Heightened Senses

So, I have heightened senses.
The most famous person, even if he wasn’t real, to suffer from this was Usher. . . no, not the rapper, the character from Edgar Allan Poe’s story. That was fiction, of course, because no one could live like that; he would have killed himself a long time before. So yeah, I don’t have it anywhere near that bad, but I still had to grow up with everything being. . . too much.
Why does it suck most of the time?
As I age, my hearing and eyesight are fading, but unfortunately not my sense of smell. That’s as strong as ever. Every time I pass a dumpster, or even a trash can, I have to remember to internally close my nose, otherwise it feels like getting hit by a sledgehammer.
Taste is also hard to deal with. The way you feel when biting into the hottest pepper around is the way I feel with any small amount of any spice. . . except cinnamon. I have to order everything bland; my burgers consist of meat, cheese and bread, with the occasional bacon thrown in. Steaks have nothing on them. Waiters hate me, dates are embarrassed (only one of many reasons, apparently), and no one really understands.
Then there’s the last one: touch. This is the most difficult to explain, as there are two components: touching someone or something, and being touched.
My touching is as strong, or as sensitive, as ever. I’ve pleasured women just by rubbing their eyebrows. Being touched, however, is declining in a bad way.
In talking smack with guys and being honest with ladies—try it, it works—I’ve known that pleasurable sensations are off the scale for me, compared to most. The physical delight people achieve with orgasm, I can achieve with a lot less, so just imagine what a climax feels like. Unfortunately, with great pleasure comes great soreness. Even worse, as I age I’ve lost even more of this stamina, getting sore quicker, in some cases a lot quicker. It’s a bummer, though usually you don’t feel it until after. It does usually preclude an encore, though.
And regular pain? Please don’t pinch me. Getting a flu shot? More like a stab wound. And going to the dentist? No thanks, haven’t in 25 years. I’d rather have my teeth fall out.
Now imagine sunburn. . .
I’m writing this next section while eating at Juanita’s, my favorite place at Olvera Street, in downtown Los Angeles. I’m eating a bean and cheese burrito, just about the only thing on the menu I can have. Even with this relatively plain dish, I’m getting a slight buzz from the cheese. And right after, I go to Kitty’s for a soft serve. . . vanilla, of course.
So yeah, most of the time it doesn’t matter, but that just makes the times it does that much worse. Chronic pain is my closest friend. So for those who have asked me to go out with them, to nightclubs in particular but really anywhere loud, I hope you understand a little better why I always say no. If you invite me to a Cajun or Indian restaurant, I might have to shoot you. So don’t. Leave me alone and let me decide, okay?
;o)

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