Smoking pussy and spritzed pits

 

Amid the formal greetings and friendly small talk, the old woman prepared bakhoor. She brought the smoking pot to me; we shared a friendly smile as I took it from her hands.

Oh, cool! This is like a Native American passing of the peace pipe, I thought to myself, as I took the urn and scooped up clouds of sandalwood smoke, sweeping them over my body with a circular motion.bakhoor

A click of her tongue inside her cheek told me that the young woman beside me would soon correct my behavior. We too smiled politely at one another as she took the smoking vessel from me and gestured for me to stand. She tugged at the bottom of my Abaya; I hitched it up. She placed the jar of incense on the floor. I understood. I stepped over the smoke and dropped the hem of my Abaya over it like a cap.

Keep in mind, that at my age, I already suffer from unexpected waves of heat that charge through hollows in my bones and rise up from deep, down, under my skin, engulfing me in an extraordinary sweat. So capturing the rolling plumbs of hot smoke under my clothes did not seem like a good idea. Nonetheless, there I was: an inferno of thick, roasting smoke snaking up my legs, rolling around turbulently under the gown of my Abaya. I wondered how long before my pussy would turn to ash.

Just when I saw the smoke begin to billow from the pores in my Abaya, the young woman nodded, indicating that I’d had enough. Indeed, I had. Apparently the old woman felt I needed more as picked up a basket full of spray perfumes that sat on the table between the bananas and a bowl of bright, red pomegranates. She chose one, sniffed at it, and put it back. She fingered and sniffed them all, and finally chose one.

Spit! Spritz! Spray! Over the side of my head and under my chin.

Spit! Spritz! Spray! She shot my heart and down my arm.

Spit! Spritz! Spray!

I felt the puff – puff tap me all over as the perfume hit my Abaya and rapped it against me. Then I felt the cold moisture as it seeped into the fabric and settled on my skin.

Spit! Spritz! Spray! She started down at my ankle – Spit! Spritz! Spray!

Up my leg and over my knee – Spit! Spritz! Spray!

Up higher on my leg and over my belly – Spit! Spritz! Spray!

She fisted my wrist, lifted my arm, and aimed directly at my armpit: Spit! Spritz! Spray!

Thus fully bathed in a mixture of Arabian floral fumes, I recalled the image of my Maw-Maw standing at an old-fashioned washbasin in our summer cottage at The Lake. Slapping a wet cloth over her shoulders, across her back, and between her legs, Maw-Maw said she was having a “spit-bath”. She would emerge with a new glow to her skin, dripping sweet-smelling streams of water from her form.

I noted the similarities in my own spit-spritz-spray “smoke-bath” today as I left the sitting room oozing musk and roses from my black-cloaked figure.

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