Ahhh! The Cupidity of Love! Good morning, Literati Mio from the towers that are A Word with You Press so close to Friendship Square in downtown Moscow that one of Cupid’s arrows could be unleashed from the tower’s parapet and find it’s mark. Our current contest requires that each lover entwine within their story the …
Ahhh! The Cupidity of Love!
Good morning, Literati Mio from the towers that are A Word with You Press so close to Friendship Square in downtown Moscow that one of Cupid’s arrows could be unleashed from the tower’s parapet and find it’s mark.
Our current contest requires that each lover entwine within their story the phrase “but it was only a rumor”. This contest will be but a brief affair (not to imply an affair involving fruit-of-the-loom or Victoria’s Secretions). The relationship ends February 10th; just enough time to fall in and out of love and live to write about it!
If you have not entered our contest yet, here is where and how the deed can be consummated:
but I digress…
Here is an entry from Andrea Glass, heaven scent, no doubt.
THE SCENT OF A MAN
by Andrea Glass
When I was younger I easily confused love and sex. After my divorce, I accumulated lovers in an attempt to make myself feel okay again, and sex seemed to reinforce the “loving” feeling I lost after being dumped! Someone once said she’d heard I’d had over 100 lovers, but it was only a rumor.
Today, when I recall my string of past lovers, I mostly remember their scents. The scent of a man lingers in the concealed recesses of my brain—that place where sensory images reside. Not just one man, but every man I’ve ever known intimately or nearly so. Not just one scent, but a vast array of smells, odors, aromas, and essences.
Canoe, that sickly sweet cologne so popular in the 50s was what Fred wore. My hair brushed his cheek as we danced the “why dance?” at the junior high prom. There began my addiction and the scent of a man was my drug of choice. The man’s natural body odor mixed with his cologne was intoxicating. And each man and each cologne became stored in my olfactory filing system. For many years, every time I smelled Canoe I thought of Fred.
Bill reeked of Aramus, a musky earthy scent. It was a perfect match for the odors that permeated the room, office, car, or wherever we engaged in passionate lovemaking. I bought myself a bottle of Aramus so I could smell Bill long after he disappeared from my life.
It seemed appropriate that my London lover Dave wore English Leather. Whenever I smell it I’m transported to the English Channel and the top deck of the ship where we consummated our ill-fated summer affair.
I will forever be rendered powerless by Polo. That’s what sultry sexy Doug splashed on before he came to call. When I lay my head on his bare chest, I was inebriated as its spicy scent mixed with the dank smells of our love play. I once followed a stranger smelling of Polo and wished he were Bruce was au naturel. He smelled of dog, his ever-constant companion. Awakening in our cozy tent in the mountains, I inhaled the aromas of sweat, dirty clothes, morning breath, and unwashed hair.
Emerging from our love nest, these scents evaporated in the cool forest air.
Men, colognes, body odors—a jumble of buried memories, both painful and pleasant. The scent of every man lingers only to be awakened by the right cue.