Hotelles by Emma Mars

intoxicated as I inhaled the scent of the man who was about to possess me. If I concentrate, I can still catch a whiff of that heady bouquet, a blend of vanilla, alcohol, and fading flowers.
    That’s why I always wonder how I smell. Does my scent awaken desire in my partners, as theirs does in me?
    They would never suspect it, but whenever I meet a man I find appealing, be it just a tiny bit, one of the first questions that crosses my mind is: And what about his scent? Will it overwhelm my senses and make me burn for the man who produces it?
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    Anonymous handwritten note, 6/6/2009—Nonsense!
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    I FEEL NAKED WITHOUT PERFUME. When I turned sixteen, I started working at the mall every weekend as a greeter in a perfume shop called Quatre Temps. The extra money had made a big difference, and the experience left me with dozens of sample perfume bottles, all free, and a chronic inability to remain faithful to any one scent. I choose my perfume based on my mood.
    â€œAre you still there . . . or did you hang up?”
    Sophia brought me back to the present tense.
    â€œYeah, I’m here . . .”
    â€œDon’t tell me you’re doing it to pay for that watch?”
    How did she know?
    â€œNo!” I cried.
    â€œFuck, I can’t believe it . . . That’s why you’re doing it! You’re such an idiot. You’d marry the first schmuck who came along.”
    Perfect: Miss Dior Chérie, an updated classic, a little old for me but not too much. I sprayed both sides of my neck.
    â€œThat’s not very nice to David,” I parried.
    â€œAbout that, so . . . how was last night? What was his big surprise?”
    I don’t know why, but I decided not to say anything about all that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, the marriage proposal and the latest anonymous letter.
    â€œOh, nothing. David just knows how much I love lobster. Last night he took me to Le Divellec.”
    â€œUgh. Don’t tell me, ‘the best seafood restaurant in Paris,’ barf.”
    â€œSomething like that, yeah.” I laughed.
    â€œAnd after . . . how was it?” she asked, reverting back to her favorite topic.
    â€œUmm . . . I’d give it an A-minus.”
    â€œI see . . . So you guys aren’t comfortable with each other yet, to put it nicely.”
    I couldn’t pull one over on Sophia when it came to sex. But I could cut the discussion short.
    â€œSoph, I have to finish getting ready . . .”
    â€œGo, get ready, girl!”
    A half hour later, I took a cab to avoid being late.
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    THE ALBAN SAUVAGE GALLERY WAS on Rue de Sévigné, not far from the Saint-Paul metro station in the Marais. Its facade was narrow, but inside it felt spacious, thanks to its depth. The gallery was made up of a series of small rooms separated by white movable panels. The window displayed a giant pink resin phallus dressed as a doll in a white dress, black patent leather shoes, and a pearl necklace. There was no mention of the artist.
    A quick look around and I saw that the conceptual installation inside did not vary: a scrotum disguised as a Care Bear, a vulva wearing a Bob the Builder costume, and so on. Each sexual body part was somehow dressed up as a children’s toy.
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    A bald young man with five o’clock shadow had hurried out of the gallery to greet me. His smile as well as the glassy look in his eyes suggested alcohol. Behind the door, I could make out the sounds of laughter, glasses clinking, and whispered cattiness: a typical Parisian gallery opening. Nobody really cared about the art. The important thing was to see and be seen, enjoy the free food and drink, and, above all, get an invitation to the next gathering.
    â€œI don’t know . . . I’m waiting for someone.”
    â€œCome in. Maybe he’s already here.”
    The way he said it, I could tell he was gay,