I am wet.
I am not coming on to you.
This is not sexting. No dirty talk.
It’s this heat. It’s unpleasant.
Terrible. Awful. Uncomfortable. Sticky.
I am displaced. I can’t focus.
This is not my natural habitat.
My blood is British, Irish, Viking.
Give me foggy moors, craggy coastlines, misty rain.
But f&%k this heat.
The air is thick. Dense. Still.
Except me. On fire.
I fidget. I readjust.
Tears fall from pores that are miles from my eyes. My body cries. Tortured.
Salty drops luge from the crease of my knees or ski slalom down my spine. I mop my upper lip with my knuckle. I pat my forehead with my fingertips. Drops form like dew on grass. I have a slimy second skin. I am Gelatinous Girl.
I fear standing after sitting. There is sure to be a wet spot where my body touched leather or metal, wood or plastic. I slide off seats, careful to sponge my hand over the puddle like a window wiper. My thighs leak moisture. Damp, wrinkled fabric sticks to my bottom.
It’s not sexy. Not like this…
My slip ‘n’ slide skin is not the product of oil. There’s no massage. No Swedish. Zero Thai. Not even Nuru. (Wouldn’t that be nice…)
In fact, don’t touch me. (I’m sure I smell.) Come close only if there’s a cold cloth, chilled drink, icy cube in your hands.
I chase the breeze. I stalk the wind. I will steal your fan.
I need a kiss of air. It’s as desired as the lips from a long lost love, an object of affection, a passing fancy.
I am dizzy. I get hives. There’s liner in my eye. Sunscreen is misted on my pupils.
It’s a heat high. My mind is drugged.
The world is distorted.<
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