By Sophia Fox-Sowell
“Has anyone ever told you that your scent is intoxicating?”
That’s a line I use sometimes. It works. On men. On women. They fall for it, without fail, each and every time. Want to know why? Romance. Sensuality. Sexuality. It’s all bullshit. It doesn’t exist. You cannot measure it. You cannot capture it. You cannot test it. There is no theoretical explanation or supporting evidence to suggest that what a guy eats makes him more susceptible to not be an asshole and bring you flowers on your birthday. No formula to make sure he calls you when he says he will.
No mathematical equation to say for certain that the night he fucks you he won’t fuck someone else. It isn’t real.
But that line. The one I use on men, on women. It works. Why? Because it’s scientific—and I’ll prove it.
Attraction. Chemistry. The connection you feel when you meet someone, talk to them, tease them, dance with them, touch them, kiss them, fuck them—it’s all based on pheromones. Those tiny little particles come individually packaged along with the DNA injected into your body by the genes your parents gave you when they were fucking in the backseat of a Metallica concert without a condom. Each person has their own set of pheromones. A distinct scent unlike anyone else. It makes them special. But that itself is an anomaly—because no one is special. Each and every person may have their own personality, DNA, fingerprints, belly button, taste buds; but then again, so does everyone else. They are not subscribed to a certain race, weight, height, eye color, hair color, or sexual orientation.
Yet even though we are aware of this universal truth, no one wants to admit that they are not unique. That nothing distinguishes them from the man sitting next to them on the bus or the woman they pass on the street. Sigmund Freud was not mistaken. All humans have an ego, and it must be fed. Like a lioness who hasn’t eaten in days, we are savages. Polytheists who worship the same gods: pride, power, and sex. They all feed our ego. And that line, the one I use on men, on women, it succeeds in satisfying each of our gods.
I find someone; man, woman, it makes no difference. Men are easier to control, but women are better in bed. For heterosexual’s sake, let’s say I meet a man. We meet at a bar. He sees me from across the room. Our eyes meet, blah, blah, blah. The classic scenario carefully deployed by every romantic movie. Its cliché, but I’ll use it here because it fits into the scientific method. Now this man is handsome, meeting the symmetrical standards that are the foundation for visual attraction. I catch his eye. Target acquired. He strolls over to introduce himself. I don’t care what his name is, it is irrelevant. I am on a mission. He finds our conversation intriguing. I keep him interested with clever word play, with light touches, with my smile. But what really keeps him inching closer and closer to my strategically placed, scandalously clothed body are my eyes. Windows of fire that seer into his very existence and make him feel like my eyes were made for his gaze alone. My eyes draw him in, a fishing line baited with dynamite; waiting for the perfect catch, the ideal opportunity so I can explode.
He suggests, “Do you want to get out of here?”
“Sure,” I casually respond.
And it must be “sure.” Not “Yes.” Not “Absolutely.” “Sure”. “Sure” is nonchalant. It isn’t too eager, it’s cool. It’s calm. It doesn’t retreat and throw away the upper hand. “Sure” sounds differently than “yes”. “Yes” is a preppy school girl who finally manages to sneak out of the house for the first time. “Okay” works the same way, but “sure” is aesthetically pleasing to the ears. It’s the s. Automatically triggers sex in his mind, not that it wasn’t already. But it lets him know that it’s on mine too.
We go back to his place. Drink a glass of wine on his fine leather sofa. He leans in to kiss me. I let him. Lightly, gently, not too much tongue. Then I lean back, I stare into his eyes, and then I attend to his neck; softly grazing my nose from the bottom of his trachea to the beginning of his earlobe. I investigate his skin. I inhale him.
Once I reach his ear, I whisper, “Has anyone ever told you that your scent is intoxicating?”
Pride. Each person wants to be proud of themselves, of who they are. And the only way to get that is through reinforcement. Constant reinforcement. They want to know, believe that the image they project into society is the same one reflected in the mirror. Scent is a projection. And I just told him that I cannot escape his.
Power. He believes he has a hold over me, that I have fallen for him. He has the control. He is the cat, I am the mouse. And I am trapped.
Sex. Enough said.
My work here is done. I have ensnared my prey. I have hit my target. Mission accomplished. Time to go home. Well, as soon as I get what I came there for: satisfaction.
My brother once called me a hunter. He said that I “go in for the kill.” Word for word he warned his friends about me. He told them to watch out for me. At first I was offended. What a terrible thing to for an older brother to say, to even think, about his baby sister. But that’s the rationale our patriarchal society wants me to have.
So I thought again.
I realized that I have a particular set of skills that make me dangerous, even deadly. I am a Venus fly trap. I am a siren, a temptress with an unprecedented skill for seduction.
It’s a game I play.
And I always win.