Excerpt. On Scent.

Let us discuss scent.

I have found that what is foul to others is pleasing to me. And perhaps this is why I insist on using oils to bathe different parts at different times. I confess, the perfumery of this age repulses me. So much reminds me of petroleum and synthesis. I don’t know if I want to smell like Britney, but I do want to smell curious. Curious works for me. Sandalwood, sage, the wafting of burning fats, these are my ether. If I could be honest about what turns me on, I’d say the smell of virgin coconut oil. Not for cooking, but for lathering on my wet skin and pussy, my lips, beneath my eyebrows, under each cheek south of the border, a bonding agent for my split ends, a resin to sculpt my curls out of. Argan oil, for my morning face. Myrrh when I am feeling particularly close to God. Tea tree oil when I’m feeling dirty. Castle soap when I feel I must dry out all the saturation.

 

It is in the soaking properties of a bath that I scrub with jojoba oil, coffee grounds and sugar. I aim to make my skin a desert, a blood bank for the critters. It is also in this bath tub that sensibilities become blurred. Depending how much time I soak in waters, which in turn depends on how long the water stays warm, I often read. Most times after I fiddle in between my legs, a product of the sensuality in scent I am sure. Sometimes I worship. They may all happen in lieu of the other, one may occupy the entirety of my time, and on days where education, pleasure, and worship mean the same thing the bath time is prolonged.


The emphasis on scent is a natural one. It is one of the many features evolution has granted us to attract mates. A natural scent, what we call body odor, seeps gently underneath the mask of earth’s perfumes. We have been trained to dislike the emissions of our soft machinery, as if sweat were an enemy. The emphasis of the bathtub is not a symbol. It is my space. the coveted cavern of a very full, loud home. I hate when people tell me I smell bad. I often just want to tell them they have adapted to squalor. Most don’t get the rules of my pheromone game, but they are playing.

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