The Scent of Norma
Some of the courses one is required to take in college are absolutely
unreal! Sociology is one of them. Sitting and trying to feign attentiveness
while listening to some professor pedantically drone on about “Modes of
Alienation” is surely beyond the threshold of endurance. As such, thoughts and
eyes tend to wander to more stimulating subjects. My preoccupation in
Sociology II was Norma.
I had met Norma through a mutual friend at the beginning of the semester.
When we discovered that we both had the same class, we naturally gravitated
towards each other’s familiar territory, sitting side-by-side in the same row.
Norma was slim and leggy; her short hair was of a nondescript brownish hue.
Her unencumbered breasts were small and she had a compact little tush which was
invariably ensconced in tight-fitting, faded jeans. She wore no make-up and I
never saw her in a dress or skirt. Often, she’d sport a purple scarf about her
head, effectively framing her face in a manner quite pleasing. Perhaps her most
striking physical attribute was her hands, pale and long-fingered, with
shortly-cropped nails. She probably could have been a marvelous keyboard
virtuoso. The whole demeanor of her gazelle-like being was decidedly hoydenish;
sort of a willowy Jamie Lee Curtis type if quantification was necessary.
Of singular interest to me was the fact that she never used perfume of any
sort. Yet sitting beside Norma, especially on a dank, humid day, I’d perceive a
decided redolence about her. How could this be described? Musky? No, musty
might possibly be more accurate. The closest I could compare Norma’s olfactory
aura to would be that of jonquils. This scent had a profound influence upon me;
throughout most of the class I’d be burdened with a massive erection. Later,
when time came for a piss-break, I noted that the end of my cock
was wet with the glaire of arousal.
Norma was definitely an unconventional sort; latter-day hippie should well
suffice to describe her. Every so often, she’d punctuate innocuous conversation
with non sequiturs such as “Damn cold makes my nipples hard!” and “Can you loan
me a dime for the tampon-machine?” Parenthetically, now that I think of it, she
never did pay back any of lo, those many dimes she borrowed.
Amongst a group, she tended to be rather reticent and introspective,
electing to keep her own counsel. It was only when we were alone, and others
had departed a lunch-table discussion, that she’d whisper an opinion on the
topic(s) of discourse: usually a sotto “My ass!” or drawn-out “Bulllllshiiiit!”
delivered disdainfully from the side of her mouth.
Despite the fact that Norma (or was it just her scent?) was a constant
source of distraction for me, I never made any moves to get intimate with her.
I liked things just as they were; Norma was a friend, a pal. Perhaps
subliminally I was a bit intimidated by Norma. Her inherent assertiveness
frustrated any overtures, sexual or otherwise. She was also five inches taller
than me.
It was just before Christmas vacation that Norma acted out of character. It
was the first time I had ever seen her wear a skirt, a full pleated affair in
some vaguely familiar tartan. At the end of Sociology II, as we stood up,
gathering our books, she quite casually said: “Well, what the hell, have a
happy holiday,” and planted a kiss full on my lips. For the briefest of
microseconds, I felt the tip of her tongue caress my mouth. With perfect
aplomb, she tossed a coat about her shoulders and left the classroom.
Needless to say, I could hardly keep my mind on the Coriolis Effect which
was being deliberated upon in my next Oceanography class. My thoughts were all
of Norma, that free-spirited, insouciant Lady of The Jonquils.
When the lecture was finally over and I made my way to the parking lot, I
spied Norma, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette. She smiled at me.
“Miriam couldn’t give me a lift home. How about giving me one?” We walked
silently together to my old Subaru, the redoubtable “Silver Wraith.” The air
was still and dry; the sky a transparent grey, so characteristic of cheek-
reddening New England winters.
Norma lived quite far from school, in a part of town I was unfamiliar with.
Getting to her home was exasperating; she appeared to have an almost dyslexic
concept of right and left. As we drove, I learned that her roommate Miriam had
left for a holiday visit with her parents in Bangor.
We ultimately pulled up to an old building which had as a facade an
interesting tracery of ironwork. As she kneeled over the back of her seat,
scrambling for her books, she offhandedly asked: “Care to come up and have some
hot chocolate? It’s good stuff. Comes from Holland. A real Dutch Treat.”
“Sure” I answered, and followed her to the door. As she walked up the
stairs before me, my gaze was fixed on the creases behind her kneecaps which
opened and closed with each step.
Her apartment was (how can one put it tactfully?) a mess. An eclectic
mixture of reprocessed Victoriana, Japanese boutique, and neo-Haight-Ashbury.
“Hey Tweezer!” she yelled out to a battered birdcage, large enough to
comfortably house an albatross. In it chirped a finch of some nondescript sort,
while the cage bottom was covered with sheets of newspaper printed in Cyrillic.
“Make yourself comfortable while I heat up the chocolate” Norma directed as
she disappeared into the kitchen. There wasn’t much room to sit down anywhere
except on a large threadbare sofa, which I doubt had ever seen better days.
Piled haphazardly on the chairs were books of all sorts, with titles like: “The
Works of Virgil Finlay,” “The Kalmyk Mongols,” “Les Fleurs du Mal,” “Sundials,”
“Memoirs of a Tattoist,” etc. In all, a most diverse assortment of interests.
When Norma returned from the kitchen, I noticed that she had changed her
clothes. She was again wearing her accustomed jeans and a black tank-top. I had
never before seen her bare arms. I was mildly shocked to note that her
underarms were unshaven; adorned with sparse wisps of silky auburn down. She
was also barefoot. Her feet were tiny and well-formed, without any of the usual
calluses heels inflict on a woman. She looked adorable; women are so sylph-like
when barefoot.
She carried a large stoneware mug in each hand, steaming with the frothy,
fragrant chocolate. Handing me one, she announced: “Music we need,” and walked
over to a cassette player. I expected something weird, but was surprised to
hear the strains of bossa-nova and the voice of Astrud Gilberto.
As we sat, we drank the chocolate and smoked, a kindred vice which somehow
branded us as being of like kidney. Our conversation consisted of the usual
mundacities: school, friends, relations, etc. I found myself becoming warmer,
doubtless because of the beverage and the fact that she kept the flat at a
temperature amenable to her finch. Rivulets of sweat coursed down my sides from
my armpits. I wondered if she detected the rutting-odor of my arousal.
…End of the part1. To be continued..
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