The artist organisers were so clever at keeping this stench outside at just the right hint of emetic. It was there to lead me, and all of us, on. And it did. This walk towards the source of the foul smells was like the stairway to heaven. To say it made me feel good to be alive is the weakest thing I can think of. It was fucking glorious to take every breath.My honed, perfect body – old enough but fucking perfect - hummed with the harmony of the fucking spheres. I was dizzy on human toilet stink. Not manure, not animal smells, nothing farmyard, they knew that wasn’t a turn-on. Even when the cunts – or occasionally a gorgeous boy or two - were serviced by their zoo or farmyard stock, they controlled the aroma, so it didn’t smell like a fucking circus or horse-track. The smells were always deliciously human-toilet in origin.Some of our first hardons were associated with lavatory stink, and these artists knew how to jog that memory. At this distance it seemed almost as if it was a memory. I checked that I had locked the doors.A group of women of about my age glanced in my direction as they crossedthe road in front of me as I struggled to remove my jacket and put it onthe passenger seat before the lights changed.At last I was free of my jacket.I noticed that my captors had shaved my arms as I looked down at myalmost bare shoulders, my breasts and the straps of my bra and slip. Ifelt under my right armpit. I had no hair there either.The top of my slip had a lace trim too.I wondered whether the women crossing the road thought that I was onlywearing a slip or a slip dress.I was on the Westway now and had come to accept that anyone who saw mewould think that I was a sexy woman rather than a crossdressed man.I even thought of pouting at the builder crossing the road as I reachedthe lights at Old Oak Road, but thought better of it as I saw him staringat me and checked that the doors had not somehow opened as I drove overthe Westway.I felt vulnerable then, but it was not the.
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