Smells Like Fucking

Disclaimer:
Though my inspiration for the fragrance in this story comes directly from an actual scent - Shelly B’s Honeyed Amber and Musk, created by Love Potion Magickal Perfumerie - the author in no way means to affiliate with or represent either the conceptualist or the artisans of said fragrance. Extreme creative license is invoked and implied, in awe-filled tribute to a fabulous scent and those who brought it to life.

Dedicated to all my fellow LPMP addicts, especially those who have enjoyed the adventures of Ann and Trevor.

My brain never shuts up, I swear.

There I am, on my back, legs in the air, pussy-pounded by a tireless gorgeous walking talking fucking dream of a boy, and my brain - somewhere between orgasms five and six – begins pondering things.

Such as:
Are you sure this is good for your spine?

I realize one can’t lose one’s mind all the time, but sometimes I wish I could take mine out and put in the drawer, then close the drawer, lock the drawer and ride away across the landscape of sweaty sticky ooooh my goooood fuuuuuck meeeee bliss.


******

Sometimes I need to be alone.

I realize what a crazy choice it is…given the pleasure of having a beautiful boy at (nearly) my beck-and-call…but I am a person naturally given to solitude, so there are times when I must get in the car and drive away. But never for too long. And that is a strange feeling as well…the connection calling me back: a pulse of desire and affection, of longing to witness that wholly sweet smile again at the sight of my return.

I traveled to one of the shopping districts in the city, the one where all the funky-chic boutiques are - the ones which are normally way too hip for me - but I like to pretend I could wear some preciously-constructed top of silk and lace, frowning at myself in the store mirror. I need to shop alone sometimes, as Trevor immediately sets about dismantling my self-deprecation any time I feel compelled to let it build with one snarkily muttered comment after another.

I wandered in and out of shops, not knowing what I really wanted, just enjoying the languid pace of my wanderings. I exited a bookstore and was immediately assailed by a scent…but I couldn’t place what it was, I only knew it was something captivating. I wanted to know where it was coming from and continued forward, when I was struck full-force by it as I passed by the open doorway of the next shop. The façade was somewhat the same as the others: a vertical sign over the entrance proclaimed the name as Feather Train, with a drawing of a woman unadorned save a large peacock-feather fan covering her torso and a mischievous smirk upon her pouty mouth. The display window was decorated with a large silk tapestry featuring butterflies fluttering over a meadow full of flowers – and if one looked closely enough – lovers entwined in the grass partially hidden by foliage. The items for sale looked exotic and enticing…carved chests, exquisite jewelry, delicate lingerie.

That last item caught my attention for certain, in addition to the scent which was practically ordering my brain to enter. Once inside, despite the streams of incense smoke floating in the air, the scent (which I’d come to think of in mere moments as The Scent) was in my face: thick and commanding. And it smelled like…sex.

No, not merely sex. Fucking.

I have come to believe that sex is what we do, and fucking is who we are. Modes of expression, permutations of intensity. Lovemaking, as it is so called, has nothing to do with sex. It is the measure of intimacy two people share, and the physical expression is only one of many facets. But fucking has come to be saddled with negative connotations to which I proclaim a hearty bullshit!

What I smell is raw desire, so raw that it goes beyond the usual justifications and idle fantasies. This is pure reptilian want, something we all experience in different ways but the imperative will brook no refusal. Want…and warm skin and the liquid signature of fulfillment. Hours and hours of fulfillment, hours and hours of screaming OH YES fulfillment.

I’m dizzy, it takes me right back to my sultry sheets this morning, smiling when I awoke, knowing what had transpired…and what would as soon as my delicious boy walked through the door and bounced upon the bed, playfully horny. I must look stupid, vacantly smiling as soon as I saw the face of the clerk, smiling back with curious decorum.

“Hello.”

“Hi. Uh, can you please tell me what it is I smell?”

Her smile grows wider. Looking at her closely I see she is at least my age - give or take a few years – and she actually looks like me, somewhat. But she’s more attractive to my reckoning, wavy dark hair down to the middle of her back, and her eyes remind me of Trevor’s: warm glowing amber.

“What does it smell like to you?”

I realize some people enjoy asking provocative questions, as if they think they will embarrass me if I choose to answer truthfully. But I’m already ahead of the game.

“Like my sheets after about an hour of good times with my boytoy.”

She tilts her head, like she’s confused. “He’s just a toy?”

I am momentarily taken aback. “Well…okay maybe I was just being flippant, but I don’t see what business it is –“

“Your choice of phrase surprised me. But yes, you are correct, it is the smell of sex. I’ve got my stock sealed and secreted and yet – it is too strong to be denied. I do keep one bottle out –“ she reached underneath the counter and produced a slender roll-on bottle “- for testing’s sake.”

The owner (as I have now intimated) unscrews the cap and The Scent is suddenly all around me, and inside me. My heart is racing, my palms are sweating, and I can feel my pussy clench in reaction, expecting her toy to be there, most definitely. I laugh, which turns into a bit of a breathy moan.

“Wow. You know when people say, ‘If you could bottle the smell of – whatever – you’d make a fortune?’ Well, that is…that is sex, no doubt.”

“It is the very thing, yes. And immensely popular…for some it is not enough to have sex, not enough to smell sex in the aftermath of their passion, some wish to smell like sex all the time…it is their addiction, their obsession. Nothing is as satisfying and they wish to be reminded of sex always, to command the sexual attention of everyone they meet. I had so many women beg me to create this scent. It was relatively easy, easier than I imagined, but also far more powerful than I anticipated.”

I feel a cautionary tale coming on. I swipe at my wrist with the rollerball just the slightest bit and it’s as if reality has dropped away, and I am somewhere familiar (any number of somewheres) in the grip of sweaty primal fucking where satisfaction may only be truly obtained by grinding one another’s bones to dust.

“You’re – gasp – trying – gasp – to kill me.”
“No…(gasp), you’re trying to kill me.”
Trevor is suddenly post-coital philosophical, pulling pillows beneath his head, his arms crossed to cradle that lovely appendage, looking up at the ceiling in adorable pondering.
“D’you ever feel like things will never get any better than this?”
“You mean this? Having great sex?”
“I mean having the best sex you’ve ever had.”
“Who…me or you? Because I don’t know how qualified you are to say that. The best sex you’ve ever had probably hasn’t happened yet.”
I get a smack on the ass as I climb out of bed to pee. “Ann, I swear –“
I chuckle to myself as I wince, cold porcelain on my backside. “I’m just being a realist, Trev. Yes I know I rock your world and I work very hard at doing so. But I’m not going to be delusional enough to proclaim there shall never be better for you.”
“But this is where our fantasies are supposed to be real, y’know.”
I come back to the bed, take a swig of bottled water and smile, wiping my mouth. “Oh they are, my twinkie, they are.”

(It was such a smart thing to say, but why didn’t I tell him that?)

“Well congratulations, this is a thing of genius,” I say, handing her the bottle. “I’ll take one.”

She smirks, putting the bottle back beneath the counter. “Yes, of course. One moment, please.”

She glides into the back room, and I wander about for a time, looking at the lingerie. I find a very pretty camisole in my favorite shade of blue: soft cotton lace and raw silk. I think if I still had auburn hair it would look wonderful on me, but it calls to me nonetheless, thinking of a certain smile to see it on me, a murmured ooh pretty, long fingers extending to touch delicately. And what the hell…I can afford it. I remove it from the padded hanger and return to the register. I notice a display with a few other bottles of fragrance, and draping the camisole upon the glass of the countertop I begin smelling them, even as The Scent is eroding my demeanor away bit by bit.

Garden: sun-warmed dirt and grass, a beautiful floral aura drifting in the breeze along with pollen spores and various insects, the freshness of water somewhere nearby, light and air.

Market: tangy vegetables, sweet fruit, warm spices and an undercurrent of comforting yeast.

Café: pungent roasted coffee beans, sweet frothy milk and pastries, the humid warmth of the establishment, the whiff of smoke in your nose after you pass through the clusters of those outside paying tribute to their gods Caffeine and Nicotine.

There’s an empty space where it’s obvious one bottle had rested before, just the slightest trace of oil staining the wood of the display rack. I lean forward to sniff and it is…

Sex: the musk of creamy warm flesh, chemical signals of lust, and the thick viscous evidence of its’ aftermath.

Each scent is a complete evocation of a moment in time, and I am humbled by her ability to create such perfect memories. She returns with a bottle and I finally notice the color of the oil is that same shade as her eyes…and his.

We have staring contests in public, where nothing else is as enthralling as our eyes. Color is wavelength and the properties of light make it seem to change. In sunlight Trevor’s eyes make think of a poem about amber…are you frozen sunshine…thick sweet warmth of dark honey and it’s as if I can feel it drip upon my skin when I stare intently. By candlelight I think of hot fudge or the eyes of my childhood dog: eyes so round and sincere they seemed to be the most honest example of unconditional love I would ever know.

He says my eyes remind him of the ocean in Cape Town, excitement as a child going to the beach and breathing in the clear bracing air, looking out over the sparkling expanse of deep blue and green.

“And you would like this?” she asks, picking up the camisole.

“Yes please. Can I also get –“ I pick up one of the testers. “- a bottle of the Café?”

She sighs through her nose as she folds the camisole and places it inside a silk drawstring bag the same shade as the garment. “You’d never wear it.”

Here it comes…but I have to ask.

“Why do you say that?” I stand before her at the register, taking my wallet out of my purse.

“Because it was obvious what you were really looking for. And once you wear it, nothing else will ever do.”

She announces the total and I realize the true measure of its’ popularity as I saw every price appear on the screen, one amount twice. If women want this so bad, and were willing to pay that much, then it must be…amazing.

But I already knew that. In the car, I couldn’t resist anointing myself: along my arms and neck, between my breasts, a little on my stomach. The Scent filled the space and made me swoon. I wondered what it would do to Trevor, realizing that was half the fun of wearing fragrance…to discover what the power of scent could do to the composure of others.

I had stopped at the supermarket to pick up the ingredients for our favorite dinner: steak, red potatoes, green beans and asparagus, chocolate mousse. Because Trevor is a good boy he leapt to his feet from his seat at the piano bench as soon as I entered with my burden.

“Here pikkie,” he said, holding out his hands. I gave him the grocery bags with a smile.

“Practicing?”

“Yeah,” he called over his shoulder. “Elgar’s Piano Concerto.”

My other purchases are in my purse, which I hang up by the door, then move into the kitchen. “Well you know I love musical accompaniment when I cook.”

We meet halfway and kiss, entwining around each other.

“Are you hungry?”

“Aren’t I always?” A teasing rise of dark thick eyebrows.

“Well let me get to it, then.” I walked over to the kitchen counters, began taking the items out of the bags and their packaging. “Play!” I commanded after a few minutes, equally teasing. But I looked up and there was Trevor, looking at me with a suspicious scrutiny.

“Where did you go?”

I paused for a moment in my task: rubbing the steaks with kosher salt and ground peppercorns. “Plum Street. You know, where all the funky little shops are.”

His expression did not change. “So shopping, then?”

“Yeah. And I stopped at Provencal for lunch, I had a tomato-and-cheese tart and salad. Any other questions?”

Trevor leaned in and sniffed. “You smell like you’ve been doing…something else.”

I drew a blank for a moment, thinking what, drugs? But then I realize what he smelled. It’s been said that people who smoke have a dulled sense of smell, but not Trevor. If I’m baking cookies he can smell it all the way from his grandmother’s house. He can always tell what I had for lunch, my proffered information was merely a sarcastic retort. Trevor insisted I change my shampoo because the brand I did use reminded him of a former girlfriend. He loves the smell of coffee but hates the taste. Once discerned I began giggling, moving to the sink to wash my hands. I took the broiler pan out of the oven and changed out the foil, continuing to laugh.

“What is so bloody hilarious, Ann?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

“It’s perfume, Trevor, that’s what you smell.”

“Perfume? Bollocks!”

That made me laugh even more, to realize he was jealous. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“I know what perfume you wear, and none of it smells like that!”

“I just bought it today, in a boutique on Plum Street. Here –“

I returned to my purse, pulling out the bag, and removed both bottles, looking at the bottom of each then handing him Sex.

“Smell it.”

Trevor unscrewed the cap and held it to his nose. His eyes widened in surprise.

“Phwoar!“ he exclaimed, then sniffed at me for comparison’s sake.

“What does it smell like?” I asked.

His expression was now stunned…and aroused. “It smells –“ he then took another sniff from the bottle, “- like fucking.”

“Exactly. Isn’t that genius? I had to have it.”

Trevor applied some to his own wrist and sniffed. “Mmmm.”

“Oh no,” I exclaimed, taking the bottle from him, “how am I supposed to lure you with my fabulous scent if you’re wearing it too?”

“I just –“ he sniffed himself again, closing his eyes and sighing. “It’s just so sexy.”

“Yes,” I said, screwing the cap back on and putting the bottle in my pocket. “It’s quite possibly the sexiest fragrance ever. But here, smell this one –“ I held out the other bottle, “- I guarantee you’ll like it too.”

He gave Café a sniff and smiled, but it was more like a polite smile, not the utter joy he displayed when smelling Sex (you know that name doesn’t do it justice).

“Nice. It reminds me of The Laughing Crow.” He was referring to the local café, the place wherein all the artsy types in our little town liked to congregate and discuss Brunel and Deconstructionism.

“That’s it? Nice? You love the smell of coffee!”

“I do but…the other, it’s just so –“ Trevor took another sniff of his wrist.

“You’re starting to act like a drug addict.”

“All my vices are perfectly legal,” he quipped, then pulled me to him for a kiss.


As we ate dinner we stared at one another…and we always do that. But this time there was an impatient quality to the way Trevor ate, as if it were just a formality before other things. That was the first difference I noticed, because if there’s one thing my beautiful boy loves to do, it’s eat. He would eat everywhere - especially in bed - if I let him. We played footsie under the table – again nothing unusual – but his foot kept rubbing my leg obsessively. He couldn’t sit still.

Wow, it’s like he’s turned up to 11.

And for someone whose libido was usually set to 10, that was interesting.

“Dessert later?” I asked, when he cleared the table and rinsed the dishes and glasses in the sink.

“You’re dessert, milady, and I want you now.”

Of course you do.

I surreptitiously sniffed myself and…maybe I had gotten used to it but while it was an incredible scent, it didn’t seem to be turning me on as much as it did upon first application. I wondered if it would have the effect it was having on Trevor if I smelled it on him, so I decided to take back my decree regarding letting him wear it.

In my bedroom I modeled the new camisole.

“Lovely, but I have the urge to rip it off you.”

I turned, my expression might have been angry because his mischievous smile disappeared in an instant.

“Oh fuck no, this cost way too much! Besides, it’s my favorite shade of blue.”

“Makes your eyes look like the sky in summer.”

No fair, you brat, lying there naked and delicious and saying such pretty things.

(Yeah, sometimes seduction makes me resentful…I’m well-aware I’m fucked in the head.)

“Let’s play a game.”

“Yes milady?”

I handed him the bottle. “You go in the bathroom and put this all over you. It’s a roll-on bottle, so it’s easy to apply. But I should hope I don’t have to tell you to avoid your genitals.”

Trevor snickered. “My brother, when he was still living at home, once put cologne on his balls – I think the entire street heard his shriek.”

I laughed with shock and sympathy. “Well this is oil-based so it wouldn’t sting, but I want your cock to smell like it’s supposed to.” I grabbed said extremity for emphasis. “And then we’ll see how well it turns me on.”

He smiled, that brilliant beautiful smile. “Then you do the same.”

“Can’t you still smell it?”

“I can, but I want more.”

“You’ll be able to smell it on yourself, you know.”

“But it smells different on you than it does in the bottle. And it will smell different on me too, I wager. Might even smell bad.”

“I doubt that. How does it smell on me?”

Trevor sniffed at my arm, his eyes closed and his nostrils flaring. “Like you’ve been fucked, and you want to be fucked. Like your body is commanding me to fuck you forever.”

“Oooh, well let’s see what your body tells me to do.”

Trevor took the bottle from me and walked into the bathroom. I could see his reflection in the mirror over the sink, the mischievous grin had returned. “You already do such wicked things, I dunno if even I can imagine.”

I watched him, instructing him on where to apply, and it was incredibly arousing to see him do it, aided of course by the series of sexy expressions he kept making when he looked in the mirror (and by extension at me). It struck me that Trevor’s expression in public, when he wasn’t looking at me, was very neutral, almost blank. But when he looked at me his lips immediately puckered and his eyes seemed to twinkle. It had been thus from the day we met, but…

Oh my god.

Trevor had turned towards me, but even from several feet away…The Scent was announcing its’ presence. I was reminded of a particularly wild party back in my youth, when after hours of drunken revelry someone was inspired to get up on a table and shout Who wants to fuck me?! Because it was that kind of come-on: no ambiguity, no coquetry, subtle as a sledgehammer. It scared me a bit, his expression turned predatory, still a hint of playfulness but this game had gone beyond the boundaries of mere play now. He was going to fuck me, his eyes laser-direct and pupils wide in response to whatever it was that was turning him on: The Scent, me, the situation, or some incredible combination of everything.

Now if you could bottle that, you’d be a fucking genius.

I refrained from snickering at my unintentional pun. Oh you got that right, baby.

He walked over to the bed, towering over me…holy fucking sex on a stick…and I swooned, yet again, The Scent so strong I could taste it, taste his warm skin, his tongue, everywhere my mouth would go, I could taste it all. I rolled to the side, getting to my feet.

“Wait, I’ve gotta –“

Trevor turned, grabbed me around the waist, and slammed me back down on the mattress. He straddled me just as quick, firmly pinning my pelvic cage upon the bed with his luscious ass. I was looking at a different Trevor now, a Trevor I hadn’t met yet, a Trevor who may or may not know me…but either way he was going to have me.

“Is this the game, pikkie? To annoy me?”

I couldn’t help it, I’m a natural smartass. “Is it working?”

Trevor leaned down and pinned my wrists with one long-fingered hand. “It’s starting to.”

I was too stunned to squirm. If anything could be said of our relationship, it would be that I was the ultimate authority. And Trevor liked it that way, enjoyed deferring to me for whatever reason. I had begun to think that perhaps all the women in his life had been older women, some guys have that preference. So wasn’t I lucky, to find myself in a scenario of a right place right time to be the next woman on top. Oh yes, yes I was.

But at this moment, I wasn’t in control. Not at all.

“I just wanted –“

“To tease me, to make me wait. I know you, Ann, you devise very subtle tortures. But be a good girl and let me in, hmm? Now.”

Who was this? He wore Trevor’s body, but…

This is Trevor. This is Trevor on Sex. Any questions?

And how erotic is that? To fuck a stranger who was not really a stranger? Well, maybe not for you, but for me? Oh fuck yes.

And this stranger who was not a stranger…he licked me head to toe, lavishing his tongue on my skin like it was hard candy, biting my neck and shoulders as if he really could eat me…harder than Trevor normally would, a constant mmm of hunger, fingers grasping enough to bruise, digging in to ensure I was real, that I wouldn’t dissolve in his hands when awakened from the mother of all wet dreams. When his cock wasn’t inside me, and he driving my body hammer down towards the edge of the cliff, me screaming all the way with every thrust, the bedframe creakily protesting that it wasn’t built for such obscene activity, it was poking me and rubbing against me as he investigated every inch of my skin for erotic possibility.

But I was equally a stranger to my own desire, this more-than-ravenous craving to finally climb inside him and know what it was like to be such a perfect being. I didn’t want to breath unless he was breathing into me, and nearly faint from inhaling his exhalations I let go of everything…I said tell me you’ll always be this obsessed.

And he slid out of me, his cum spurting onto my stomach, rubbing sticky and thick into my skin, putting his fingers in my mouth to suck clean, he said yes. Enough times that I could finally believe…and then we could do nothing but pant and laugh and wonder who those strangers really were…they were gone and we were us again, but an us who had bonded – no, fused – together with a finality I’d never experienced before.

I wondered what life would be like now…for us.

In the wee hours of the morning I got up for my normal pee and wasn’t surprised to find Trevor gone, but I had a strange feeling (like a vibe, if I believed in that sort of thing) that he was still in the house. I walked out to the living room and saw him through the screen door, sitting on the back porch, smoke curling above his head, drifting away on the breeze. But the interesting thing was every few moments he kept sniffing at his wrist.

Well this is it, he’s hooked.

I mean, let’s be honest: we’re all looking for that leash, aren’t we? We want obedience and we want them to believe that no one is as wonderful as we are, even as we harbor our secret or not-so-secret crushes on others. We flirt shamelessly but if we caught our boys doing the same then watch out! I have to remind myself every day not to think about Andrew that way anymore, and I fail miserably. Some would say I was crazy: compared to Trevor his uncle is an aging balding slightly flabby milquetoast kind of man. But I’ve always adored him, from first I saw him. And I feel guilty that I’ve succumbed to such obvious bait.

But Trevor is more than his glorious body, his beautiful face. He’s a person who deserves the passion only I can give to him. And therefore I must deserve the gift of his devotion. Because he can’t live without me, though I’ve tried to overlook that fact for a while now.

But why don’t I feel like that? I was continually surprised to find him with me.

(He’s just a toy?)

Yeah, I suck. But I swallow too, to make up for my obvious shortcomings.

“Did you want me to put the kettle on, twinkie?”

Trevor turned sideways on the stairs, grinning before taking another drag on his cigarette.

“Thought I’d worn you out, pikkie, nice and proper.”

“Why didn’t you go home? Your grandmother is going to be worried.”

“She knows what grown men get up to.”

“Yeah but –“

“And maybe I am home. Or is that too presumptuous?”

“No, but –“

Trevor looks slightly wounded, his eyes are so wide and dark in the early light.

“But what?”

“I just don’t want to, you know, cause undue suspicion.”

“I don’t want to go. But if you say I should –“

“I didn’t actually say that.”

“Yes but, you’ve got a look.”

I guess I never know what my face is showing, only what my brain is thinking.

“Be a good boy, and come back to bed.”

One last exhale with pursed lips, rising to his full height with languid grace.

“As milady demands, of course.”

Trevor opened the door and underneath the smoke I could smell it.

“Did you put on more?”

He looks adorably contrite, studying his bare feet. Have I mentioned how much I love his feet? They’re so perfectly formed.

“It’s so good, I can’t stop smelling it.”

“Well you can buy the next bottle then if you’re going to wear it like that.”

“Be happy to, point me to the shop and I’ll wait for it to open.”

“She’d probably try to talk you out of it. I don’t know why she’s selling it.”

“Didn’t you say she made it because people wanted it? Easy answer.”

“True.” We are horizontally settled back in bed, facing one another, engaged in a familiar ritual of stroking hair and skin and licking each other’s faces. “But it was like she really didn’t want anyone to buy it. Like she’s afraid of it.”

“And you?” The glint of umber mischief in his wide eyes, the set of his perfect bone structure in service to desire, just on the verge of smiling full. Sometimes the slight smile is more devastating, because it hints at so many things without revealing what he’s thinking, exactly. Even if I already know. Trevor does enjoy making me think he’s capable of anything because he knows I find the notion of possibility incredibly erotic.

“I’m…stunned. I didn’t think things could be any more intense between us.”

“It’s just what I wanted. To know how deep it goes.”

I can’t say anything to that. I kiss him, over and over, then down and around, finally worshipping his cock as it deserves, with long lascivious licks, devouring sucking, covering it with my hair in a silky caress…and he moans and groans and squeaks and finally pulls me up and impales me on his prick, his hands hard and firm as that organ inside me as he takes me for a ride. There’s nothing delicate to the dance, but neither has the rhythm ever been better.

I’m crying as I climax, I think he is too. Then we laugh…and for hours afterwards we look at one another and laugh anew, a burble of joy and of the specific insanity of obsession as we each throb and touch and tease and start all over again in fatalistic fascination.

Trevor scared the shit out of me Monday morning as I showered and dressed and tried to motivate myself for the work day, eating a cup of Greek yoghurt mixed with some granola and watching the Weather Channel. I had gone into the bathroom to comb my hair and pin it back when suddenly he was right behind me in the mirror.

“Fuck! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

He didn’t look sorry, save to pout and begin whining like a dog. I knew what he wanted.

“You can’t go out in public wearing it. Every female on campus is going to try and jump you. Maybe some of the guys too.”

He pretended to ponder the notion. “Really?” (Raaaaley?)

“If this stuff makes you want to fuck everybody you can damn well buy your own bottle!”

“Pikkie, I know you don’t like Mondays, but why are you so cross? You know I have no interest in fucking anyone but you. I just like to smell it, it makes me think of you.”

I put a hand on my forehead. I was tired. Really really tired. And possessed of a fierce longing never to get out of bed again, actual sleeping optional.

“Why can’t you just be a normal pervert and carry a pair of my used panties around with you?”

“I save those for the long cold nights I have to sleep alone.”

“Well – wait, what? You stole my underwear?”

“Isn’t that what one does when completely devoted?”

I laughed hysterically at the notion, and was touched. God, he’s so adorable. I relented and gave him the smallest of swipes on each wrist.

“Just remember who your dealer is, twinkie.”

He leaned down and kissed me soft and slow and deep. “Always.”



We stopped talking so much, unless the sounds mmm and ahhh and ohhh counted as scintillating conversation. But we communicated deeper (oh so deep) than ever, every time we shed the societal skins and experienced the delirium of Sex as amplified by our own chemistry, both singular and plural. And yet…sometimes I felt we weren’t using it so much as it was using us.


*****


I had to shut off the ringtone which announced texts on my phone, as Trevor had taken to texting me every ten minutes or so. I knew he was in class, and I wanted to shake him, tell him to behave.

be a good boy plz
want u pikkie
want u 2 but focus
cant focus on anything but u

I thought I had hidden the bottle from him…but perhaps he had found it and slathered himself again. I liked the idea, but the actuality made me feel guilty.

“Ann? Ann? Hullo?!”

Lost time, lost in a reverie of his delicious skin…I really would eat Trevor if he were edible. And what would he taste like? He smelled like…the musky part of The Scent. I had no compunction regarding smelling him everywhere, burying my face in his crotch or his armpits. I preferred the way he smelled after sex rather than a shower, but either way he retained the unique signature of himself. When he laughed at me as I rubbed my face in his underarm hair – equal parts amusement and tickling – I said I was memorizing his pheromones. I wanted to OD on his sweat, it was a smell which made me crazy.

We literally carried molecules of the other on our bodies, though we practiced the rituals of daily hygiene. We were each covered in the other’s DNA. I had read, somewhere, that there was a type of musk which smelled exactly like a man’s body: his secretions, every orifice and gland. And it was a lure like no other. We thought of bonding as a socialization ritual, of long conversations and shared activities. Of learning minute details and greater philosophies. Of secrets, silliness and seriousness. But the more tenacious bonds were chemical…smelling traces of him on my skin, my clothes, my sheets…anything which reminded me of Trevor made me crave him when he wasn’t there. I hoped the same phenomenon was taking place with him all along…but now that I had actual evidence it was freaking me out.

“Yeah?” I snapped, but then saw it was Andrew in the doorway of my office.

“Can I…talk to you? Please?”

“Sure.” Uh oh. I was way too distracted…and certain I was about to receive a lecture, or worse.

Andrew closed the door behind him and sat in the opposite chair. “Uh, this is a bit difficult, but…”

Oh crap.

“…I’m worried ‘bout Trev.”

Oh shit.

“Worried how?”

“Have you noticed anything strange ‘bout his behavior of late?”

“Well, the times he’s come over to do yardwork or give me a piano lesson he seems a little distracted, I guess. I figured maybe he has a girlfriend?”

Andrew nodded. “It seems so, Mum says he’s out very late most nights, or doesn’t come back till the next day. Not surprising, he’s such a looker, but she says he’s been stroppy with her and that’s not his way t’all. Snapped at me as well when I called him on it.”

“Yeah that doesn’t seem like him, he’s always so pleasant.”

“So he hasn’t been sullen with you?”

Well…

“Uh, no, not that I’ve noticed.”

“Hmm. Well I started to think – he’s at Uni, after all – that p’haps he was feeling his oats a bit, y’know?”

“Drugs, you mean.”

Andrew swallowed and looked away, embarrassed. “Rather.”

If I could be classified as a drug then you’d be right.

“Well I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t know. He’s never said anything to me, but then why would he?”

“He seems to enjoy spending time with you –“

I choked down my laughter, practically sitting on it in the figurative sense. “He just likes grilling me about America.”

“Well if he should say anything, or if you notice anything –“

“I’ll tell you, of course. But you don’t think you could just talk to him?”

Andrew rolled his eyes and let out a rueful chuckle. “He doesn’t think much of me, y’know, never mind what I have to say.”

“I think he’s just intimidated because you’re so successful.”

Andrew laughed again as he made to leave my office. “Ann, you always think everyone believes I’m as brilliant as you think I am. But some people find me merely annoying.”

“I’m going to lunch now, did you want me to pick you up anything?”

He waved a hand behind him, walking back to his office. “No, Mum made me a brace of shepherd’s pie, thanks.”

I turned my phone off and drove to Plum Street. It was easier to find a place to park in the middle of the week. Feather Train looked exactly the same as I entered, and she was there, writing in a ledger on the counter.

“Hello.” That same calm sense of…what was it…comfort? Wisdom?

“Do you remember me?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know why I’m here.”

“Yes. They all come back, with questions. Shoot first, ask questions later.”

I made a face. Probably like I’d eaten something sour. “Uh, would you mind telling me what’s in Sex?”

“Three ingredients. You combine three particular ingredients and what you get is the smell of sex.”

“Nothing more? Like some kind of chemical whammy?”

She burst out laughing, a giggle almost as adorable as Trevor’s. “Pardon me?”

“I’ve read there are chemicals that can attract people sexually.”

“Well certainly. But no, I’m rather a boring traditionalist…I believe nothing is so powerful as the lure of fragrance. It can inspire every emotion one has ever experienced, or wishes to.”

I nodded. I was a believer. “But –“

“Sorry, trade secret. But the situation has gotten a bit out of hand?”

“Yeah.” I happened to glance in a nearby mirror. I looked tired, but despite my worry I also looked smug. And I was, imagining Trevor’s panic because I wasn’t answering his pages. I turned my phone back on and it immediately beeped at me: he had paged me twenty times during the period it took to drive down to Plum Street and engage in discourse with the proprietor of Feather Train. I looked through the list and half of them were merely the same message.

WHERE R U?!

“There’s a simple solution.”

“I know what you’re going to say: stop wearing it.”

“Then why are you here?”

“If you know it has this kind of effect –“

“There is no inherent harm in the scent, only what people perceive it does. People will either allow their desires to consume them regardless of the cause, or they will acknowledge the wisdom in balance and moderation. This is only an excuse to ignore the latter, a stalking horse, if you will.”

I nodded. I had considered our delirium would come in another way, but I could see now that it was bound to overtake us at some point…and there was nothing wrong with that as long as we could manage it, enjoy it without allowing it overwhelm us. Because that quality was a specific joy of our relationship: we were so very obsessed, chemically bonded, to one another.

The Scent…it was the scent of us. I had the thought that there were many couples who also realized it, courtesy of the alchemy of Sex.

I sent Trevor a text: come home.


Trevor was surprised but would never complain at being summoned for sex: pounding me doggy-style with deep thrusting rhythm as the sun beyond the window and walls heated up my bedroom, blinds drawn, on the cool sheets rapidly growing warmer. Sprawled then, after multiple orgasms and his final liquid climax, lying on top of me, rapid panting and heartbeats, sweat drying in the air, both of us giving off The Scent as if we were made of it.

“I gotta pee.”

“Won’t let you up, not done.”

I turned over beneath him, wrapping myself around him.

“Treat every fuck as if it were your last…isn’t that exciting?”

“But –“

“You have to know, you have to know, have to trust, that it won’t be. That we’ll go on and on. Can you really imagine anything else?”

“Sometimes.”

“Yeah I know. That’s what happens when you become consumed. But this is our fantasy, right? So it doesn’t need reality, doesn’t need anything but us to make it true. Not even this.”

I reached into the drawer of the night table and pulled out the bottle of Sex.

“You hid it? Why d’ya do that?”

“Because your uncle thinks you’re on drugs. But also because this isn’t sex –“

I returned the bottle to the drawer and let my hands wander: across his broad shoulders and back, along his spine, his ass - pausing to rub against his anus as he squirmed and moaned - kneeding his thighs, pinching his adorable tiny love handles, stroking his chest and nipples, trailing down to take a now-stiffened cock into one hand, the other threading fingers through his beautiful hair and pulling his face flush to me, licking and sucking at his luscious mouth.

“Twinkie, this is sex. You and me: insert tab A into slot B.”

“I’m a man, pikkie, I don’t read the instructions.”

I call him a boy, I know…but he truly is a man…and he smells like fucking. He smells like he’s fucking me and that is the sexiest scent there ever was.