34. Resonance of Scent
When we got to her sanctum, Elizabeth Amber was robed in white linen as of a high priestess in an olden court. She had in one hand a kitchen knife, and the other an orange. Two Village Idiots in meditative states flanked her. To my surprise, a crowd gathered at her presence. And as if we were patrons of a cinema, popcorn and junk food were being sold at a corner. The fuck fest was about to begin; but not in the way any of us imagined. We took our seats, and she sliced the fruit. An aroma emanated, and an acidic vapour brought tears to our eyes. We became blind. In darkness, a tune danced across our ears, made up of timbres and instruments never before heard; a haunting pipe sound caught my attention, neither natural nor electronic. Then Amber’s voice drifted across the music, and she said hypnotically, “Prepare yourself for the sound of silence, for the resonance of scent. Choose for yourself a pong or a fragrance; be a nose and experience hot, spicy sexual excitement calming the coitus.” Her voice, together with melody and rhythm, faded off, and it was blackness once again. But odd, for even in the dark, when the song played, and when she spoke, light and rainbow contrasted the night as though they were belly-dancing shadows.
Now, in the enormous empty, without sight and sound, came fleeting in my remaining senses an armada of smells - chocolate, vanilla, strawberry to name a few; cinnamon, banana, toffee marching like infantry to battle; a cavalry of cheeses commanded my nostrils. I was hungry, and knew intercourse had begun.
In overpowering ecstasy baking in an oven, I was no more a being, but mere spirit. A psyche stripped of all faculties except for the acute ability to whiff out the tiniest tang. I joined to the kitchen odours, sweet and salty, pungent, yet pleasurably mild. A banquet was in the midst of preparation, a bouquet of strange herbs and spices; and the Mistress Chef, along with her Sous, was cooking up dinner by manner of meshing up flavours till heavenly dishes were concocted; one after the other, waves and waves of orgasm, a perpetual climax, a Venus Butterfly of tastes; international cuisine, many I recognize, others I don’t. Indian curry-powder, fried onion and garlic, prawn paste, barbeque sauce, tomato puree, all brought up to a simmering heat that zesty essences may be released onto meats marinated. Then served as proud pieces of art, garnished by fresh mint and other condiments; tongues lolled round succulent chunks to absorb juices, flavours melt out in the mouth, savoured by saliva; a mild shiver trembles through the spirit-body, a fluttering of the invisible eyelids, a final surge of euphoria, a satisfied diner and, a satiated lover…