My wife and child regularly go the downtown public market every other weekend to buy…I don’t know…vegetables and crap like that. Whatever the poor farmers and starving artists are trying to sell you so they can continue their Oxycontin habit. It’s their thing, not mine. Outdoor markets make me nervous, probably ’cause I watch way too much TV and movies and I just think every vendor is there to screw you over and all the food is full of bugs and vermin and cyanide. It’s an unfair stereotype, but one that allows me to stay home on Sunday mornings and unload my DVR queue into my brain.
This past Sunday my wife comes home with a bag of cucumbers or carrots or gerbils….I don’t remember, and some other crap….and some incense. She likes the stuff, maybe it’s college nostalgia, I don’t know but I don’t mind it. But she tells that there was this new vendor that was selling their own home-made incense, complete with their own enticing names. I asked what she meant by that and she giggled and started reeling off some: Sex on the Beach, Manly Musk, Lady’s Desire….and….Wet Pussy.
My eyes widened. “Tell me you bought some of the Wet Pussy incense.”
“What?! No…I’m not a pervert, Rick.”
“Jesus, honey…how can you NOT want to know what that smells like?”
“Ummm…I have one. Nothing new to me. Pretty sure you smelled it too.”
“Yeah, but…don’t you want to know what the street vendor incense dealer equivalent is?”
“Rick, go down there and buy some for yourself. Buy all the Wet Pussy you want…”
My mind was racing as I walked away. Was it just a bullshit name for some standard incense that they were trying to unload…or did that vendor REALLY put in some scientific effort to recreate the smell of wet female genitals in flammable form? Where would you even begin? Did it involve fish oil? Did he conduct smell studies in a controlled environment with a panel of volunteers?
“Would you say this smells like spiced tuna….or…..wet pussy?”
Jesus, how could I get on a panel like that? And if he did truly perfect it. Jesus, could you legally sell that? That’s aromatic sex. Being sold out in the street. If I lit a few by the window, would I suddenly have a group of 15-year-old boys biking around my house like zombies, riding back and forth, craning their necks to see in my window? Would they even know why they were drawn to the house?
“Going where?” my wife yelled back from upstairs.
“I have to see this for myself!” I have to smell this for myself.
“See wha-….are you really going to buy that trashy incense? Seriously?”
No point in lying. “Yes. Yes I am.”
Silence from upstairs for a moment then “Well can you get some apples too, please?”
“Sex and apples…yep!” And I was off.
As I approached the vendor, my palms were actually sweaty. My stomach was in knots. I avoided eye contact with everyone. Holy shit, it was like I was going to pick up a hooker for the first time. I waded through the crowds of people gawking at squash and radishes and stood in front of the aromatic sex den.
It was a wooden board on top of some cement bricks. Bags of incense were arranged across the board with their names written in marker next to them. My god, it was so perverted.
“Anything you’re looking for?” the guy says. He was middle-aged, slight beard. A little paunchy with jeans and a Screaming Trees t-shirt. What a fucking sexual deviant. I could only imagine the disgusting thoughts that must be oozing through his sick head at that very moment. DEPRAVED no doubt!
I started looking through the name tags: Cherry Blossom, Night Shade, Purple Haze…
Fuck…where’s the perverted stuff?….you twisted, sexual criminal.
Then: Sex on the Beach, Scent of a Woman, Belly Dancer, Wet Pussy…
I let out a slight gasp. Shit, he probably heard me. Shit. I should go…NO! I’m in control here. I’m the customer. I quickly glanced around for any sign of five-oh, then I grabbed a package of the Wet Pussy and started pulling out my wallet.
“Good stuff, man.”
“HUH!?! WHAT!?” I blurted.
“That stuff…good scent. You’ll dig it,” he said.
“You a cop?” I asked.
“…a cop? No. You gonna buy that?”
“Look, Dahmer, I’m not looking for conversation! How much?”
“You make me sick.”
“…sniff….Yeah, still $3.50.”
I handed him 4 bucks. “Keep the change, perv,” and I jogged back to my truck like a 12-year-old with his first skin mag. I hopped in and quickly brought the bag up to my face and opened it. Here we go. My hands were shaking. oh shit oh shit oh shit. I sniffed.
“Oh fuck….FUCK!” I started gagging. It was like a pound of paprika just invaded my nostrils. I started blowing my nose all over my lap and gagging up snot. My eyes teared up.
“Not wet pussy….NOT wet pussy..”
It burned like fucking hell fire! Like…like…
I tossed the bag out of my window and took off for home, drips of snot still dribbling down my face. When I got home and walked in the door, my wife took one look at me and laughed.
“How was the pussy?”
I wiped my eyes. “Bitch burned me,” and I went up to the bathroom to take a long, long shower.