Her Perfume

It was the smell of her perfume that first drew me in. Standing beside her in the lift, the waft of Chanel No. 5 rose in my nostrils. Faint, soft, classic, accompanied by the memory of my mother dressed up to the nines, dabbing scent behind her earlobes, the inside of her wrists, between her breasts. Sitting magnificent in front of her bedside table, in her satin and lace slip, her various creams and cosmetics strewn out like an array of magical potions. As a boy, I would poke my head around her bedroom door, watching her weave her spell, transforming herself from the moth I was used to seeing every day after school into a glamorous social butterfly for the evening.

When I caught the whiff of that familiar perfume beside me, I was bewitched, taken back to my childhood. I inhaled, intoxicated, and sidled up closer to her. She glanced my way: was she disturbed by my mere mortal presence entering her heavenly orbit? Had our auras touched, kissed, intertwined for a moment? Could she sense my regard for her, or was she sizing me up like I was an annoying little flea, an irritation?

The lift stopped on the fifth floor, and she and I were jostled as the cabin filled with smart-dressed professionals on their way home for the evening. I imagined their mundane lives; train ride to the suburbs, a tracksuit and a pair of slippers, a TV dinner in front of a “Friends” marathon. Did I envy them? Maybe a little, sometimes. But would I swap their suburban security for my urban decadence? Not even an option. I needed the thrill, craved the illicit. I didn’t even know how much until that classy fragrance reached its tendrils into my lungs and down, deeper, into the front of my trousers.

In the now-crowded elevator, we were pressed tight like sardines. Could she feel my pulse rate increase, my breathing growing heavier, enchanted by her proximity? The warmth of her body heat was like a siren call to my desire. I pictured her long fingers opening my fly, reaching inside, cradling my growing hardness in her delicate, feminine palm. I imagined her husky voice, throaty, murmuring, “Yes, baby.”

Did her pinky finger just brush against my hand? A glancing touch borne of our nearness, perhaps, or a meaningful gesture of recognition? She turned her head towards me, and with the swiftest of looks spoke to me in a secret language, that unfathomable ESP that people like us share. I see you. I understand you. I know you.

What is it, this sixth sense that lets people like her and me find each other? In a world full of “normal”, what sonar do those of us who walk a crooked line use to signal our presence, to declare our kinks and desires through silent communication? Whatever this radar is, it has never failed me yet. And as this sublime goddess of femme realness pressed her hip against mine, a subtle movement that spoke volumes, we were held together in a moment of recognition that was as soft, as delicate, and as timeless as the scent of her Chanel perfume.