I’ve wanted to write this up before, but I haven’t. Even though I wrapped up my old blog, which was nearly pure erotica, so I could devote more time to ditties like this one. Credit my friend Anisa’s forwarding me some kind of TMI chain letter for getting me off my ass. If I don’t forward it on to any of you, don’t be offended. I’m not forwarding it to anybody. But you knew that.
Some years ago River and I were in relationship therapy. That was actually before our dry spell, which I used to call a long dry spell but which in comparison with some other people I’ve learned about was not so long. But it was long enough. And stupid. Miscommunication run amok. I’m not sure we got a whole lot out of therapy directly. My main memory is the therapist always seeming to think I was far more reasonable than I actually am. I am not reasonable. But there she was, agreeing with me, taking my side. Maybe she knew better than to cross me. Except every so often it backfired when I chewed her out for thinking I was so goddamn reasonable.
But this isn’t about therapy. It’s about smells. It came out as part of therapy that one of River’s turn-ons is nice smells. As in me smelling nice. Wearing cologne at the proper times, and such. Ok, I can do that. Especially if it will get me more sexy sex (at the time it was known as “sex”, not “fucking”). I’d do almost anything for River. Ok, I’d do anything. See how reasonable I am? And we’d even gotten me some nice-smelling stuff a while back. I just hadn’t worked up the courage to actually do anything with it. Like wear it. Or apply it, or whatever one does. In fact, I wasn’t actually sure how to do it. Girlfriends and babies and cologne should come with instructions. In retrospect, I could have just asked River what to do, because she knows everything, but I wanted it to be a surprise.
So there I was, hyperventilating and shivering with the thought of doing something really scary, and somehow my brain dredges up “put some on your neck, you idiot.” But how much? My brain left that up to me. On the basis that I could always put on more but I couldn’t put on less, I put on a smallish amount. Enough to smell, certainly. And hopefully enough to smell nice. And be a turn-on. And have fabulous sex for the rest of our lives. Which was the whole point, after all.
I ducked under the covers in the dark, expectantly awaiting my sweetie so I could surprise her.
She came into the room, peeled, and got in bed with my self-conscious self. She sniffs. And then she said it. “Did you fart?”
O. M. F-ing. G!!
I probably turned 17 shades of red in the dark. I wanted out. I wanted to die. I wanted her to die. No rock could possibly be big enough for me to crawl under. Complete humiliation. No sexy sex tonight. Or ever.
Nowadays I’d just say something like “Of course I did, but I was hoping this nice-smelling cologne I put on for you would cover it up.” But even though we’d been together 14 years, let’s just say we’ve come a long way in the last 5.
I excused myself and went to the bathroom and at some point I realized cologne does not wash off. At least not with soap and water. You put that stuff on and you’re stuck with it. For better or, in my case, worse.
I washed as well as I could and slunk back into bed. No sexy sex tonight. I guess I’d cleaned up enough because she didn’t say anything. I just laid there mortified. Maybe she still thought I was farting. At least that would explain my urgent trip to the bathroom.
It was weeks if not months later that she finally found out. “So how come you haven’t worn cologne? You know I like it.” “Well let me tell you about the time I tried it . . .” We both had a good laugh, and eventually I tried it again, and we did have some nice sexy sex.