by K. L. Gillespie
(05/04/05)

The smell of rubber tingles my nose as I stretch an elastic band and allow it to snap back on my fingers. I do it again and it releases a fresh flood of aroma that reminds me of stolen moments from my teens that were devoted to fumbling and fucking under an old oak tree in the woods behind my house. His name was Jonathan and he lived next door.

The hubbub of my office blurs into white noise as I lose myself and my inhibitions once again under that old oak tree. The sun warms my face. Birdsong fills the air. Jonathan's hands are on my body and his breath is moist on my skin. He pulls out a condom and I can remember its smell and the way it felt between my fingers as if it was yesterday. I helped him peel it on and...

Trng trng...trng trng...

The phone rips through my memory and a sigh travels from the pit of my stomach until it escapes between my lips. I pick up the receiver, elastic band still in my hand.

It's Mother. I struggle to put all thoughts of Jonathan from my mind as she bombards me with a thousand questions. She worries, so I tell her I'm fine and pretend I'm going out with friends tonight. She seems satisfied -- and after a few more minutes of chit-chat she hangs up.

As soon as I replace the receiver I hold the rubber band to my nose and try to recapture Jonathan, but my memories play hide and seek with me, teasing me from round corners and mocking me for not being able to picture his face. The harder I try to see him, the further away he gets, until I am left with nothing but the smell of rubber in my nose and a pile of work to get through before the end of the day.

Five o'clock eventually arrives and I leave the womb-like confines of my office and step out into the great big wide world. The West End is particularly noisy today. I've lived here for five years but if I'm not careful I get lost, so I cement a thousand-yard stare on my face and make a beeline for Charing Cross Station.

Traffic fumes sting my nose and the streets are full of obstacles. A police car, sirens blaring, half circles me as I wait to cross Shaftesbury Avenue. A group of Italians chatter away to my left while a rickshaw drawls by on my right. As soon as the rickshaw has passed, I take my life into my hands and step into the road, with a Babel of voices ringing in my ears.

The next thing I know a bus whistles past me, taking me by surprise; I lose my balance and stumble backwards.

I prepare to collide with the pavement, but instead, out of nowhere, I feel arms around me. Fingertips press into my shoulders and a distinctive scent enters my nose. Cinnamon. Sweat. Leather. Tobacco. A unique aroma which announces his presence with a bang. I breathe him in deeply, trapping his essence in my olfactory canal and I savour it slowly before committing it to memory.

It's love at first smell, and I am overwhelmed. Suddenly life narrows to a single compulsion: to make him mine. I brush my fingers over his hand. My nerve endings register the soft warmth of his body and the faint pulse of his life force. My senses race toward overload as I taste him in the air. I find myself imagining him in my bed, naked and sleeping after a night of wild sex. I would trace his body with my fingertips, and then I would . . .

I am dragged back to reality when he removes his hands from my shoulders. I pray that now that he has lifted me back to my feet he doesn't just walk away. I still need the sound of his voice to complete my picture of him. Silently, I will him to speak.

"Are you okay?" he eventually asks, and his words vibrate gently in my ears. His voice is deep and warm, like butter at room temperature, and as he speaks the rest of the world fades into the background and his perfect voice fills my head.

"Are you okay?" I repeat his words over and over in my mind until they are pitch perfect.

I feel him looking at me, waiting for an answer. My face starts to burn, so I break the silence by mumbling something incoherent. I have no idea what I am actually saying because all I can think of is him, stripped bare between my legs, submitting to my every whim.

Once again my fantasies are cut short when he hands me my white stick and my heart sinks as I sense myself through his eyes for the first time.

Out of pity he offers to see me across the road. I hate myself for accepting, but I need more to create him fully in my mind. I know time is running out, so I run through a mental checklist: smell, touch, taste, sound, all accounted for...and our brief foreplay is over. He makes his excuses and disappears into the throng.

London is faceless, especially when you're blind.

He is gone, but nevertheless, as I walk on, I lift my hand to my lips and can still smell him. He is under my nails and on my skin, and I can't wait to get him home.

At the station I search out the nearest invisible carriage with my stick. I wait for the doors to close and sever my connection with the buzz of the outside world. I am alone. Everything disappears. I'm used to living in this invisible world. I know there are people all around me -- someone to my left is eating a burger, and the woman in front of me is wearing Dior's Tendre Poison -- but unless I hear them or touch them they might as well not exist.

I let someone lead me to a seat, unresisting. I count the stops as they pass until the Tannoys announce that I have reached my destination.

Only another 438 steps to go.

When I arrive home I head straight to the bedroom. His smell is fading and time is running out so I quickly slip out of my clothes. I begin to wish I'd had the courage to run my fingers through his hair and over his face, but I tasted him in my mind and as I position myself on the bed I am sure that will be enough to bring him to me.

The soft satin of my bedspread embraces my body as I recall the sensation of his hands on my shoulders and the taste of him in the air. I lift my hand to my nose again and inhale his odour deep into my lungs; I trap it there until I can hold it no longer. Cinnamon. Sweat. Leather. Tobacco. I run through the memory like a mantra and in the blank darkness I search inside myself for him.

I part my legs. Eager fingertips seek out the triggers that open up the most dormant part of my mind, until, quivering with excitement, I conjure him...and he appears by the window.

I know he is smiling as he climbs onto the bed behind me and wraps his arms around my naked body. I can feel his sweet breath on the back of my neck like a cinnamon-scented breeze and his pulsating life force warms my skin. As I collapse into him I place his hand on my breast; I shake with delight as he squeezes my nipples between his thumb and index finger. His voice, warm like butter, murmurs sweet nothings into my ear and I can feel him planting tiny kisses on every notch of my spine.

I feel his cock hardening in the small of my back and I press myself against it. His hungry hand searches out the cleft between my legs. I arch my back and he slides his fingers into me, holding me tightly by the base of the spine with his thumb. I shiver with anticipation and hold my breath to intensify every flutter and gyration.

As I reach the peak of my pleasure I whisper the secrets of my darkest desires to him. Without hesitation he takes my vulva in his mouth and parts my swollen lips with his tongue. I wind my fingers into his hair and pull him closer until his nose nudges my erect clitoris.

Gently, I rock his head towards me, increasing the rhythm until I am fucking his face with abandon. My senses shift ceaselessly, evoking sight out of sound, out of smell and touch. I am about to come but the orgasm is secondary because a miracle is about to happen.

As I writhe in his arms, the grey curtain that shrouds my life begins to pull back. He transports me to a world of light, and with a cry of ecstasy I come out of the uncharted dark. For a few seconds, colours that I don't even know the names of fill my mind, and I snatch them from the darkness. They pulsate in concentric circles like a kaleidoscope and I stare at them in wonder as they shift like curtains in a breeze. And they are bright -- so bright that I have to narrow my eyes to look at them -- but they are the most beautiful things I have ever seen. I drink them in greedily while I can because I know they won't last long. They never do and with a shudder I am plunged back into the darkness.

Sleep comes easily. I don't dream, but when I wake up I am still reeling. The night before gave colour to my mind and for a few seconds I had ceased to be imprisoned by my own identity. I want to feel that again.

On the way to work my senses are on hyper-alert and I realise I am searching for him in every person I pass. I can't concentrate on anything.

The work day slips away, almost unnoticed. Before I know it I am back on the street where we met, in the exact spot, 173 steps from my office and about to cross the road.

I'm still there forty minutes later, sniffing the air, desperate for a hint of cinnamon or a whiff of leather. Waves of musk, citrus, clove and Brylcream assault me from every angle but I don't find what I am looking for. I go home alone.

I go straight to bed. For almost an hour I try to conjure him but he remains a shadow that lingers outside my window and refuses to come in. I know he is watching me though and this quickens my pulse. I slip my hands under the sheets and slowly run my fingertips over my naked body. I know the contours of my body better than anything else in the whole world and within seconds I am rushing headlong into seventh heaven. I shut my eyes and will the colours to come, but I orgasm in the dark and it leaves me feeling emptier and lonelier than when I started.

I can't sleep. My mind is racing, chasing after the cinnamon man of my dreams. I try to imagine running my hands over his face, tracing the contours of his lips, running my fingers through his hair but he is fading. I have to find him again. Even though it will be like searching for a needle in a haystack, I have to try.

Sunrise drags its feet. I count the minutes one by one until the alarm goes off.

I rush through work on autopilot, determined to leave early. I am sure I was too late yesterday and that's why I missed him.

I'm outside. 173 steps. I've been waiting so long that my feet are numb. I feel faint. My mind has started playing cruel tricks on me. Every now and then I smell leather, or sweat, or tobacco -- but never together, never in that evocative combination that means him. I know I'm being stupid, but I continue to stand there, smiling sweetly in the direction of every Good Samaritan that offers to see me over the road. I feel like a fool.

Suddenly some kind of sixth sense kicks in, forcing me to turn round.

Cinnamon. Sweat. Leather. Tobacco.

He's here. He's nearby. I've been given another chance.

I take a deep breath and turn in his direction. I hear myself saying hello, and it doesn't sound like me but I know it's me because I felt the words coming out of my mouth. Time stands still. I wish the ground would open up and swallow me.

What have I done? My mind is spinning; did he hear me? Is he ignoring me? Is he as embarrassed as I am? Is he still here?

Then I hear it, the same warm, buttery voice that melted my heart. He remembers me, asks how I am, tells me his name. Charles. I smile and I know he is smiling back. He asks me how I am and if I plan on throwing myself in front of a bus today. I laugh. He laughs. It's all going so well.

He asks where I am heading and I reply. Charing Cross.

He's going to Charing Cross too, and offers to walk me there. I accept and I know that by the time we arrive I'll be 438 steps away from seeing again.

Author’s note: Charles Bonnet Syndrome refers to persistent and sometimes startlingly real visual hallucinations in the blind. Charles Bonnet described the condition now named after him in Switzerland in 1760.

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