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Order this writing in the collection book Unlocking the Mysteries available for only $1795 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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SYNESTHETICS
A. Frank Bower
Synesthesia. Did you happen to see ABC’s Primetime show about it? I have been living with it for forty-two years. One week after my tenth birthday, I discovered I have a condition. Google it if you want details. Odds are low to have it at all; for a man, much less. It’s a left-brain thing; no wonder I give left-handed compliments. (I’m trying to lighten it a little.)
I was in fifth grade when I celebrated that particular birthday. My teacher observed me take my lunch out of a paper bag. When I took a sandwich out of its baggie, I said to a classmate, “This is the best part.” I closed my eyes, touched my sandwich and tasted it. Most people just thought I had a bizarre sense of humor. For example, later in life, if I wanted to know what a girl was drinking, I’d lift her glass and touch the top of the fluid. I’d say, “Smells like a Seabreeze”. It was; I tasted it. Folks laughed. Ha-ha; Art’s a funny guy. Anyway, that schtick is what my teacher witnessed and asked me about. The sandwich routine, not the Seabreeze.
“Why was unwrapping your lunch the best part?” he asked.
Not knowing any better, I said, “That’s when I taste it.”
He looked me square in the eyes and saw I was not pulling his leg.
“Arthur, what about when you bite into it?”
“Well,” I hesitated, then. “I get some taste, but it’s best when I touch it.”
“Art...you do know it’s not normal, right?”
Art; that’s me. Arthur Moore. I’ve always loved the arts. I dabble in most of them. When I think of my name, I also consider the chicken-egg thing. I can’t recall a time when I did not like the smell of A Sharp, the aroma of a woman’s voice. Art Moore—what could be more appropriate? And I was born in the mid-nineteen-sixties! In that era, acid-heads saw trails; I smell them. It was impossible for me to avoid esthetics.
In the eighties, I went to college. I asked my first psychology professor about my perceptual mechanisms. He researched it and was enthusiastic about synesthesia.
When the prof told me my condition’s name, it also made sense. We discussed how my brain is wired wrong. Not that I minded; I wouldn’t have it any other way. I was glad to find out I am different. It delighted me to hear other synesthesiacs have been productive artists for about three centuries. I’m not alone in this.
I wish you could smell Beethoven’s Fifth. There is no greater symphony on Earth. Except, women’s voices. Some of them. When I touch a woman’s hair, I taste it. When she speaks, I smell it.
By now, you’re probably wondering where I’m going with all this. Be patient; I will get to the point. I’ve always believed my senses are gifts—especially when I realized how they differ from the norm. I didn’t feel I suffered from a condition. Don’t get me wrong; there have been more difficult moments in my life than I could count. The sheer joy of perception always outweighed them.
Last year I met Sari-Dawn Mongillo. It wasn’t love at first sight; it was love at first whiff. Her voice was a floral garden unto itself. No other lady ever took my breath away; the moment was new. We met at a supermarket—never mind which one. She was with her roommate, another attractive woman. (I’m not blind.) They talked to each other while fondling produce. I wheeled my cart past potatoes and onions; I thought, What is that symphony of smells? I followed my nose. Like radar, it took me to Sari-Dawn. I stood there in awe, slack-jawed, reveling in the aromatic bouquet. Of course, I also made sure her hands were free of that kind of jewelry. I had to meet her. I approached her; I tried to control the outward signs of my excitement.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but can you tell me how to tell a good cantaloupe?”
The two women looked at me. The other one answered.
“Sure. See the green spot on the end? Push it in with a fingertip. If it’s springy, it’s good.”
Going through the motions, I picked one up and followed her instructions.
“This one feels hard,” I said..
“Not ripe yet. Try another one.”
I tried one with little green on the outside. “Ah; that’s better.” Inside, I scrambled for an opening. I settled for, “Do you ladies shop here often?” My helpless act must have aided me. She appeared interested enough to pursue a conversation.
“All the time,” she said, “so, if you need help again, just ask.”
I fought the urge to flare my nostrils to take it more voice.
“Thank you. By the way, my name is Art.”
“I’m Sari-Dawn. This is my friend, Maria.”
I thought, Thank God she answered; I’m still alive.
“Nice to meet you both. You ladies have been helpful. Can I do something for you, now? Dinner, perhaps?”
Maria was sharp; she said, “Both of us?” Before I could cover, she smiled and went on. “Let’s be real. It’s obvious you’re interested in Sari. I’m out.”
I saw Sari’s blush. Next came the aroma I hoped for.
She said, “Dinner would be nice.”
My level of excitement was tremendous. My nostrils flared; I couldn’t stop them. SoI took a deep breath to cover their movement.
“Tonight?”
Sari looked at Maria, who shook her head.
Sari said, “Sorry, I have a commitment tonight. Is tomorrow good?”
Oh, boy, is tomorrow good.
I regained some composure. “Tomorrow? Fine. Where can I pick you up?”
Maria already had pen and paper from her purse; she wrote the necessary information and handed it to me. You’ve got to love Maria.
“Thank you, Maria.” I looked at Sari. “Seven?”
“It’s a date.”
Music to my ears...well, to my nose.
“Then, ladies, have a great day.”
“You, too, Art,” said Maria.
Sari said, “Be good. Or whatever.”
What an open-ended comment. I got away—not too fast, just fast enough to avoid making a mistake. I was in heaven. My anticipation grew minute-by-minute.
The next day was the longest of my life. I awoke from a dream in which I saw Sari’s face smiling; I tasted her flawless skin. Most of all, I smelled her voice—that marvelous medley of melodies sent me to another plane of existence. My first thought was that I wanted to continue to dream. The mundane day was difficult to tolerate; I knew I would hear her later. I found busy-work to pass the time.
I arrived at their apartment at 6:58 p.m.; not too early—I didn’t want to appear too excited—but punctual. Of course, I was excited. Self-containment has never been one of my strong suits. Maria answered the door.
“Good evening, Art.”
“Yes, it is, Maria,” I said. “I trust you’re well.”
She smiled. “Not as well as you are. Can I get you a drink while you wait for the princess?”
I felt like having a drink, but decided I would rather postpone bathroom breaks.
“No, thanks.”
Maria invited me to have a seat. Their living room was...soft. Its ambience was unmistakably feminine. Plants hung in front of windows, throw pillows graced the couch, chairs and love seat—how I love those. Doilies accented end tables. The window curtains were sheer, wispy and lavender in color.
I said, “You have such a lovely place.”
“Thank you,” said Maria. “Sari-Dawn and I have been roomies for three years, so we’ve both put it together.”
I nodded and smiled, all the while appreciating her voice being pleasant. Not a turn-on like Sari’s, but enjoyable. My reverie was interrupted by the most amazing aroma: Sari, from another room, was singing. I thought I was in heaven before...hah. That sensation was nothing compared to this. I felt my self-control wane. I looked at Maria; she saw my discomfort.
“Is something wrong, Art?”
Without thought, I said, “Something is incredibly right.”
Maria smiled and said, “Oh, she sings all the time.”
Beethoven, you’ve been replaced, I thought. The sounds of Sari’s voice were wonderful—I assumed Maria thought I was responding to sounds—but they were so over-powered by aromatic blends of rose, Opium perfume and Cajun blackened sea scallops. Those were the earliest odors to waft into my nostrils. Others followed, of course. I reveled in them all, one at a time and in combinations. Sautéed onion with gardenia, tulip with thyme, fried shrimp with basil and coriander—they just kept flowing.
Sari entered the living room. Her song ended, but her speaking voice maintained the odorific moment. She complemented the montage of fragrances by being visually stunning. Sari could have been a model if she was less perfect. Five-foot-seven, auburn hair to her shoulders—silky-smooth—high cheekbones, deep brown eyes and a complexion to die for. Her figure was classic hourglass, modified to accent the bottom and moderate the top. She didn’t quite walk; Sari glided with ever-so-slight figure-eight swivels of her hips.
Sari reeked class. Subtlety, style, seductiveness; she had it all. And no need to flaunt her attributes; they were obvious beneath her conservative white blouse and black skirt. Watching her flow into the room was almost unbearable.
“Good evening, Art.”
Sage and salmon.
I managed to talk. “Yes. You are lovelier than a Japanese garden.”
Maria said, “Oh, Jesus. Schmaltz. I’m out of here.”
“And what,” said Sari, “is wrong with compliments?”
“Nothing. It’s how they’re put.”
Sari said, “Tsk-tsk; do I hear jealousy?”
Maria looked from me to Sari. “Actually, yes. I’ll get over it.”
I thought one good turn deserved another; I said, “Maria, if Sari wasn’t so stunning, you’d be in trouble.”
“Nice cover,” said Maria. “You two have fun.”
Before Maria could get out of the room, Sari said to me, “Oh, so I’m in trouble?”
Maria turned around and said, “Sounds good to me.”
I really looked at Maria. To that point, Sari overshadowed her so completely I was oblivious to any other woman. Both women recognized my visual appraisal. Briefly, I blushed. I had been caught being...untrue to my...intended. I tried to think of a good comment, but my mind wasn’t fast enough. I was still catching up to Maria’s, ‘Sounds good to me’. I saw I was not in control of the situation.
Sari showed me she was. She went to Maria and embraced her.
“I’ll see you tonight,” she said. Sari kissed Maria. It was not sisterly.
Surprise, Art. I had not seen it coming. I stood there, unable to think.
They ended their embrace and looked at me.
Sari said, “Art, do you have a problem?”
How could I answer that?
I stammered, “No,” wondering where I was in this new relationship. The word les-bian leapt into my head. I asked myself why Sari had agreed to go out with me. My face showed my confusion.
Maria said, “Art, don’t over-react. Remember, there’s a difference between love and love-making.”
I felt defensive. “I didn’t say anything about love-making.”
Sari said, “Not in words.”
My mind spun as the concept sank into it. I thought, We communicate in so many ways.
“Art,” said Sari, “if you don’t want to go out with me, it’s okay.”
I said, “Are you kidding? You’re all I’ve thought about since yesterday.”
I heard the plea in my voice. So did they.
Maria smiled, subtly, like the Mona Lisa. “Then nothing’s changed.”
I had to admit, “No, not really.”
Sari smiled. “I’m pleased I turn you on so intensely.”
“But,” I said, “it’s much more than...sensation’s quest.”
“Is it?” asked Sari. “I’m not so sure. Even if it is, Maria is my partner. You have to know that up front. The rest is up to you.”
I had no response. I wanted to be cool. Fat chance. Given the situation, I was tremendously torn. I knew Sari aroused me beyond all prior experiences. I had hoped a relationship could develop. With that potential out of the picture, should I pursue the rest? Mentally, I slapped myself. Idiot; you’re a man. How the hell can you even think of passing on this?
I composed myself and said, “Now that I grasp the...parameters, if you will, I see that I may be the luckiest man on Earth.”
“We will see,” said Maria. Not Sari.
My sense of smell blasted. Newness is itself a turn-on. This newness blew all else away. I didn’t know if I could deal with dinner.
The women were staring at me.
Sari said, “I believe dinner is no longer an option. I think Art’s hunger isn’t for food.”
Gardenias, gladiolas, old-fashioned spice cake.
Maria came to me and removed my sport jacket. Sari joined us and unbuttoned my shirt. I felt like a tripod already. Each of them took one of my hands and placed it onto a breast. Taste of Opium perfume. I leaned into Sari and brushed my lips against hers. Tumeric and cherry blossoms. Maria’s mouth, in turn: strawberries and cloves.
They stepped back, kissed and started to undress each other. Maria touched Sari’s blouse; they both cooed. My nose filled with floral scents. Could any-thing be more intense? Yes. Those wise women knew well the visual orientation of men. They let me stand there, still clothed, and continued to undress each other, slowly, gracefully and completely. My senses intensified when they softly moaned and breathed. So many aromas hit me I lost track, closed my eyes and let them increase my heart rate.
I opened my eyes just as they returned to me. It was my turn to become naked. My shirt hit the floor first. Maria unbuckled my belt; her movements made her breasts jiggle, enticing me to touch them. Sari kissed me, open-mouthed; my trousers joined my shirt. Mint and casaba melon. Maria eased downward onto her knees in front of me and hesitated in front of Mister Johnson, breathing even more life into him. She knew my first release would be quick. My hands were in their hair: Sari’s apricot and honey, Maria’s cinnamon and sugar. Sari’s hand was behind my neck; we tongued; her other hand caressed my belly. Maria had one hand on my buttock and one cradling my scrotum. They both knew precisely what they were doing. My secret was that smells were throwing me over the top.
Maria did not suck me. Expertly, she ran her lips around my head, inviting an entry that never happened. Four seconds of that, followed by three licks of my under head tendon: I exploded into her patient mouth. My nostrils flared; my heart pounded. Maria stood and kissed Sari, sharing my gift.
They were warmed up.
Sari saw the spent look in my eyes.
“Art, sit on the love seat and watch us for a while.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I sat. I had accepted they, not I, were in control. Strangely, I found surrender to be both relaxing and exciting. Sari and Maria moved to the sofa, where they sprawled out; their intertwined bodies stretched the length of it. I watched them make love with each other, languishing in caressing limbs. For a second—just—I said to myself, Awww; the way I would have if I just saw a kitten do something cute. That’s when it hit me: I was witnessing more than sex. I was honored to see two lovers express their love in this heightened way. I was along for the ride; a wonderful experience.
When the touching moment passed, I realized I was again ready to participate. I waited for an opportune time. Maria sat upright on the couch and urged Sari to rise. Sari stood. They both looked at me, smiling a smile I had never seen before—nor since. Sari stepped up onto the sofa, eased her knees onto the back of it and her honey-pot into Maria’s eager mouth. The room breathed raw sexuality.
My excitement level was off the meter. Mister Johnson throbbed and felt like he wanted to burst at the seams. With all the visual excitation, it became work for me to breathe. Their heavy breathing, moans, coos and occasional verbal encouragements sent songs of sensual scents into me. I watched them writhe in pleasure. Again their eyes checked on me. They eased downward, so Maria’s love center became available to me.
I didn’t know if Maria wanted me inside of her. It was irrelevant to me. At that moment I had to bury my face between her silky thighs. So I did. Feeling woman-flesh all around me...indescribable! Sari, writhing above my head, began to hum. Maria, squirming with my head, joined Sari in humming. They added a new meaning to thecliché: hummer. Jasmine, juniper, lilac, lily, rhododendron, rose...I lost track.
Intense doesn’t come close to describing the plane of existence I felt. I was a joyful addendum to them. I no longer acted, just reacted. Sari and Maria changed positions; Sari eased me out of the way, lowered herself onto Maria. Their privates met. Their legs exed, Maria still on the bottom, Sari straddling her, but within face-to-face reach. As they ground into each other, they looked at me for the third time.
Sari said, “Art, come here.”
Here could only be where their faces were. I knelt toward them to join in three-way kissing, but Maria pushed me upward with one hand, letting me know they wanted Mister Johnson. I couldn’t argue—not that I would have. It was Sari’s turn to taste me. She popped my head into her mouth, but did not move.
Maria sang. Another new experience. Sari’s singing voice was incredibly beautiful, floral. Maria’s was sensual, sexual. It engulfed me in saline muskiness. I stared into Maria’s face; I was engulfed in a new reality. She sang louder: tomato, onion, garlic, roasted peppers, clams...more musk. I forced my gaze away from her, to Sari, still immobile, still with me in her mouth. I don’t know how she could do it, but Sari was smiling. Under Maria’s song, Sari hummed.
That was it. I felt I would peak—and end. I was wrong. They, again, knew exactly what they were doing. That’s why they didn’t touch me or caress me or stroke me. I was literally held in suspense. Their voices got louder. My ecstasy level rose. And watermelon, allspice, musk. My entire body tingled. I felt prickly warmth spreading from my gonads to my legs and belly. I lost awareness of breathing. It was almost...spiritual.
I had never felt building like that. I was near orgasm for minutes. Somehow, I saw that the women had stopped grinding each other. They were concentrating on me. I saw joy on their faces. I was in some numb limbo where only release mattered. Not final release, though. This...getting there was beyond my experience.
When I finally did erupt, I couldn’t tell by feeling. It wasn’t the abrupt eruption I had always known. It was a continuation of the intensity these wonderful women had given me. I vaguely recall Sari smiling and swallowing; I blacked out.
I was unconscious for a few seconds. When I came around, we were all in the same positions. I stepped back so they could untangle, if they chose to. They did. I stood in the middle of their living room, once again slack-jawed; I watched Sari and Maria sit up, kiss each other and return their attention to me.
“Now,” said Maria, “you have a rough idea how a woman feels.”
Sari agreed, “A rough idea.”
My brain gradually returned to functionality.
I said, “I...didn’t know that was possible. I don’t mean what you just said. I mean, what I just experienced.”
They laughed, pleasantly. Poppies.
Maria said, “Most men will never know the potential they have. Most can’t. They weren’t born with your equipment.”
I was no longer wrestling inside to come to reality. I was struggling with comprehension.
I asked, “What equipment?”
Sari said, “You know,” with her beatific smile..
Maria chuckled. They looked at each other.
I said, now suspicious, “What’s up with the humming and singing?”
They laughed more heartily.
With more emphasis, Sari repeated, “You know.”
Maria took over. “That’s what made it all possible for you.”
“You knew?” I said.
Maria continued, “Sari had such a profound effect on you, you didn’t pay much attention to me yesterday. So, you didn’t remember me.”
“From where?” I said, but I looked at her and my memory worked. “Holy shit. You were in my psych class.”
“Bingo. And, more than once, you tasted my Seabreeze. With your finger.”
“But...how did you piece it together, back then?”
Sari responded for her, “It’s not rocket science, Art. Maria just watched you. Sheknew.”
I thought a moment. “That was a long time ago. Why were you so into it yesterday?”
“You should have seen yourself yesterday,” said Maria. “You were so stoned on Sari it brought back my fantasy.”
“Yours?” I asked.
“Sure. I’ve always been open to sensual exploration. But you ignored me. Well; let’s say I wasn’t aromatically exciting. And we didn’t have any other classes together. But I wanted to do what we just did. It took Sari to make it happen.”
I took my turn to laugh.
Sari said, “What’s funny?”
“I just put it together. You told me you had plans for last night and had me wait for today. You needed time to plan.”
Maria said, “It was worth it, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, yeah.” I said.
Another thought hit me. I was afraid to ask, but I had to.
“Now what?”
Sari said, without vindictiveness, “Now, nothing. We’ve given you a gift you can use for the rest of your life—if you’re lucky enough to find the right partner.”
“As we have,” said Maria. “We were up front with you about it.”
I said, “I know. I’m not bitching. It’s just that...God, I envy you two.”
Sari fielded that one, “Thank you; we envy you, too.”
Maria picked up the ball, “Like we said, few men ever had your equipment. Use it. Always—and wisely.”
I laughed.
“What’s funny about that?” asked Maria.
I said, “It’s not that. I just realized we’re still naked.”
“And we’re still able to have a conversation,” said Sari. “Isn’t it cool?”
I felt myself slowing; nicely. I took a deep breath and sighed.
“I’ll never forget either of you. No thanks is big enough.”
Maria said, “Our pleasure. Trust me.”
Part of me wanted to request a replay. Out of respect for them, I couldn’t. Not to mention, I doubted I would be able to. So, I reluctantly dressed and readied myself to say my good-byes.
They didn’t dress. I guessed why. At that point, it was none of my business. I loved their love. I wanted to find that. I still do.
Fully clothed, I approached Sari and kissed her a last time, tenderly.
“God bless you, Sari. I mean it. Keep having your great life.”
She nodded. “I will. Good luck to you. You know how I mean.”
My turn to nod. I moved to Maria.
“Bless you, too.” I kissed her. “Thanks for...everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
They beamed at me, radiating a warmth new to me. With my head high, I left.
Since that marvelous day last year, I’ve been more devoted than ever to my synesthetic senses. I’ve been painting and sculpting. I always play music—which makes my apartment feel soft and fragrant.
I’ve dated a few women, but...well, with little luck. So far.
Whenever I’m out in a public place, I listen for gardens. However, now I pay close attention to other options, whether seafood, spices or any scents. I always was a good student.
Besides, the nose knows.
