What I’m doing at your place when you’re not around

Wearing your cologne and watching porn.

Wearing your cologne

You say you “don’t wear cologne” and I mostly believe you, because I’ve only smelled something that smells a lot like cologne on you like once or twice. And there’s only that one bottle of cologne in your cabinet.

Either way: if you’re “not” gonna wear it, I figure I might as well.

I don’t have my own perfume at your place — to keep down “The Clutter” you so hate — so sometimes it’s fun to pretend what’s yours is mine. I don’t like many colognes, but I do like the one you’ve got, and whoever bought it — because I doubt it was you — did a great job in selecting it.

I actually don’t wear it at home, but rather just before heading into my bartending shift. It humors me to smell “like you” — or in the least, like a dude — while pouring high-end scotch and selling cigars to a roomful of other men.

I’m wearing your deodorant, too

Yours is just better. It works better, it smells like you, and there’s something incredibly intimate — maybe even a little arousing — about sharing it.

…and your clothes

Mostly the previous day’s t-shirts — grabbed from the floor and worn while I have my coffee, before I’ve showered. And sometimes yesterday’s ankle socks, partly because I only have 2 pairs at your place.

Making your bed the way I like it

I don’t know why you make your bed the way you do — with the comforter mostly shoved down between the mattress and the footboard, so low it barely grazes our shoulders while sleeping — but I don’t fight you on it because it’s still technically your bed and not mine.

Once you leave town, though, I pull the comfortable allthewayup so that it goes well over my head — I could even drape it over the headboard and make a fort, if I wanted— and then I tangle myself up in it so aggressively overnight that the bottom comes untucked from the footboard. Just like you hate.

Wondering where the hell all your wall art came from

Because you’re not really the “home decor” type, yet you’ve got shit hanging on most of your walls.

I know your mom got some of it for you, because you told me, so for simplicity sake I usually just assume that explains the rest, too. But sometimes I catch myself staring at that Mardi Gras mask or the Orangina pop art poster and I think to myself, “that just doesn’t seem like a mom’s handiwork.”

Watching porn

But you already knew this.

Looking for jobs

…like I’m supposed to be.

Sometimes I’m even phone-interviewing, too.

Drinking shower beer

And “bed beer.” Your nightstand makes a perfect side table, and I spend so much time on the bed surfing and writing anyway, I just drink my beer in there.

I know bed beer drives you crazy, because that one time I did it while you were here you moved my beer to the kitchen “where it belongs,” but I keep doing it when you’re gone — partly because you didn’t overtly tell me not to, but mostly because I’m kind of an asshole.

Though I’m pretty sure you already know all of this.

Indulging you in the rest of your idiosyncrasies

I don’t move the coffee table. I don’t fuck with the thermostat. I take my shoes off inside and store my motorcycle helmet, jacket, and boots where you want them.

I clean the bathroom. I use the soap the way you like soap to be used. I shower each night before bed.

I only drink the beer I buy, leaving your craft collection intact, and I rinse the bottles before setting them aside for recycling.

You’re a particular man, but — apart from the bed beer — I can dig it. Mostly because I dig you.

Looking forward to seeing you

Because no amount of bed beer or cologne is as good as having you around, and once I’m done with the t-shirts I most look forward to the real you.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s