I don’t do well in midsummer heat. I don’t really do well in any kind of heat.
I flush red, my skin glowing between the freckles.
I burn, inside and out.
I really fucking sweat.
I sweat till the individual drops collect and form tiny streams, running down my body and pooling in my collarbone, or my navel, or the dip of my spine.
I sweat till my shirts soak right through; till they’re plastered flat and translucent against my torso.
I sweat on people when we fuck. I thrust, and the stinging perspiration flies off my nose, or loses its tenuous grip on my chest hair, to splash down onto her back and arse; her tits and belly. I pull her against me as she rides my cock, and we both laugh when she sits up again, skin shiny with the print I’ve left.
I sweat when I run. Obviously. Four miles. Six miles. 10. 12. 15. It doesn’t really matter how far I run – I still sweat.
I’ve done a lot of sweating this summer. A lot of running. Some fucking too. My back is always a map afterwards – glistening streaks and trails of whatever exertion I’ve just put my body through.
Salty. Shiny. Dripping with sweat.