THE APHRODISIAC PRANK: PART 2

My first experiment with pheromones was a failure, but I wasn't ready to give up. Next I tried the patented Love-Scent, which contains three different pheromones, mixed into a fragrant goo. I thought this would be an improvement, since the previous stuff made me smell a little bit like a ferret.

They also give away FREE samples on the Love-Scent site, so that's a bonus. But when I went to the FREE SAMPLES page, it turned out they were actually charging one cent per sample. Check it:



Now, I'm no economist, but last time I checked, the penny was still valid currency. If "free" now equals "one cent," then I'd like a billion frees, please. Still, the samples were $99.98 cheaper than the previous aphrodisiac I ordered, so I decided to give them a shot. They had a version of Love-Scent for men, and a version for women, so I grudgingly shelled out the 2 cents.

The packets came a few days later, with names like "Scent of Eros" and "The Edge." Unlike the Athena Pheromone 10X, which you're supposed to pour into your favorite aftershave, this stuff IS aftershave, and not the expensive kind. It smells a little bit like what Fabio might wear, if Fabio began to menstruate.

The instructions advised "try applying the entire packet to as much of your upper body as you can cover," but a tiny dab on my neck and wrists was as much as I could bear. I smelled like I had just had sex with each of the Backstreet Boys, starting with AJ and continuing in alphabetical order.

Bravely, I went into work smelling like I had been raped by a Muppet. On my morning subway commute, I moved in close to females, letting them smell my sickly reek. In the elevator at work, I squeezed in beside women, quietly monitoring their reactions. I noticed the occasional twitching of nostrils, the odd surprised sneeze, but nothing more. Women seemed as interested in me as they always have, which is not very.

It didn't matter, because there was only one woman I was interested in, and that was my wife. "Do you notice something different about my smell?" I asked Jade when I got home that evening.

She thought for a moment. "Yeah, your poop has been especially stinky," she said. "Do me a favor, burn a match."

"Come here, you romantic," I said. "Give me a hug."

"ECCCHH!" Jade nearly gagged. "What are you wearing?"

"Just the 'mones, baby."

"You smell like the New Delhi airport," she said, recoiling.

Maybe the aphrodisiac doesn't work on all women, I thought. Perhaps I needed to play the odds by getting myself in a room with lots of females at once.

Then it hit me: yoga.

Everyone knows that men never do yoga. They should call it hoga. Fortunately, I have a membership at my local gym, so I went down and signed up for the evening class. Before it began, I went into the locker room and just slathered myself in Love-Scent. I used up the rest of my sample packets, glopping it on my arms and face.

I walked into the yoga room, smelling like a Care Bear exploded in a patchouli factory. There were half a dozen middle-aged women in the class, and I could tell right away they were going to kick my ass: they all had their own mats, and they all looked strong. Most were dressed in leotards or formal yoga attire, and I had on an old T-shirt and ratty shorts. These were the yoga pros. They were progas. I had on a toga.

We started off with some simple poses. We did the "pillow pose," where you lay down with your head resting on your arms, like a pillow. Or in my case, a pillow that had been shat upon by Strawberry Shortcake. Man, I stank. I stank at yoga, and I stank, period.

Have you done yoga? There's a lot of bending and thrusting, with your legs spread wide and your ass in the air. It's kind of dirty. In this sexually charged atmosphere, with all these women in their sexual prime, and my 300-yard shockwave of pheromones, anything could happen.

And it did: I farted.

I swear, I don't know how they hold it in. You're tensing, you're relaxing. You're tensing, you're relaxing. I was trying to do that pose where you stretch your legs outward while balancing on your asscheeks. I was falling backwards, trying to catch myself, and a low-flying duck slipped out. "AFLAC!" It was humiliating. The yoga instructor did a sharp intake of breath, kind of trying not to laugh, or maybe to gasp for air.

"Keep breathing," she intoned calmly, though I think breathing was the last thing anyone wanted to do. Between the aphrodisiac and the frappuccino, the room had taken on a new scent we might call Fruity Doodie. It was one of the most humiliating experiments I've done, and that's saying a lot.

So the day was a failure, but we can't really blame the Love-Scent for this one. Which is good, because I thought it would be wrong to demand my money back. But that's just my two cents.

Would my next aphrodisiac experiment prove more, ah, fruitful?


Next: An aphrodisiac that really does work (if you can get it)!