A hairy eyebrow tale

Once, some time ago, I had a lover who was mad about my eyebrows. He kissed and caressed them and made them very wet. So much attention he spent on my eyebrows I sometimes thought he didn’t even notice me. I decided to tell him the truth.

My eyebrows, I told him, have a certain amount of independence from me. They are really hairy slugs that have decided to live above my eyes. I leave them there as they help protect my eyes from rain. They are very polite often help me communicate with others when my words fail me, as is frequently the case.

However, very late in the evening of a full moon my eyebrows like to go for a stroll. They wriggle off my face and sneak into the dark night. Across the roads and fields they hurry, and into the woods, where they slither and slime across the muddy pathways and make acrobatic love to other hairy slugs (for I’m not the only person whose eyebrows are not what they seem).

At the break of dawn my eyebrows wake from their post coital slumber and make the difficult way back home to their position above my eyes. I stroke them softly and pretend I hadn’t noticed their absence. Those mornings they always sulk and frown, no matter how happy I am, my eyebrows will keep me looking miserable. I sometimes wish they could talk to me about their night, but I also know it best not to ask too many questions. No human can ever know the entire truth about these beasts.

All this, I tell my lover, only lasts one night and one day and the rest of the time I live with them happily on my face like normal eyebrows. At first, I tell him, I was slightly jealous of the attention he was giving them, but I have now come to appreciate that someone else might love them as much I do, and that’s OK.

My lover never went near my eyebrows again.

The smell of love…

NO I’m not talking about that odd smell after sex, curious though it may be, on this valentines day I’m talking about love, strange love, and pheromones . All love slaves pay carefull attention. Not that you can change how your body smells I don’t suppose but it might explain certain unsuspected reactions.

If you asked me which sense I would get rid of if I had to get rid of one, I would probably say my sense of smell, since as an illustrator sight is rather vital, and being in a band tends to involve being able to hear. However, as the years go by, I am beginning to realise how important smell is to me.

When I was younger I went for good looking people, with somewhat disasterous results, then nice people, then charming people, then musical people, then those with a good sense of humour, now I’m thinking maybe it’s just smell that’s important. And I don’t mean pretty smell, or aftershave or any such disguises, I mean the smell of you. Animal smell. I stink, so I’ve been told by previous lovers, but they seem to quite like it, or at least they’re very tolerant.

Why do we cover ourselves in the musk scent of the male deer but are ashamed of our own smell?

I suppose one might be very fussy about smell. I’ve gone out with people whose smell I don’t like much with the thought that eventually I will get used to it and grow to like it. Very occasionally this has happened but more likely I just get bitter that I have to share my bed with an undesirable smell.

Kissing, so some scientists say, comes from smelling the hands and faces of others. In humans these carry a lot of scent apparently. So now I blow super stinky kisses across the digital waves to you and go get into the bath, wash away those smells for my valentines date.

Xx

An old price t I did for erotica review many  many moons ago.

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