The Weekly Mindfuck: Sweat

Sweat gets a bad rap. Whether we work up a sweat at the gym or get a sticky sheen at the beach, whether we're dripping from a run or slightly damp after drinking a cold beer under the hot sun, we drop everything to hit the shower lest we disgust our friend and family with the stench and fluster of exertion. It makes enough sense in polite culture - looking and smelling nice is a sign of respect, in many ways.

I find our obsession with cleanliness to be abhorrent when it comes to sex, though. Needing to be clean and dry and flower-scented before we get intimate with our partners does more than stifle spontaneous, soulful sex; it takes away the potency of what makes us human, the place inside us where we are the most animalistic and unburdened by inhibition. 

Think about it: To be a human being is to have smells. Pheromones. Stray hairs, stretch marks. Sweat. Salty skin and saltier fluids. Blemishes, moans, grunts. Sex is meant to be primal, both physically and mentally, and to be so worried about your own smells (and conversely so disgusted by your partners) is to dislike all the things about you that make you human - the things that make you authentic and mindful of the present moment. 

Some of my favorite sex is sweaty, and I don't just mean because it's rigorous in the moment. Sweat after he's worked out or I have. Sweat from a great day that's dried on his skin and leaves a tang. Sweat that reminds me that we're both human, that we don't have to be perfect or perfume-scented. Sweat that reminds me that our bodies do incredible things, both in bed and outside them. Sweat that reminds me that we are alive and that we are living. 

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