“Like perfume?” I said, aghast. “Eww?”

Bev grinned at my expression. “Just a little dab behind the ears, another between the tits. Works every time.”

“Let’s find out,” Bev said, and she turned and thundered, “Yo!” I looked around wildly for my escape but no trap doors or helicopter rope ladders presented themselves. They never do. Hollywood lies. I turned back to see long blonde hair, dark brown eyes, a quirky smile, and a very womanly body. Although, given that smile, I was willing to negotiate on every other point. She rose an elegant eyebrow in a question.

“Pussy juice as personal fragrance,” Bev demanded. “Sexy or yuk?”

I prayed for providential meteorite strikes while the bartender looked us both up and down for a long minute.

Finally, she said, “Sexy, but you can’t just grab some sweat from your shorts. That’s yuk.” She leaned closer, her silky hair drifting over my suddenly goose bumped arm. “What you want, is this.”

Trembling, I took a deep breath. And became, instantly, inflamed.

Honeysuckle and smoke in her hair, a whiff of makeup and beer. And, under all that, like a pulse, was musk. There was blood in that smell, deep and dark, and hot flesh, and fire. It was the smell of animal passions and uncontrolled lusts, coaxed and teased and fucked out of an eager body. It was the thick liquid of orgasm and the memory of that first pain and pleasure. It was the smell of Woman, and it demanded response.

Her smile told me she knew it, and knew my response, and approved. She leaned forward even further, her soft breasts pressing against my arm, and whispered, “I make it myself, but it requires assistance. Interested?”

Behind me Bev was laughing or talking or on fire or something. I didn’t care. I was in a cave, somewhere, somewhen, mindlessly rolling and gasping in a world of pure fuck while outside wild beasts roared.