Heads up, this one gets a little porny.
Last week, I went on a date with one of those people whose pheromones just light up my brain. Science isn't even certain about the existence or effectiveness of pheromones in humans, but I don't have a better explanation for why some people's scent gets me all tingly and blushy, whether or not they're wearing cologne/perfume and whether they've just showered or just had sweaty, athletic sex with me.
Anyway. We had a lot of fun on our date. We talked for hours over 3 drinks (I know I'm really enjoying talking to someone if I find myself ordering more and more things just because I don't want to leave yet!). We went back to my place and kissed in my bed as I laid on top of him, grinding my whole body against his, savoring the sensuality of a great makeout. Then he stripped down and I gave him a slow, sensuous blowjob while he gripped my hair at the roots, guiding my head in an insistent rhythm that got me giddy and subspacey.
After, we cuddled for a while until he had to leave – after which I pressed my face into the bed where he'd just been lying and inhaled deeply, engaging in one of my most treasured and time-honored post-date rituals. I hadn't gotten off during our hookup (by choice – he would've been more than happy to help me out if I'd wanted that), so my desire and arousal were cranked way up, and his pheromones hit me like a drug. I brought myself to orgasm with a wand vibe and then lay there, sated and blissed out, traces still hanging in the air of the man I'd been thinking about.
The sweet, woodsy scent lingered into the next morning, and its impact on me was such that I had to jerk off again soon after waking, thinking about his lips, his hands, his cock. I felt like I was 23 again, a horny monster, an unabashed perv.
I could've texted him about it. "My sheets still smell like you and I touched myself to the memory of you coming down my throat." Most men would be thrilled to receive a message like this, I imagine. But I played it cool (comparatively) and texted, "The way you touched me last night really turned me on. I'm still thinking about it." It was an understatement, and I knew that because, the moment I hit send, I once again pushed my face into the pillow where his head had lain and felt my cunt throb as I breathed in.
It's a very good sign if I find myself jerking off to the memory of a date in the hours or days after it ends. It doesn't usually happen. I have been on a lot of dates that seemed good on paper, and sometimes even ended in good sex, but did not leave me feeling like a feral deviant for days. Someone being an engaging conversationalist and a competent fuck doesn't guarantee I'll want to mainline their pheromones and touch myself wishing my hand was theirs. I get along decently with a lot of people, but it's actually quite rare that I feel a furnace-level lust for anyone, the kind that makes me want them to fuck my face and throw me around and make me scream.
It felt good to experience that again outside of my marriage (I felt this way about my spouse from the jump, which is one of the many reasons I married them). It reminded me that I can still be a primally sexual being, under all those layers of anxiety and pain and trauma and fatigue. To use a cliché so well-worn as to be criminal: it made me feel alive.
This is why I've always found it funny when guys complain about women stealing their hoodies (or whatever). True, no one should be non-consensually stealing anyone else's clothes – but if I ever asked a beau if I could keep their T-shirt, it would be because I wanted to huff it while thinking about them fucking me into oblivion. They might consider one measly shirt worth parting with, if they knew it'd enable me to think about them in unholy ways for days to come.