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PHEROMONES
Pheromones were the subject of my professor's lecture on the first day of Spring. How appropriate that was. I thought that his coverage of hormones was enlightening, but this was downright frightening. It is one thing for the biochemistry of one's own body to influence one's sex drive, but to think that another's biochemistry could activate one's desire to copulate, without even knowing the reason, was earthshaking.
He spoke of moths and other lowly creatures knowing where to find a mate by olfactory stimulation from pheromones emanating from the body of another of its own species - even if miles apart; that humans were similarly affected seemed otherworldly.
To think that some wafting scent from one's body could play upon the will of another gives one reason to pause. It could actually cause one to become infatuated, if not in love, with someone of whom one otherwise might not have given a second thought. Love at first sight could easily be called love at first smell. A handsome man may marry a homely woman because her natural scent fires his loins, and vice versa. A married man may wish to stray because some primitive part of his brain was stimulated to desire by pheromones given off by some passing stranger. He can not help himself from the animal attraction, but, in most cases, social mores check his animal self. In some of these cases, when conditions allow, masturbation is a method of deactivating what could otherwise compromise a marriage. In other cases, they whimper and take flight; while others, the weak, succumb to that otherwise imperceptible biochemical signal by wooing and doing.
There is no association of pheromones with most perfumes other than they can elicit stimulation of the libido. Perfumes mask pheromones and are more associative in that a fragrance can evoke memories of another time. As an example of this, one only has to catch a whiff of the fragrance worn by one's grandmother as she kissed one as a child to be overcome by a feeling of love and contentment as that moment is replayed in your mind years later when smelling that same scent.
I get an erection from the scent of Old Spice; I associate it with the first time I had a blow job from a man. He was sixty and I was seven; he, the grandfather of my best friend, caught me off guard when, on a hot afternoon when I was scantily dressed, I knocked on his door to see whether or not his grandson could come out and play. He told me that his grandson was due any minute and that I was welcome to wait for him. He invited me inside and offered me a tall glass of ice water. As he gave me the water, he "accidentally" spilled some of it on my lap. He took a towel and proceeded to blot my lap. He told me that he could dry it better, if I removed my pants. I did. He only dropped them to the floor and blotted my crotch with the towel. He then dropped the towel to the floor and commenced fondling my tiny wee-wee. I giggled and pushed his hand away. He took both of my arms in one of his massive hands and restrained them as he continued. His fondling achieved the desired effect as my diminutive peter sprang to life. My objections were replaced with docility and I was suddenly enthralled by the pleasure of it all. There was an innate pulsing of my pelvis in response to his manipulations; I was fucking his fingers. He picked me up and raised me into the air to where my groin was even with his face and he licked me there. His warm tongue lapped at my scrotum and flicked the underside of my engorged boyhood. While doing this, he sat himself down on an armchair with me facing him on his knees. He pushed my torso back to where my head was cradled by his feet. He took my entire boyhood into his mouth and held it there while his tongue danced over the surface.
I was in heaven and wanted nothing more than to stay there. After several minutes the sensation was overwhelming and I felt that I needed to pee. I grunted as I tried to right myself and told the old man of my urgent need. He told me to relax because I was not going to pee, and continued sucking. He started humming and the minute vibrations stoked the fire within me. My whole body shuddered as I felt my first orgasm. I had no idea of what had happened other than it was wonderful; he smelled of Old Spice, and, therefore, Old Spice was wonderful.
I'd never been under the influence of drugs, but knew of them, and I knew that there could be no competition between drugs and what had just happened.
That was my only experience with the old man. It was not for lack of desire, for I did want a repeat performance. It was the old man's unlucky choice to run naked onto the soccer pitch of an all boys school; trying to catch one of the boys for his pleasure. He was sent to an insane asylum and was destined to spend out his days in a padded cell, for he was stark raving mad.
For me, the scent of musk perfume is also cause for sensory overload; it was the fragrance chosen by Maggie Fenwick on the night of the prom. As we danced a slow dance with her head on my shoulder and her hand down my pants fondling my balls, I could not help but to become sexually aroused. We danced to the side of the room and exited to the parking lot, where our dance ended in coitus in the back seat of a '59 Ford. I had no emotional feelings for Maggie Fenwick; the process was satisfactory, but, to me, it was on the level of masturbation with an apparatus - a hot, moist, slithery apparatus - but no more than that. I guess that is why I only get a chubby from musk and not a full-on erection.
I think it was George Burns who said that there were so many floral and fruity perfumes being worn by women that he could not pass a florist shop or fruit stand without getting an erection. That, if true, is an associative response to olfactory stimulation. Our modern society drenches itself with fragrant soaps in daily baths, sprays the underarm (a prime generation center for pheromones) with masking fragrances, and wash clothing of any trace of our natural scents and replaces them with scents of ocean breezes or springtime gardens.
Pheromones work on our primitive selves -- developed from our primal instincts to discern friend from foe, or prey from predator. The pheromones emitted from females when their reproductive cycles are prime for copulation are the strongest in nature. Just as a bitch in heat will attract every cur in the neighborhood, a nubile girl will attract boys seeking her favor.
The professor told of a rather plain fellow who seemed to have the favor of all of the ladies at a dance. Later, when asked by a friend about his secret to success with the ladies, he confided that he folded his handkerchief and placed it in his armpit during his labors. He would then let it air-dry and used it to blot the sweat from his dance partner's brows and cheeks. If they inhaled, they were putty in his hands.
This tidbit caused me to think of ways for me to have my way with some of the football team. I was the equipment manager and I constantly wanted to manage the players' "equipment" -- nudge, nudge, know what I mean?
Up to this point, I had only dreamed of "playing" with the team and had scrupulously avoided showing my penchant for penis. It was the safest thing to do. I seemed as straight arrow as they come, but, secretly, I wanted those straight arrows to cum . . . in my mouth.
I solicited the help from a female friend and told her that I need help with an assignment for Biochemistry. I asked her to bathe with unscented soap on the day brfore of her next menses and to avoid anything perfumed on or around her armpits. I gave her an undershirt of mine and told her to wear it for a whole day and night, not to wash it, or otherwise remove her sweat. She obliged.
We had an away game which required an all-night bus trip on the following Friday night. I was prepared for my experiment. As always, I took a seat on the back of the bus. As always, the coach admonished the team that they needed to rest, if we wanted to beat the opposition. The front seats were spacious recliners and were reserved to the starting line -- the pampered, if you will. I was seated on the aisle next to Number 27; a brute of a tackle who wore one of our largest cups. I had to special order one for him, so I knew how big he was.
He paid little attention to me as he settled down listening to his iPad, as were most of the team. All was quite as all of the lights were turned off, one by one. No. 27's eyes were closed and his head was tilting towards me. I leaned ever so slightly until our shoulders were almost touching. I had anticipated that he might take an interest in me by starting a conversation or becoming unusually friendly. Nothing! I had failed.
After I heard him snoring, I, too, went to sleep. The bus came to a stop at an intersection and the sound of the airbrakes woke me. It took a moment to realize that No. 27's head was on my shoulder and one of his hands was on my lap. He seemed to be dreaming as he nuzzled my shoulder. I assumed he was taking in the scent of my friend and was becoming aroused. I did not move. I did not want to alter the outcome of this experiment by shocking him to the realization that I was not his dream girl.
I felt the hand on my lap start to move and, (could it be, yes it was!) he started to fondle my crotch. With my aisle-side hand I eased my zipper down and placed his hand within my jeans. His fingers may have intended to find a vagina, but the fact that his dream girl had a dick did not slow him down. He put his strong arm across my shoulders and pulled me into an embrace as he kissed my neck. I closed my eyes and wanted to kiss him back, to feel him, and to suck him. I knew the danger; if he woke from his slumber, he might just kill me.
I reassessed the propriety of what I had orchestrated and realized that I never should have played with this fire -- at least not on the bus where I could be discovered by the whole team. Even with my likely being perceived a victim in this case. I would be kicked down the aisle and summarily tossed from the bus.
I wanted to extract No. 27's hand from my jeans and gently shove him towards the window without waking him. As I extricated myself from his embrace, his eyes opened. HIS EYES OPENED! I was in for it now.
He turned on his overhead light and looked at my face. Then he shocked me when he whispering a question. He wanted to know whether or not he had ever told me that I had beautiful eyes. He told me that he was pleased that I did not object to his advances on my person, that he had wanted to do that for a long time, and that he himself was mortified when he discovered me placing his hand in my jeans. He had no notion of doing what he did, but assumed he was just acting out a dream. I'll never tell!
I kissed him and discovered that his tongue was in proportion to the rest of him. He could deep-throat a French kiss. We fondled each other for a while and spoke of the need to be as discreet as possible, if we were to continue this madness, then each of us, in turn, went to the restroom to finish what my lady friend's pheromones had started.
We were discreet as we continued our madness. He came from a rich family in the motel business and had access to free rooms at several lodges within twenty miles of campus. Between them and those opportune times when one or the other's roommates were away for a weekend, we had many wonderful times together. I became his personal trainer and was our training ever personal! He taught me to rim. I enjoyed him rimming me but was turned off at returning the flavor (sic). I did my best but could not please him at that task. He understood my reluctance and let rimming be one sided. I could not take his entire penis into my mouth, but I did magic on what I could. He told me that he had never had a more talented mouth to work his dick and that he really loved it when I hummed the school's fight song.
I gave him a bottle of Old Spice for Christmas and I gave him a hickey on his penis for New Year's.
As the school year ended, our time together became precious as we knew that our paths were to part. I was going to California to earn my Masters and he was going to become head of his family's Canadian operations. We realized that we would likely never see each other again and resolved that we would accept that as a fact. I told him that in some cultures, when lovers were to spend time away from each other, that they would exchange items of clothing so, that, when feeling lonely, they could smell the clothing and feel the other's presence. I folded his jersey and placed it in a plastic bag. He did the same with my underwear and we parted. I don't know about what he does, but I take a hit of No. 27 every morning.
If you enjoyed this story, you may wish to read some of my other Nifty stories at:
www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/mike-and-david
www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-friends/meeting-jeff
www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/simon-and-william
www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/an-old-man-remembers
www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/beginnings/lumbago
www.nifty.org/bisexual/incest/why-i-am-as-i-am
www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/johnny-and-friends