I have a friend, a very dear friend, who woke me up this morning with the news that she has a Pavlovian Pussy. That the mention of a certain name, the thought of a certain face, the memory of a certain night, are all it takes to set her pussy salivating uncontrollably, no matter where or when it happens.
It’s a sensation that we are all familiar with, whether we choose to use a term for it or not. A smell, a taste… and not necessarily immediately sexual ones, either. The smell of the perfume I was wearing the first time I met her, the feel of the purse I was carrying as I fumbled for my keys, the candy bar we shared for breakfast the next day, because someone had neglected to do any shopping that week and was living off vending machines till her next day off.
Other things. A picture that I’d posted on my blog a few days earlier… one that I love for a lot of very private reasons, all of which she repeated when she remarked upon it herself. I look at the picture now and I don’t see the imagery that drew me to it in the first place; I hear her voice outlining a love that in turn leads into a fantasy that I thought was mine alone. And Pavlov’s Pussy salivates.
Certain songs, certain sounds, certain textures and, most of all, certain words. Because, beyond all and every physical, visual and sensorial stimulus that we consider play a major part in attracting us to someone, and particularly once the initial impact of those things has waned, the power of the word is the one that holds me spellbound, because it is a power that shifts, drifts and changes as many times as there are words in the language.
Today, the word… well, words… is “Pavlovian Pussy.” Tomorrow it or they might be something else entirely. And all I have to do is listen for them.
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