scent of sun, sex and sirenuse
the domestic minx
4 Comments
It was all in the bottle.
The rampant tumble of bougainvillea spilling over whitewashed walls, the jewelled flash of majolica embracing basilica, vertically twisting cobblestoned alleys leading to the surprise of turquoise waters peeping over low stone walls, the waft of lemons growing luxuriantly between naively painted houses, collectively teetering like a multi faceted jewel towards the sea, the seductive glimpse of sirenuse forever luring and enticing.
Positano was balmy, beautiful and bejewelled.
It was an anniversary spent wrapped in each others arms like the pair of lovesick teenagers we once were, enjoying a lingering affair with the Amalfi Coast, our days spent soaked in her juices, lapping at her beauty and legends with an intoxicated fascination. We spent our days stumbling down narrow twisting cobblestoned streets drunk on Nastro Azzurro, limoncello, Lachryma Christi and visions of mermaids.
So when the call, indeed the nectar, of the sirens lured us into Carthusia on the isle of Capri and I discovered the perfumed embodiment of La Sirena Ligea, one of the three mermaids who tried in vain to bewitch Ulysses, I was hooked.
It was at once fresh with the scent of mandarins and rose, sweet but a little spicy, softening down to something subtly carnal and sinful, like the sweet smell of skin after sex. It was beautiful. It was my birthday. Ligea was mine and I was Ligea.
I wore it every day for the rest of our holiday. It clung to me like bougainvillea, filled my head with delusions of sirenuse and intoxicated my man like limoncello.
It's sweet seductive deliciousness became synonymous with sunshine, sirens of the sea and sex.
It has, since then, become my signature scent, embodying all that I love and believe about myself, filling my head with delicious delusions when life is not quite the decadent adventure it should be. As it slowly dwindled in the bottle I clung to it passionately, dabbing it reverently on my skin as an ambrosial reminder of past joys.
There was a waft of it this morning that hung in the air like the sweet promise of a balmy day, transporting me through time as it filled my nostrils.
It was so delectably strong that I could hardly believe I wasn't back in Positano on our balcony, sipping a glass of wine and gazing out beyond the bougainvillea to the basilica.
But no, I was standing in my nightie, holding a cup of coffee, my face contorted in horror at the unspeakable sight that was my lingerie drawer.
What little Ligea there was left had, with one inadvertent knock and one thoughtless rescrewing of the lid, spilled with such careless abandon throughout my underpants that it's effect was a brutal delirium. Clutching at cotton wool balls, the frantic whimpering attempts to absorb the precious nectar and squeeze it back into it's bottle were both desperate and pitiful. And impossible.
I smell like the Amalfi Coast. My bedding smells like the Amalfi Coast. All my underpants and anything that is slightly capable of absorbing my Ligea smells like the Amalfi Coast.
It is delicious and intoxicating and deliriously reminiscent of pleasures past.
It won't last long.
I'll give it three days.
Until then I will luxuriate in the fragrant memories of la sirena.
Fortunately, though not bottled as sweetly, there is still a rather decadent quantity of sex and sunshine at my fingertips.
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Reader Comments (4)
Perhaps it's a sign that you must return to the Amalfi Coast and soon...
If only to purchase some more Ligea...
limoncello and lachryma christi, mmmm...