He is disgusting when he runs. When he runs, and his back sticks to the cotton of his shirt with a sweat glue, and he breathes like he is taking his last breaths. It is disgusting, to see him push like that- to feel so in control, when really his body is wet, and dirty, and soiled- but high. He can't even smile in such a contortion. and he smells like all the smells a body makes that people buy air fresheners to disguise. It is disgusting, but it's admirable.
She is disgusting too. When she eats. Watch her chewing, with her elbows on and off and on the table again. The circular motion of her jaw is rhythmic but still ever so unattractive. And the sound of bolus production is something i struggle to stomach. She eats all of everything too.Her forks scrapes at the plate, and sounds like nails on a chalkboard. She is eating, and she belches, and she accidentally opens her mouth occasionally, and she mists out the kind of saliva you produce to digest when she speaks. It's disgusting, but it's healthy.
He is disgusting when he cries for attention. When he cries, and throws his rattle. his hair falls out of its photogenic display and into his eyes which he wipes tears from with his nasty chocolate covered hands. He cries so hard with that little body that his belly expands and contracts with every dramatic breath. Saliva bubbles in his opened mouth, and drool dribbles from his pouted lips. He stomps his mud covered feet and lets out some ugly squeals. He is disgusting, but that is passion.
They are disgusting together. They are disgusting behind closed doors, with the noises they make and the sighing they do. They are disgusting with the smells they create and the messes the make. Everything is so physical, a connect and disconnect- connect and disconnect me harder Baby- connect and disconnect again- again, again- faster-relationship. It is disgusting when they stick like cling wrap, and slide like butter in a frying pan. They are disgusting, and moist, and sweaty, and loud, but they are the happiest it's physically possible to be.
She is disgusting when she is sick. Sitting in her wheelchair, her grey hair as void as a flowerbed in October. Her wrinkled skin can sit more still than she can, and she looks like her body alone is suffocating her. And she has no control-of her shaking hands, of her excretory functions, of her loose and naught body, and her illness is disgusting. No one wants her to touch them, with soiled, bent, hands or kiss them anymore with her chapped and orange juice drenched lips. She spits and spasms when she speaks, and no one wants to wait and listen to the engrossed body of what once was a woman. She is disgusting, but she is resilient, and she is alive.
People are disgusting. But then- perhaps that is just what makes us people.