A Tart’s Boudoir

“It smells like a tart’s boudoir in here”.

I was in no position to argue, having had no practical experience of such a place, but I couldn’t help thinking that the simile was inappropriate.

Heather had just popped out to the bathroom after a particularly heavy session of raw sex, leaving me pretty much paralysed on the bed. When she came back into the bedroom the smell of sex just hit her like a wall, the smell of sweat and spunk and stained sheets, with an undertone of day-old massage oil. We had got so carried away that we had forgotten to reach for the fuck-towel when things got really heavy, and now I was lying in a little puddle of our own juices, unable to move.

Never having been in a tart’s boudoir, I would imagine that steps would be taken to remove or at least mask the scent of sex with previous clients, both from the locale and from the lady herself so that the tart’s boudoir of my imagination would smell of cheap perfume and cheaper air-freshener, or possibly those pungent pot-pourris that nearly suffocate you when you walk past them on a street- market, let alone in a confined space.

In our bedroom, nothing was hidden. The smell was raw and pungent and real.

Tomorrow the whole lot would be thrown in the wash; sheets, pillowcases, fuck-towel, everything. Tomorrow the windows would be thrown open to give the room an airing. Tomorrow we would shower and remove all trace of our passion, to face the new day bright and clean, but for tonight we would sleep a deep satisfied sleep on love-stained sheets, holding each other close, with our bodies still exuding the warm, intoxicating smell of sex.