“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. Sen-
suality. 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 rea
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 that 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, bellybutton, taste buds; but then again,everyone does. 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 the mon 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. Polythists 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 hetero sexual 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 isnonchalant. It isn’t too eager, it’scool. It’s calm. It doesn’t retreatand throw away the upper hand.Sure sounds differently than yes.Yes is a preppy school girl whofinally manages to sneak out ofthe house for the first time. “Okay”works the same way, but sure isaesthetically pleasing to the ears.It’s the s. Automatically triggerssex in his mind, not that it wasn’talready. But it lets him know thatit’s on mine too.
We go back to his place. Drink aglass of wine on his fine leathersofa. He leans in to kiss me. Ilet him. Lightly, gently, not toomuch tongue. Then I lean back,I stare into his eyes, and then Iattend to his neck; softly grazingmy nose from the bottom of histrachea to the beginning of his earlobe. I investigate his skin. Iinhale him.
Once I reach his ear, I whisper,“Has anyone ever told you thatyour scent is intoxicating?”
Instant explosion.
Pride. Each person wants to beproud of themselves, of who theyare. And the only way to get thatis through reinforcement. Con-stant reinforcement. They want toknow, believe that the image theyproject into society is the sameone reflected in the mirror. Scentis a projection. And I just told himthat I cannot escape his.
Power. He believes he has a holdover me, that I have fallen for him.He has the control. He is the cat, Iam the mouse. And I am trapped.
Sex. Enough said.
My work here is done. I haveensnared my prey. I have hit mytarget. Mission accomplished.Time to go home. Well, as soonas I get what I came there for:satisfaction.
My brother once called me ahunter. He said that I “go infor the kill.” Word for word hewarned his friends about me.He told them to watch out forme. At first I was offended. Whata terrible thing to for an olderbrother to say, to even think,about his baby sister. But that’sthe rationale our patriarchalsociety wants me to have.
So I thought again.
I realized that I have a particu-lar set of skills that make medangerous, even deadly. I ama Venus fly trap. I am a siren,a temptress with an unprec-edented skill for seduction.It’s a game I play.And I always win.