It’s not so much the scent of his cologne, but the scent, essence if you will, of the man that arouses me most. There are times I catch a small whiff, like a mist actually, and I turn expecting him to be there; more surprised than not when I remember that he’s actually very far away.
It’s comforting, that familiarity borne of such physical closeness, when his maleness…that dominant pulsing energy manifested in a dusky rich intoxicating aroma…surrounds you in a hazy smoke of both wanting and contentment. No rose water here. His scent is musky and dark and dangerously sexy. I am reminded exactly of how and why I now find myself wrapped in his smell. Flashes of skin touching skin, tender kisses and long lazy embraces flood my mind interlaced with heat, passion and wild abandon. It’s a heady brew of languidness, lust, comfort and erotic tension all conjured up by a single scent. Vast fortunes would be made if his allure could be bottled.
His scent is uniquely him. It’s the promise of passion and the warmth of friendship. It flirts with me yet agitates at the same time. It is, simply, him. Millions wear his cologne yet no one smells as he does. I find myself wrapped in it and I smile a knowing smile, enjoying a private moment as I drift back to that place where it was only he and I.
Maybe it’s primal instinct. Maybe I’ve not evolved much in the last millennia, but the scent of this man is as sensual as his kiss. It’s bred from thousands of years of being alpha male. It’s not about equality; it’s about being taken and marked and wanting it no other way.
It’s more personal certainly, and maybe more intimate in that it’s an involuntary offering. He would anoint himself with the most expensive of elixirs and yet what comes across to me is what can only be him. The true scent of a man. Unmitigated maleness. A seductive invitation which I readily accept.