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A male friend a few years older than me once took me to a high end strip club. It was my first time at a house of ill repute, and I was underage (but of age in the way that mattered). He knew one of the club’s employees and arranged a deal to sneak me in with him through an alleyway entrance.
I’ll never forget the sounds, sights, and….smell….of that experience. They linger today. Blood red light, thrashing heavy metal, and riotous naked pussy assaulted me. I popped a stiffy before we had taken our seats at a table in the back, to my relief cloaked in cranny dimness.
I had by then notched some innocent quality time with Real World girls, but never had exposure to raw, unbridled female sexuality until that field trip with a buddy I would go on to admire for many years afterward as my chaperone to a parallel pooniverse told in tales of thigh adventure.
I remember my friend had informed me the strippers were “just north of jailbait”. Which meant all the girls were older than me, by a few years. We gawked for a while — rather, I gawked, he pretended to soak it in like a seasoned viewer — and then he slipped a twenty in my hand.
“Should I get change?”
“No, that’s for the lap dance you’re getting.”
He motioned to an unearthly beauty with jet black hair framing cum-white skin. She glided over to us on a cloud of estrogen. Her body was perfection to match her face. Slender hourglass figure, levitating tits, and a pert ass. I guessed she was 18 years old. And a hard 10. They exist.
She and my friend exchanged some words, then she smiled at me, performed a lissome posterior chain maneuver that drew her face and body nearer mine, and her hands pried open my legs. Standing in my manspread zone, she unbuttoned her leather miniskirt. It shimmied unceremoniously to the ground (very smooth, I thought to myself), revealing black panty and….was I seeing right?….a rolling hillock of peekaboo vulva adorned with villous springtime fluff. She lifted the elastic on one side of her panty and pulled my moneyed hand toward the pleasure portal; I slipped the twenty in and made sure the second knuckle of my middle finger got some before she closed the gate.
She was unusually practiced at her art for a girl who shouldn’t have been at this line of work for longer than a year. Gracefully and with a patina of eagerness that I had hoped was sincere, she crossed my southern border and gyrated and twisted and grazed and rubbed and pressed and ground……but the sensation that would grab my hindbrain by the reins and steer it to a catatonia I have found hard to replicate in the time since was the sensation that entered through my nose.
Her aroma. It emanated most powerfully from a moist place, a fog bank, a source of life, and more subtly from every square inch of her body. It was the Engineer’s goo if the goo was pink and smelt of a thousand roses and the richest peat. That scent…I can recall it in an instant, and still it stuns me. Later, reflecting on it in the wisdom of my adulthood, I would realize it was the scent of ripe sex. Of a woman in her fertile prime whose sole purpose in this world was to be inseminated by a warrior poet and birth the next generation. Her natural perfume wasn’t of the material world; it was a divinely endowed advertisement that she was laden with a full basket of the freshest eggs.
I would likewise realize that no matter how many women one has bedded, loved, lost, or loved again, there will be nothing that comes later which can precisely capture the stupefaction and delight of that first sniff of a hard 10’s maximally fecund fragrance. It’s like a first love; you’ll love again, but occasionally your heartthoughts will drift to that sun-dappled sweet sixteen siren, a memory unblemished by life’s inevitable compromises.
There have been moments since when I’ve caught whiff of a similar scent, and I remembered it fondly — as one would the surprising intrusion of an odor that recalled grandma’s kitchen — and every association would come flooding back, filling empty neural nooks with lust. But you can’t go all the way back. The past is unsullied precisely because it exists in a magnified amber constructed of sensation, newness, and promise. Pussy #30, however sweet-smelling, can’t hit with the limbic force of Pussy #1. No shame in that ladies, just don’t expect the same invulnerable adoration from a man when you’re his Thirtieth Act.
I had met a girl a couple months after that trip to the strip club, and I was so relaxed around her she mentioned it to me with a hint of annoyance. “Are you always like this with girls? So…calm?”, she had suspiciously inquired. No, I had replied, hoping to allay her, only with you, because you’re easy to talk to.
Lie. I was relaxed because I had smelled the scent of God, and the girl sitting with me was an aromatic mortal in comparison.