The Smell of Kink: Lust and Adrenaline by Justice Haze

It’s not the same as the smell of sex. Although if you’re VERY lucky, that scent might be part of it.

Maybe you’ve heard “your kink is not my kink”—fine, all well and good. Your kink doesn’t smell like my kink, either, I’m sure. But if we like the smell of each others’ kink, like affable dogs we might play well together.

Scientists say scent is the most evocative of all the senses. I see no point in arguing with them. If I were to think about the things I find alluring, rewarding, exciting, and motivating, and their associated sensory inputs, I could list the cracking of whips, the stroking of silk, the tangy taste of coppery perspiration on skin, the striking sight of sleek blood against matte skin—but none of these is as subtle and powerful as scent.

The smell of my kink is a complex perfume.  The leather note alone carries its own symphony: new, butter-soft leather garments along with old, well-worn whips and an ancient rawhide sjambok. Then, the faintest residue of soap, perhaps a lotion, and overtones of cologne or smoke, whiskey or wine. Next, the warm scents of life, netted by the hair, caught in the breath, trapped against the body … The scent of my kink is expectation and desperation, agony and ecstasy, hope and fear and longing. Lust and adrenaline have a scent. I know so. I cultivate it. I wear it.

While I lust after the smell of my own kink, I also take pleasure in mixing it up from time to time. The best recipes are flexible, adaptable, living. You’ll note that in addition to being adept with the whip, I’m also masterful at baking. Some scents play well with mine. Anything herbaceous works particularly nicely. Think ginger, nettles, pine, peppers. And when the scent of kink gives way in your mind to the sound of kink, ask yourself: Have you screamed for me lately?

Talk soon.

Exes and Ohs—Justice