“It’s too cold to open a window,” she said, “and our room reeks of sex.”
“I quite like the scent of sex,” I demurred.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong!” she protested. “I love it and I always have! In our case it’s a mark of a job well done!”
“High five!” I didn’t say. To this day I’m still not sure whether I should have.

I wasn’t entirely sure about the distinct scent of sex when I first encountered it. It reminded me a little of pee, but then again, the first time I had sex I’d never really had an orgasm awake before, so I didn’t quite equate that to the bouquet of cock. Once I’d tasted vulva, of course, I got that in the mix as well. My wife offers up the term “musty,” which I guess is as good as any.

I’ve always found it to be quite heavy. Sex permeates the air around it and occasionally the whole house. While not unpleasant, not exactly, its distinctive aroma manages to carry both stigma and pride in the same breath. Not bad for a few olfactory particles.

“We could open a window,” I said suddenly. “We don’t need to get cold. Hey, we don’t need to lie on the bed. We could get into the bed. The duvet’s warm enough.”
“But it’s the middle of the day,” pointed out the Seamstress. “Why would we be in bed in the middle of the…? I mean, unless we’re doing what caused this in the first place…?”
“…for the third time today,” I supplied helpfully. “But we don’t need to have sex. We could just be in bed to get warm.”

There was a long, hazy pause.

“No.”
“No?”
“I disagree.”
“You do? You don’t want to open a window or you don’t want to get into bed?”
“No, I want to do both of those things,” she clarified while beginning to take her dress off. “But I don’t agree that we don’t need to have sex.”

[Incidentally, this is my last post for a while. For the next two weeks I’ll be virtually incommunicado while I’m enjoying geeking myself silly in Japan. Catch you on the flip side, bloggiverse.]