Drop #15: Perfume

He knew a woman once: the sexiest woman he’d ever met. He won’t say he’d have wanted to end up with her, or that she was the most beautiful or charming of the ladies he’d come to know, but she exuded sex from every pore. She was a perfect flirt, using touch and eye contact often, and extending both a fraction longer than anyone else would. She posed provocatively, wore revealing clothing (plummeting necklines, short skirts, low-cut jeans with visible G-strings), kept her hair long and luscious, and her lips plump and pink. Perhaps these were cheap tricks but they  certainly worked on him. She also had one of those upturned upper lips he finds so appealing and her nipples aimed slightly skywards too. He enjoys that shape of breast very much. It’s so optimistic.

Though you could focus on any one of her many specific attributes, she presented just as well as a shapeless urge, a vacuous blur of greed. She existed somewhere beside fact, offering the inarticulate hope that ultimate gratification was possible. She was an almost, just space, until you made something of her with all the ambitions and confusions you carried along inside you. But then, the small scar on her face made her very real again: a dream, that wasn’t a dream after all. No longer a cluster of shadowy cravings, but a distinct object, there to get off on – there to fuck.

But the thing that got him most about her was her perfume. At once direct and evasive, it perfectly framed her as sexual device. Every time he smelled it, he just wanted to eat her up. It demolished him.

 

He is a private English tutor for kids between eight and thirteen. Today he met a new student, Clarissa, a twelve-year-old girl. Pretty thing too. It was devastating to smell the same perfume on her.

By E.M. Vireo

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About EM Vireo
flooding the world with fiction

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