Mrs. Zabell's Wrist

My first erotic experience, as far as I can remember, was the one involving Mrs. Zabell's wrist. Mrs. Zabell was the lady at the local pharmacy. It was Mother's Day, and I was ten years old. I had decided to buy my mother a bottle of cologne, Arpège. I knew about Arpège from the commercials–"Promise her anything, but give her Arpège." So I went to the corner pharmacy and asked Mrs. Zabell for a bottle of Arpège, but she threw me a curveball. "I have some other fragrances that are very nice and less expensive," she said.

"That's all right," I said, sticking to my guns, "I'll take Arpège."

"Why don't you see if you like one of the others," she persisted, and dabbed some cologne on her wrist. She inched her wrist toward my face. I started turning red. "Go ahead, sniff," she gently ordered.

"That's okay," I said, nervously, "I'll take Arpège."

"Don't be shy," she said. "It won't hurt to try."

I was horrified and excited at the same time. And I sniffed. But I couldn't make any sense of the smell because I was so confused. "It's very nice," I said, my voice quavering, "but I'd still like the Arpège." And Mrs. Zabell, her initiation finished, backed down and sold me what I had come for.