Mysteries, thrillls and chills . . . one story at a time.
Daily Prompt: Write about your strongest memory of heart-pounding, belly-twisting nervousness: what caused the adrenaline? Was it justified? How did you respond?
Crushes make me stupid.
There is no other way to say it. I like to think of myself ordinarily as a fairly intelligent individual, or at the least, I fake it like an educated one; however, when hormones and pheromones get knotted up and twisted around in my nervous system then you might as well just call it Christmas.
Enter my latest infatuation.
It had nothing to do with his looks, although he was (is) undeniably gorgeous – six feet, solidly built, dreamy bedroom eyes . . . a killer smile. No, he was . . . IS. . . . fine but I run across attractive gentlemen every day and they barely register. But the thing is, and this may sound kinda weird, but I have a strongly developed sense of smell. Before I saw his face or admired his form, I smelled him.
There was no aftershave or cologne, and now that I know him a bit better, I would even say, it probably wasn’t even his deodorant (he prefers un-scented). No, I got caught up in the pure, earthy, sexy essence of the man.
(See? Y’all are already thinking I’m stupid, but let me explain.)
We were introduced. I extended my hand and as he squeezed mine in greeting, the wind current must’ve changed or something because that’s when I caught his scent. My heart stopped then slammed into my chest, my face grew hot, butterflies took up the meringue in my belly and it seemed as if my tongue grew thicker and longer because at the moment when social etiquette demanded that I give my name, I could do nothing more than stare at him with, I swear, had to have been the goofiest smile ever. After a moment, when I didn’t (couldn’t) respond, he released my hand and spoke to the other members of our party.
I would like to be able to tell you that I eventually calmed down but unfortunately, every time I ran into him over the next few weeks, either I lost complete ability to speak or I stuttered and tripped over my tongue so bad that he probably wanted to give me the name of a decent Speech Therapist.
So, did I ever regain my dignity?
Yes. Well, sorta. I tripped over my feet and twisted my ankle. He was walking by and I got distracted, aight? Anyway, he helped me to a chair, kneeled down before me, slipped my sandal off my feet and then caressed, err, examined my ankle for injury. Once he seemed satisfied that there was no lasting damage, still holding my foot between his warm, big hands, he looked into my eyes and smiled.