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 I stood in front of the painfully cute counter girl at Macy's, trying not to be obvious about the impulsive wiping of microscopic, star-spangled flakes of freshly sniffed cocaine from my nose. Forced to enter this hell just because I'm out of cologne, which I hardly wear anyway, I tried to interact with Stacy, my very own personal (but temporary) olfactory assistant. "What do you usually wear?" she asked. "I used to wear Obsession... " I mumbled. What I didn't tell her was that my identification with Calvin's cologne was focused on my last fling, Leila. Leila. Ack, that name. Not a bad girl, but I had made the insipid mistake of giving her an organ higher than the waist. You know the hairs that assemble along a row of stitches in your skin? Well, I was still covered in 'em. "Well, I guess I should be grateful to her," I thought, summoning up the better angels of my nature. She was a phenomenal fuck, could suck the rust off a Modesto trailer hitch. And to be fair, she had no intention of wiping her ass with my good intentions. It just kinda worked out that way. I remembered my long-seeded infatuation with the pixie-haired bisexual, the drunken, marathon consummation of those mutual feelings, our brief, intermittent but intense sexual episodes and the subsequent distance on her part. Yes, I was definitely the bitch in that relationship. (Never again.)  I flashed back to the last time I'd seen Leila. It was at a party she threw at her gay roommate's parents' house in Rolling Hills. Pretty swank. I got there early and was expectedly ignored by my intermittent liaison.See, ironically enough, I had hoped we could remain normal friends despite the sexual thing. I had failed to factor in Leila's neuroses and that I was, in her mind, a symbol of her inability to become what she truly wanted to be—a lesbian, with no ambiguity of preference. She would share this with me later, after much of the acrimony had dissipated like a bitter fog. So I promptly coaxed our host, Greg (great guy), into slipping me the ol' bottle of Jack. I told him I would just borrow it for a second, but he knew better. I slinked behind his parents' baby grand and plunked out a few maudlin chords, content with playing the alienated, drunken bespectacled artist, dressed in black, blah, blah, blah. I downed more than half of the fifth when the hostess burst into the crowded den. She made the rounds, eventually making it to my ebony perch of pickled misery. I tried to ignore her, but my will was about as sturdy as a saltine cracker dunked into a glass of Alka-Seltzer. As mentioned before, Leila wasn't evil, just self-absorbed (even more than myself). She kissed my neck playfully (odd considering the crowded room, since nobody there knew about our trysts, as per her insistence), and that's when she got the whiff. Before I started fucking Leila, I wore Drakkar, but she hated it and badgered me that only homos wore Drakkar (the irony!). I had finally broke down and bought a little bottle of Obsession, her preference.  Like most guys I had probably put on too much, but in her drunken state it still did the trick. She buried her face into my neck and drank in the scent. Her mouth crept up to mine, and she plunged her tongue into my gob like a fleshy depressor. Dazed, I reciprocated.The Buddhist in me prevented me from begrudging her freaky behavior, and the masochist in me almost obliged it. Though Leila was much smaller than I was, she physically coerced me into the downstairs bedroom. There, in the still, cool dark, she gracelessly pulled me down by my belt down on the four-post bed and rubbed her small, lithe form against me. She never acted like this before, and especially in front of our friends, who had no clue about the fucking that had gone on between us. Damn, I thought, she must really like this cologne. "I guess you noticed my stench," I sputtered, trying to inject the situation with a little bit of levity. Leila had the tendency to be a bit melodramatic. "See?" She took her teeth off of my ear lobe for a second and breathed heavily on my face, the scent tainted with Absolut. "I told you..." As ferociously horny as I was, I was acutely aware of the weirdness of the situation. She pulled off her top, her small, pert tits (Leila never wore a bra) mashing onto my own chest. The door wasn't even closed all the way, and I could almost feel the prying eyes of others. If I hadn't been so freaked out about her neurotic bullshit, this would have been an unbelievable turn-on. But with her short, blunt fingers gripping my pants zipper and her warm, drunken breath on the bulge restrained within, I did something really odd (for me, at least). I got up. "C'mon," Leila purred. "What do you want from me?" I asked, without a trace of my usual humor. The tone was unintentionally confrontational. Honestly, I really didn't know.  "Fuck me," she breathed. "I want you to fuck me. Right here. They can all watch if they want."Yeah, well I didn't. Worse than that ... I couldn't. I knew she was playing some kind of game, and for once I felt like I had some kind of leverage. Just because of that stupid Obsession. I figured that was my last chance to end our fucking relationship (literally) on my own terms. So I left her there on the bed, all wet and half-naked (and very pissed off). I yoinked the Jack and barreled down Portuguese Bend in the old Dodge Dart at 2:30 a.m., blaring Morrison Hotel or some shit. And I never looked back. "Do you ever wear Obsession anymore?" the sales girl asked, clearly disturbed at my private, stoned amble down Memory Lane. "Nah, not after my last girlfriend," I quipped. "I can't be held responsible for the female reaction when I do, and that's too much weight for these shoulders." We both had a good laugh at that one.
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