel the pervasive sensuality of roasting chilies in the air—New Mexico’s personal musk. I try to remember my old scents of desire, of skin freshly fucked and glistening, but to no avail. I create the narrative of Michigan fucking protocols: one-night stands are permitted just so we don’t have to walk home in the cold. Nights huddled on attic floors with cigarettes and whiskey, pretending to be interesting and a dreamer.
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Keep it nice. I like constructive criticism, though. Anything racist, homophobic, ableist, transphobic or misogynist will not be posted. Duh.