SCENTS & SEXUALITY
by Doriana Chase

People coming into the bar where I work consider me an expert on a lot of topics, due to my attendance at the local community college. I went there, first of all, because I aspired to get a GED, but certain people, observing my potential, convinced me to enroll.

I’m the first one in my family to a), get a high-school diploma, and b), go to college. I’m a late bloomer to the realization of what higher education can do for a person’s future, so I’m at least a good fifteen years older than the average college student. Not that you can tell by looking at me, or so I’m told. And I don’t mean just by the guys having a few beers in the dim lights at the bar.

I wouldn’t call myself an eavesdropper, but working behind a bar, I can’t help but overhear conversations, such as this lady, name of Lucy, bragging about her new house and her gigantic yard, and how she’s always been wanting some fancy garden, but I can tell she’s clueless about garden design.

This is where I can come in handy, I tell her. It just so happens I’m studying Medieval history and I can plan an authentic Medieval garden. She thinks this sounds really classy, which I knew she would, because I know the type, seeking self-affirmation through the perceived envy of others. She hires me to work as a consultant and invites me to her house the next day.

I didn’t intend to divulge this reality to Lucy, but the true purpose of those gardens was to provide the means to cover up all the smells of daily Medieval life. Throughout historical times, people believed that taking a bath was unhealthy, and a garden would be convenient. A person could pick some herbs and flowers and stick their nose in them when someone who had their last bath a year ago came close.

And besides, their food was half rotten. Imagine this huntsman. He kills a deer, then drags the carcass back to his house under the hot sun. My Lady, he’d say when he finally gets home days later, let’s put a ton of those herbs and spices from our authentic Medieval garden on this before we eat it to help us forget about the funny smell.

Whenever my history professor showed us slides in class, I’d interject because I’m outspoken. We’d be looking at art depicting daily historical life and I’d say, out loud, imagine how that smells.

Personally, I am partial to the natural scent of a man. It’s sexy. But even I will admit that the Medievals took it to extremes with the never bathing and all.

The next afternoon, Lucy and I were strolling around her yard, searching for the perfect spot for her future garden, when her brother Jax, the actual digger of said garden, showed up. Jax was wearing beat-up jeans that hugged his firm rear end just right, and big, construction-worker come-fuck-me boots. He was a couple days past a close shave, and his hair was in that specific state where I couldn’t decide if I wanted to reach up and gently smooth it down, or allow my fingers to idle away through it to muss it up some more.

I could feel words coming out of my mouth in a nervous tension kind of way, and I didn’t know if I was making any sense. Jax had me transfixed with those molten chocolate eyes of his. I was thinking is it hot out here or is it me?, but it wasn’t just me. Just as I was appreciating the perfect, snug fit of his T-shirt, he peeled it off and casually tossed it onto the picnic bench in the backyard. He was hair-free, tanned and toned. I got a wicked provocation to press my cheek against his damp chest, to run my tongue down his warm torso, to undo those jeans.

I was besieged with a sudden involuntary craving for all things Jax.

Eventually, I agreed to make some sketches and a plant list for the garden and send copies to them, then I said ciao, like the Italians do to say goodbye. When I thought no one was looking, I plucked Jax’s T-shirt off the bench and stuffed it into my bag.

As soon as I got into my car, I couldn’t help myself—I yanked the shirt out of my bag, buried my face in it, and inhaled. It had a divine, earthy scent that evoked sunshine and walks through the deep woods—and me being roughly fucked against a tree by Jax.

Suddenly, real life gave me a bit of a jolt when Jax, looking inquisitive, tapped on my car window. I wasn’t sure if it was because he had a garden question, or if he’d witnessed me molesting his T-shirt. I rolled down the car window and told him that I intended on taking his T-shirt home with me, but that it would be nice if he were in it at the time.

Like I said, I’m outspoken.

He blinked a couple of times like he was comprehending, and a few minutes later we were inside my apartment. We didn’t even make it to the bedroom. In no time at all I had him with his sweet, bare ass against the door, his jeans pulled down to those big old boots. I hadn’t bothered to take off any of my own clothes, which ironically made our whole tableau feel more indecent than if we were both completely naked in bed.

I had complete access to that gloriously lovely cock of his, and cradled it in my hands in a worshipful manner. Jax arched his back as much as he could without losing his balance, and pressed his cock to my lips. He made a series of grateful little gasps as I flicked my tongue against the rim, then kissed the head sweetly. I knew he wanted more, but I was going to take my time and make him beg for it. This is another topic in which I pride myself on being an expert.

I flattened my tongue and gave the satiny smooth shaft a long, hard lick from root to tip, and was rewarded with a shudder and a soft moan from Jax. I slid my mouth over the crown and swirled my tongue around it as I slipped my hand between his legs and gently cupped his tender balls. I teased him a bit with my soft ministrations, then without warning, took all of him at once. He grunted and bucked, but I pushed on, burying my nose in the crinkly hairs of his groin. I savored his musky scent and his briny taste. I couldn’t get enough of him.

The muscles in his hips dimpled as he gently rocked into me. I sucked on him, wetting him with my tongue and gliding my hand up and down the slippery shaft.

He rested his hand on my head, not pushing, but guiding me in rhythm with him. My head bobbed in unison with him in our agitated choreography. I kept on him, faster and harder. I felt his sensitive sac draw up into his body, building and building. Then came the hot pulses of his simmering release, accentuated with his cry of something like surprise. I took it all, lapping up the last frothy emissions, and then leaned into him while I just held him in my mouth as he got limp all over.

We both giggled a little as I helped to release him from his prison of jeans and boots. We finally got completely naked, made it to the bed and curled up together, convalescing. A couple of minutes later he was all over me, returning the favor. I let him move in that day.

The summation of that semester was this: days going to school, nights working at the bar, and in between, fucking around with Jax—which didn’t leave me much time to sleep or study. Sleep I had no problem doing without, but I really needed to study.

Jax brainstormed an ingenious idea. His solution involved multitasking. He ripped up one of his T-shirts and used the torn strips to blindfold me and tether me to the bed, spread-eagled, naked and squirming. He took the index cards I used for studying and asked me questions based on my notes. If I got the answer right, he’d insert my vibrator into me and give it a little jiggle as a reward. If I got the answer wrong—or even if I hesitated a tiny bit—he’d jerk it out no matter how much I implored otherwise. It was very motivational.

I’d keep one of those ties wrapped around my wrist while I took my test. Inhaling the same sexy scent that I had been familiar with while deep in study helped me to remember the answers at the time of the exam. This is an excellent example of context-dependent memory. There was an unforeseen side effect to this, though. You don’t need to take a psych course to understand the principles of Pavlov. Jax rewarding me with the vibrator equals conditioning, equals me getting very horny in school, equals me going through an awful lot of batteries during exam time. Et cetera.

Near the end of the semester, while studying for finals, I started noticing a transition in my feelings for Jax. It wasn’t anything he did on purpose, but there was a distinct metamorphosis in how he smelled. His scent became domesticated, like bread baking. Which is a nice cozy aroma, but definitely an anti-aphrodisiac. I wanted him to fuck me, not make sandwiches.

It was about that time that my trig study group consisted of just me and two guys who happened to be twins. We were studying at my apartment, and it wasn’t long before I began to speculate—out loud—about the human scent, and whether a bloodhound, or even a person with a very discerning sense, could tell the difference between identical twins such as themselves.

One thing led to another blindfold. This time a fresh, unscented one, because of the importance of variables and controls in experiments. The blindfold may have been unnecessary due to the fact that the twins were identical, but I digress.

I intended to be thorough in my research, so I French kissed one twin, and then the other. They began to urge me on by guiding me back and forth between them, along with paying a lot of attention to some of my erogenous zones.

Our experiment was unexpectedly interrupted by the precipitous entrance of none other than Jax. I tried to explain how we were studying trig, of which triangles were a very important component, leading to the inevitable circumstance of our threesome. Jax was not in the mood for irony, and he moved out that day.

I maintained a perfect 4.0, which I hope will help with scholarships to a four-year university, but I am already looking past that. I visualize myself receiving a doctorate degree in the study of scent and desire, and how they are mixed up in the limbic system of the brain.

After all, as everyone knows, the mind is the most erotic part of the body.