Sweet Sweat
By Shawna Kenney

I spent almost five years as a dominatrix, catering to other peoples’ fetishes for money, but until recently, never really admitted my own. I have friends who have mini-orgasms while shoe-shopping. I know women who would walk miles or plunk down pretty pennies all for the right purse, make-up, vintage dress, lipstick, sequined bra, Winnie-the-Pooh trinket, fuzzy sweater, faux fur, nail polish, diamond tiara, chocolate candy, cute fireman, millionaire or what-have-you. Not me. The thing that really gets me off is so unacceptable and unappreciated (at least in American culture) it is almost unspeakable…so here I will just write it: sweaty guys

Ok, let me clarify that. Not just any sweaty guy will do. In my former profession I worked with many sweaty men, most of which worked my last nerve. Just like most of them, admittedly my fetish comes with a bunch of painstaking (usually terribly inconvenient) excruciating requirements. It has to be a cute sweaty guy. “Model-cute” is not necessary, but reasonable attractiveness is desirable to the eye before the nose will get anywhere near.

Seeing actress Kim Cattrall get off in the men’s locker room scene of Porky’s is the only time I’ve seen my small obsession addressed in pop culture. Seeing the movie as a pre-teen (with everyone giggling around me) was truly an eye-opener. Little did my friends know how that scene spoke to me. To this day one vinegary whiff of the inside of a kneepad is all it takes to bring me back to my high school (salad?) days of hanging out at skate ramps, riding hours to and from punk shows with groups of  hormonal boys—with their drenched and pungent t-shirts outlining their beautiful bodies—all gave me perfect opportunities to indulge in my obsession.

Of course I had a deep interest in these past-times, too, but I can’t help but wonder if it was my secret adoration for perspiration that kept me around long after all the other skate-betties and girlfriends went home. Yes, looking back now, everything in my life makes perfect sense.

It’s not just the stinkiness of the sweat or guy in question—it’s everything. It’s the ocean-like shimmer on his skin. It’s the act of seeing what one is actually made of—his body’s excess, water and salt, and something else—his actual essence—oozing out of every pore. So intimate, so personal, so [sniff] sexy.

I have a cute (sometimes sweaty) longtime live-in fantasy guy of my own now, and he understands (or at least tolerates) my deviance. Still, sometimes I stand behind a slick-backed stranger at a show, look toward my boyfriend with a devilish brow raised, and flick my tongue out dangerously close to the sweating stranger’s shoulder. It always makes my guy laugh, which never fails to get me hot, which usually ends up with both of us soaked…and, well, now you know, I like it like that.


Copyright © 2002 Shawna Kenney. All Rights Reserved. Used With Permission.