Heaven's Scent

I went to my doctor when I started getting lower-back pain. In a nutshell, he told me it was my age, and I should get more exercise. He offered to refer me for physiotherapy, but the waiting time was likely to be forever. So I decided instead on cream cake therapy, and lunched with Pam, my very bestest old friend, and bored her with my complaint.

Pam recommended a nearby osteopathy clinic, citing their successful curing of Pam's husband's boss's brother's wife's frozen shoulder as surefire providence of their efficacy. So I went. Pam never mentioned how expensive they were.

Mr Jones-Anderson had an alphabet of letters after his name, so I assumed he would be competent. He also looked like an ageing Cary Grant, which was a sort of plus, too. After scaring me silly with X-rays and diagrams of nerve bundles squeezing through spine cavities, he suggested some remedial massage to relieve the sciatic something-or-other from the pressure of the pelvic something-else-beginning-with-o.

When one has such treatment, one is required to strip off down to one's knickers, and don a rather shapeless gown. Which is no fun, by the way. At least, not compared to trying on a Dior gown knowing you can't afford to buy it. But I digress. Flat on my front, Mr Double-Barreled soon reduced the tension in my shoulder blades and the immediate pain at the top of my right buttock. Flat on my back, Cary Grant's double also started to massage, then bend and stretch my legs. That's when the trouble started.

My husband had passed away some years earlier, and I had downsized, regrouped, survived the menopause and generally moulded a comfortable new lifestyle. I had come to convince myself that the advantages of not having a man about the house and under one's feet far outweighed the advantages of having one. And I hadn't particularly missed the sex -- it was never everything it was cracked up to be, and I was knocking on a bit in age now after all. Hence my alarm when the man with the dimple-chin massaged my left thigh.

Easing my leg upwards and pushing it towards me had caused my labia to open and secrete vaginal lubrication. I hoped to hell the wetting didn't show on my panties. But worse, I felt sure I had filled the room with my aroma, emitted as though squirted from a high-pressure aerosol can. Well, if my hard-working masseur had received a faceful of pheromones, at least he was professional enough not to show it.

I paid the bill, still entertaining the improbable fantasy of a dimpled chin pressing onto my naked vulva, and booked up a further session, as recommended.

I wasn't looking forward to the possibility of embarrassing myself again, so I was quite relieved when I was informed in reception that the star of the silver screen was unavailable, but Dr Zavadi, a qualified lady osteotherapist, would stand in. My relief was short lived. I had never had sexual leanings towards my own sex, but my treatment under Dr Z, Natalia, an attractive 40-something, had an even more dramatic effect on me than the initial session with Mr J-A. Maybe it was the eroticism of a situation even more taboo, given the moral conventions of our society, than at the initial session. Or maybe it was her close-fitting uniform. At least Natalia would have understood, with a degree of empathy one would have thought, my involuntary predicament. Or maybe she was not blessed with a sense of smell.

After the end of my course of treatment, and with my back problem much improved, I felt able to attend the dental check-up which was long overdue. I was used to dental appointments, and was comfortable with Mr Khan, the practitioner. If it was going to be a nervy occasion, it was simply for the reasons most people have about going to the dentist. However, mid-way through my examination, I was under attack again. This is impossible, I thought. My mind told me I was strapped in the torture chair of the monstrous Docteur-de-Pain, who, abetted by his beautiful, but wicked, young female assistant student nurse, was about to indulge his despicable perversions using his terrifying range of chromium instruments.

Oh no. I felt myself creaming again. "Open wide," said the evil doctor. Not your legs, Trina, I kept saying to myself. Not your legs.

Although encouraged slightly by the possibility I had invented a way of making scaling and polishing easier to endure (that procedure whereby a needle-pointed high-pitched whining scraper tool searches out exposed nerve-ends in the base and gaps of one's teeth), I was approaching my wits end regarding everyday situations making me feel randy. So I dragged Pammie out to lunch again.

"It's your hormones, dear," Pam explained authoritatively, and with minimal obfuscation by medical jargon. "You need a man. I'll send my husband round, he's not a lot of use to me these days." We chuckled. I briefly envisioned Jack... my best friend's man... trousers down, penis erect... No. Stop it... Unhooking my bra and kissing the side of my neck... No way. Definitely a no-no... His hands fondling my breasts... Trina!!

I recalled my doctor's original advice. Exercise. I took myself off to the Lake District for a few days. In Keswick, one can drop by Moot Hall in the morning for a weather forecast, and gatecrash a walking party complete with experienced volunteer guide -- a good ploy for staying safe up on the fells, especially for a single woman. This I duly did, and after swapping mobile numbers, for use in emergency, with the dependable-looking George, our affable guide for the day, off we hiked with a healthy zest for life.

I am no spring chicken, but was one of the less senior individuals in our group of a dozen or so. Hence, I was able to stride ahead and was the first to reach our objective, a crag named 'Surprise View' with a stunning vista over Derwent Water and Bassenthwaite. Guide George was not far behind me. I imagined that he was concerned I might stray too near the edge and risk plunging to oblivion below. But I was fine, standing bolt upright with chest out, breathing deeply the fresh rarefied air scented with gorse and wild rhododendron. It felt marvelous to be alive. And my weird cravings were not even on the horizon.

"Wow, what a view," I enthused.

"Even better from where I'm standing," George remarked.

George was some yards behind me, so I couldn't conceive of how his panorama was any better than mine. Stupid. It suddenly dawned on me he was making a pass -- his view had me and my posterior in it. Still full of the joys of spring, I went up to him and, giving his sensitive area a little squeeze, reprimanded him. "George... behave."

What on earth made me do that? Just a telling-off would have done. Or why not just ignore it? George was still beaming when the rest of the group arrived. I managed to avoid him and complete the day without further embarrassment, and wished good evening to everybody. Back in my room, I showered, then ummed and erred about whether to eat in my hotel or venture into town for some pub grub. A woman out on her own is always fraught with problems, so I elected for a room service meal to be sent up. Just as I lifted the room phone, my own mobile tinkled its idiot tune.

It was George. How did he know my number? Oh yes, I had given it him. He asked me to join him for dinner at the Coach Inn, a local hostelry popular with fell walkers. I felt I owed him an apology for my ott reaction to his harmless remark up at Surprise View, and the Coach had a super log fire. So I accepted, slapped on a bit of make-up, threw on a scarf and set off for the rendezvous.

George turned out to be a darling -- kind, charming and knowledgeable. Apparently he too had lost his spouse some years earlier. The morning's incident was forgotten and we wined and dined, and wined a bit more. We seemed to hit it off really well. He impressed me with his wine appreciation, as men like to do, by sniffing the cork and describing the bouquet, tannins, second nose, acidity, blackcurrants and traces of rhubarb.

I teased him for making it all up as he went along. He denied it. There was a little silence. I wondered if I had offended him. I was getting a bit too used to putting my foot in it these days.

"I have an abnormally acute olfactory sense," he announced. And there is no answer to that, so I didn't offer one. "A keen sense of smell," he elucidated. "For instance, I know you have changed your perfume since this morning."

I thought for a second. Well... true, but women often do... but he continued. "Earlier on, you wore Eau de Cologne, a supermarket one if you will forgive me, but the excessive orange of the citrus oils and the overpowering lavender was a giveaway. Boots probably. This evening, there are top notes of gardenia, with a base crying sandalwood and cinnamon. I would be very surprised if it isn't Ma Griffe, and it suits you perfectly. In fact, may I say you smell divine."

I was gob-smacked. It was as if he had ransacked my toilet bag. I felt as if I had just been undressed. Exposed to the world. Naked without a secret. My mouth must have hung open like a dolphin waiting to be thrown a fish. And omg... I felt a damp patch.

We kissed goodnight and I hurried to the sanctuary of my room. Minutes later, there was a knock on the door. "Come in, George," I said, powerless to avert the inevitable.

"Here, you left your scarf at the pub."

Playing for time, I blurted "Thanks, er... how did you know my room number?" He touched his nose. I leave a trail? An uncontrollable impulse resulted in me pulling George by his coat lapels into my room, and letting the door shut itself with a satisfyingly solid clunk. Outer clothing suddenly became out of fashion.

There is no halting an express train when it is up to speed, and neither must you stop a lover who can keep you in a suspended state of arousal while he undresses you with the subtle finesse of a practised dressmaker. And suddenly I was on the bed, down to my Marks and Spencer undies - purple and white satin bra and cami knickers. (Marks and Spencer Valentines Day special!). I felt an obligation to reciprocate any foreplay, so aware of his particular peccadillo, I slipped off my panties and draped them over his face. His euphoric reaction convinced me I at last had done something right.

Following my shapely posterior round the Cumbrian fells had given George the overwhelming urge to rectify the supply problem of due care and attention to that particular anatomical feature, hence the ensuing massage of my bottom cheeks, and the gentle stroking of the soft and silky smooth insides of my thighs. Then, he expertly turned me so his strong hands could cup my boobs, and he could gently kiss the side of my neck below the ear - where a girl is most likely to dab alluring perfume. At the point in time when his thumbs began to massage my nipples, I willingly surrendered the rest of my body. If I'd had a white flag, I would have waved it.

George surely suffered odour-overload while his mouth kissed my labia and his curled tongue worked magic beneath my clitoral hood - I must have been secreting like a kitchen juicer. The area up from my g-spot started going into spasm and I experienced my first climax for years. George needed practically no assistance to attain his own, I am happy to say.

Later, as we lay naked in each other's arms, George spoke. "Trina."

"Uh huh?" I responded, sleepily. Well, it had been a tiring day.

"Marry me."

"Get real," I said.