Cosmetics and Perfumes

The carpet on which I’m standing on is carmine coloured with a black pixelation pattern decorating its contour. The woollen fibres feels firm and coarse underneath the outsole of my DKNY cap-toe shoes. Although I'm well rested, my feet are sore and fatigued. To match my loafers, I am wearing ashen coloured Polo pants by Ralph Lauren, black nylon socks, also by Ralph Lauren, and a cashmere black turtleneck sweater by Yves St-Laurent. I’m also carrying — properly folded on my right forearm — a black windbreaker by The North Face. Although the lighting — fluorescent tubes — is meek, my eyes — red from last night’s activities — are covered with Oakley sunglasses, the Motogp series with mirror reflecting lens.


I'm thinking what I need right now is a body lenght mirror, I begin walking again. The department in which I find myself in is for the most part empty. The rows of soft grey selves and waist high glass counters are littered with merchandise. Two corpulent immigrant women — both short in stature and dressed up in generic rags — hobble along the narrow department store ailses. I quickly overtake them — sighing loud enough to be heard — and spot a mirror in the hats and gloves department. Although only one-forth of my actual body size, its enough for me to inspect my hair. Using a new gel by Vadal Sassoon, I’m hoping my hair has a clean full body look to it, and not a greasy look which would render them dirty looking. When using mens hair gel, it’s important to use it sparingly unless you want a greasy look or hair that won’t move. To my relief, my Fade hairstyle — recently cut at Marc Anthony’s Salon — is perfectly groomed.


The hands on my imitation Rolex indicate fifteen minutes past eleven. I’m meeting Nikki — my supposed girlfriend — and two of her college friends for lunch at a new Sushi restaurant uptown at twelve thirty. This gives me ample time to check out the ‘perfect ten’ working in the cosmetic and perfume department. I give myself a final look of approval in the mirror, and liking what I see, I quickly head out towards the back of the department store. Like a mouse scurrying through a maze, I march down the aisles, turning left here and right overthere. The carmine carpet is like a red guiding arrowhead, leading me to where I need to be.


I find the ‘perfect ten’ behind a glass counter in the perfume section of the store, her jet black hair tightly pulled back and tied into a ponytail. She’s standing in ankle high black leather boots by Christian Dior. Skin tight mauve spandex pants — outlining her underwear — by Lycra accentuates her bulging calves, firm thighs and voluptuous hips. A white cotton short sleeves shirt by Susie Sheer encompasses her torso, reveiling small but ample breasts.


“Hello.” I say to her indifferentily, all the while gaze down at the glass counter.


“Yes, I’ll be with you momentarily.” Deadpan, she gazes into my sunglasses, her voice is soft but seemingly half an octave too high. I’m annoyed by this obvious flaw. With her back to me, I find myself ogling her firm ass. I feel a small tingle coming from my balls.

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Hugo Boss - Calvin Klein - Polo - Jaguar - Shalis - are only a few of the test glass bottles scattered in a disorganized fashion which lay before me. I’m searching for Light Blue’s eau de toilette from Dolce and Gabbana. Light Blue is an estival perfume which refreshes like the caressing breeze. To douse oneself in Light Blue is to plunge headlong into the glittering turquoise depths, anointing one’s sun-baked body.


“You looking for something specific?” Breaking my train of thought, the ‘perfect ten’ is now standing in front of me.

Her crystal blue eyes are accentuated by the orange-based eye shadow she has on. Orange-based hues provide a contrast to blue eyes that really makes the color pop. The result is irresistibly stunning and again my balls tingle. I stare at her pink bra strap resting near her collar bone.

“Uh… sir?”


“Yes, I was wondering if the store carries Light Blue eau de toilette?” I croak out the words, bewildered.


Her hands rest palms down onto the glass counter, nails manicured and freshly painted. The rosy pink nail polish complaments her skin complexion, giving her a warm disposition. Her lips — also coloured in a rosy pink — are parted, displaying the lower part of her two front teeth — the left one seemingly chipped at the corner. She’s wearing a black crystal bead layered necklace with matching earrings. A tacky choice in my opinion. I think to myself, one should always wear white pearls which glitter harmonuously together against contrasting jet black hair.


“Hum… I have to check around to see if we carry this brand.” She suspiciously stares at me, hooking the few hairs from her face to her left ear. “Light… Blue right?”


“Yes. It’s by Dolce and Gabbana.” Not to bright, I think to myself. Being a perfect ten, does she really need to be?


“I really like your glasses. Where did you purchase them?” She asks, all the while walking away from me. Her silky black ponytail swings from side to side, causing my penis to slowly erect.


“The Oakley boutique uptown,” raising my voice to make sure she fully hears me. The complement of the glasses, the slight brush of her dangling hair — things are on the up and up for myself and I wonder if I can get her into bed by the end of the week?


Surrounded by posters of Gucci, Lacosse and other famous designer logos, she bends over, reaching for an array of empty eau de toilette boxes. I stare at her left hand which loosely dangles -- like a fag gesturing -- at a ninety degree angle. The small boney structure of her forearm is sexually arousing me, causing my erection to grow. Her petite feminine demeanor intensifies my masculinity. I picture myself tying her hands behind her back, and slowly lowering her spandex outfit.


“Sir?” She’s once again standing before me. “I’ve got the ow the toilet you where asking for,” and she places a small blue box onto the glass counter.


I pause, staring right at her, my erection intensifying to the point that I must lean awkwardly up against the glass counter. The throbbing sensation at the pinnicle of my penis is like a crescendo.


“One second,” I say, trying to look casual. I reach into the back pocket of my Polo pants and pull out my white forth generation Iphone.


“Yes hello,” holding the phone with my left hand close to my right ear.

“Ryan, is that you? How are you doing… ? Yes… yes and Shannon, how is she doing?”


I speak into a nonexisting phone connection, place my The North Face windbreaker in front of my waistline, and gesticulate with my left hand freely into the air as my phone now cradled between my ear and right shoulder. As I drone out incoherent words, I try focusing on repulsive thoughts - a fat woman with hairy armpits - chuncks of hairs found in a shower drain. Nothing. My erection is omnipotent.


“Yes Ryan, I have two front row tickets… yes… yes… well, you know I can’t give out my source. Listen, I have to let you go. Yes. See you then, alright.” I place my phone onto the glass counter and lean my firm abdomen up against the front part of the counter. Still wearing my sunglasses, I look at the ‘perfect ten’. She’s scratching the left side of her face with her right hand, all the while holding a small blue box in her left.


“I found your perfume,” twitching at the mouth. This only augments my lustful desire for her.


“Thank you. Do you accecpt American Express?” I place my jacket onto the glass counter, unzip the right pocket and pull out my Royce Leather Commuter wallet. I lay it next to the my phone and unfold it open. The duel flip section reveals three credit cards, Visa Gold, Visa Platinum and an American Express. I reach down and adjust my bulging penis. Both Visa cards are fakes, cheap imitations, but they fill out my wallet nicely. The ‘perfect ten’ is staring at the wallet.


“Yes, of course we do.” She coyly smiles.


I hand her the card, purposely revealing my imitation Rolex.


“Miss, are there any public washrooms near this department?” I ask cordially.


“Just walk this way,” she points with her index fingure into the direction of the cosmetic section.


After processing the transaction, the ‘perfect ten’ returns carrying a Shermans black plastic bag, my Amex card and a visible smile. She thanks me for shopping here and quickly walks away, revealing once more her perfect body.


With my windbreaker covering my crotch, I quickly march over to the restrooms. A black stick figured man is pinned up against the middle of a white door. I walk past the sinks and go straight into the last bathroom stall located at the far right of the room. The aesthetically pleasing bathroom stalls are a pleasent surprise and the layout is pleasing to my eye. I place my coat onto the door hanger located on the back of the door stall. Standing next to a white vitreous ceramic lavatory, I pull down both my Polo pants and Calvin Klein underwear and with my right hand, I grab my throbbing penis and gently start stroking it. Encompassing my thoughts with the ‘perfect ten’, I intensify the grip and strokes. A tingling sensation slowly rises from my feet, up along my legs and straight to my cock. I picture the ‘perfect ten’ in the missionary position, the softness of her legs up against my shoulders, her feet up in the air. I image her moaning with pleasure, her youthful face trying to surpress a jovial expression, her cheeks blushing, her hair matted wet with sweat. Finally my penis erupts, sperm squirting out into the toilette. My legs are shaking, my body is on the verge of convulsions. I’m elated with ecstasy.

In a desolate landscape void of all corporeal entities, I envision desert sand dunes engulfing everything. And like watching an hourglass, I'm beguiled by the grainy flow of sand and I see my existence fleeting from my life. Contempt runs through my veins, and like an ominous silhouette, anxieties attacks follow me everywhere. Empathy towards my fellowman is parched by a raging fire, and there is this existing notion that all is loathsome and vile, and it's this predisposition that consumes me.