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Chemistry of love
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Chemistry of love M gave me the keys to her apartment when she went to visit her husband for a week. “Where do you keep your panties?” “Sniff around, I'm sure you can find them.” Two days after she left I found myself at her apartment in the late morning, rooting around in her laundry basket for the pair of panties she'd worn when we'd first made out. I crumpled them in my hands, the crotch a little stiff, with dried out whitish stains, and inhaled that dizzying smell that found its way directly to my cock. I took them with me to the front room, to the place on the carpet where I had first sucked her, the sunlight falling across her body, with her hips on my forearms, my hands grasping her wrists under her pulling her into an arch. From where I had been I could see the elongated shadow of her erect right nipple thrown from above the small mound of her breast, across the valley and climbing up the slight rise of the bottom of her left breast. Over the hour that I had sucked her the shadow of the left nipple had sundialled its way in a 15 degree arch across the carpet and disappeared into the early evening gloom. A week later when she returned and we repeated the scene and continued it so I didn't have to wonder any more – the lonely streetlights coming on outside, the waxing and waning of other people's childrens' voices in the playground (One saying, “You should have , they would be so beautiful.” and the other thinking, “Me! And what about us?”), the oncoming chill we could sense of the months ahead, all would conspire in our heads to oblige us to keep fucking unthinkingly well past the time we could reasonably expect to get dinner, then fucking against the sink while the daal simmered. I sucked the crotch of her panties into my mouth, wetting them, trying to relive – after having kissed and licked and nibbled my way down her throat and breasts, after having played with her erect nipples between my lips, pressed with my tongue down her ribs, cupped her jutting hip-bone at her waist to draw her abdomen towards me, after having exhaled hotly into her pubic hair and after having pressed her mons into my face – the taste, the feel, the smell of that first briny drop of moisture from under her clit. The smell of brie melting on a crepe even now capable of knocking me off my feet with lust, the smell association so strong and feared that until recently I avoided even the sight of molten brie. Why erotica<b> writers </font></b>and pornographers go on about the “sweet” taste of cunts I can't fathom. Anchovies, rusty nails, sweaty bacterial sourness, yeasty bread dough, yes, but maple syrup? Never! The smell that was unique to her, that seemed to rip my molecules asunder and send them flying to dock with hers, proteins folding around each other so only complete and mutual atomic desconstruction could separate them, that smell I discovered the next day, when I abused her clean panties. The fact that there were no bras, the fact that she never wore them, so the slightest chill or thought of pleasure communicated itself to the rest of world – that complete absence of bras had been enough to drive me mad with desire, with grief and missing her, so by the time I knelt and buried my head in her panty drawer I was lost. I took them out, the plain, white, unadorned cotton panties that spoke to the sheer superfluousness of Victoria's Secret's sexless titillation. I smelled them, wondering about her food, whether it was her food – so different from mine – that caused that smell, or whether it was an unwashable smell of her sweat and piss and cunt that infused her panties. What molecules remained embedded in her panties, to now enter my being and catalyse my complete fission? Futilely, in desperation, hoping for fusion, I festooned my fullness with her panties, wondering how it would feel to have her flesh surround mine. Months later she'd left our shared office, her books and papers and a few stationery items all packed away in boxes. She'd packed her apartment and her clothes boxes were stored on top of the filing cabinets, awaiting a new lease, but awaiting mainly my departure and then and only then her allowable safe return. One evening – it must have been evening due to the number of fruitless hours I had spent staring at a hibernating computer screen alone in my, our, office – after an international call with her rehashing all the unabated mutual desire and the unilaterally declared unsurmountable obstacles – I couldn't stand my loneliness any longer and tore open her clothes boxes, grabbing as I could her shorts, tops, pants, skirts, gathered them in my arms and collapsed in my chair. That was how the secretary found me, weeping into the clothes, allowing the smell to bond me ever tighter to something impossibly irrecoverable, allowing the secretary to see my shame, allowing her to press my shoulder and press me into some semblance of wholeness again. A decade and a half later, on a second date, I'd worked my way up V's body in the opposite direction, kissed and sucked my way up her legs, to briny panties and a satisfied satisfying cunt. The morning after the third date I found myself having tea by myself in a shaft of spring sunlight in her bedroom, and opened – cautiously, daringly – V's closet, found her laundered panties and remade acquaintance with an old nearly forgotten but still debilitating smell … and discovered, after fifteen years, that I had been in love with a detergent. |
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