Flash Fiction Friday: Booger Sugar
by Bob Freville
He always loved to sniff things, to whiff things. He always dug fresh smells.
His first olfactory hallucination occurred in puberty.
He got it bad after graduation. Bands of cilia saturated in what looked like rotting corpses but smelled like strips of cotton candy.
Years had passed without a one, but he still went smelling everyone. Salty. Snotty like almond custard. Heady, musty face fucks, stinging the bridge. That smell you get with a chest infection, chicken soup and nutty mucous. Sniffing the jissom on movie theater floors or the ammonia scent of urine in bathroom stalls.
He sniffed and whiffed up and down the coast, always focused on his nose.
He’d gotten fucked plenty times before, despite this preoccupation. Mostly impressionable girls with nasal fetishes, the type of flat-backers who gave discounts to dudes with dong-size shnozzes.
But no bitch meant a good goddamn compared to the thrill of smelling. He couldn’t help himself.
He never had tolerance for the simple skullfuckery that seemed to come with relationships, possessed no patience for high maintenance possessions, had no drive to strive to afford some chick a necklace.
But then it happened. Random. Impossible. What was he wearing that day? Had he removed the pore strip from that morning’s scrubbing?
His nostrils flared out like the grill of a great big blow fish. His bloodshot blues on fire with the sight of her. Like an ocular eruption that resounded in his Eustachian tubes, goo renewed in his nasal passages.
After a lifetime of boring snatches of scent and bitches bland, the succubitch appeared all gorgeous and tanned. She wore brand-spanking new shoes with that new rubber snuff and that lemonade lip balm that he wanted to huff.
Her whole entire body radiated a musk that sent the Nosiest Man on a mission for muff.
Stumbling, bumbling, he pulled out all the stops to woo her and swoon her, stepping on his own toes in a complex of awkward gestures. His hands and arms flailed as he stupidly spat…Dollar Store pick-up lines & back-alley jokes.
“What’s the definition of trust, eh? …Give up? Two cannibals giving each other blow-jays.”
Cut to the fall-out. After weeks of stalking, he zeroes in, gets close.
It’s always the salad days in the beginning, but the omega comes on us quick.
She’s streaking through the garden in the center of his apartment complex, attempting to outrun the Nosy Man with the restraints in his hands—purple fetish tape in one, a pair of Vise Grips clutched in the other. And it really seems like she wants to get away.
She twists her delicate neck around in time to see him run up on her with the Vise Grips raised and yelling, “I can’t help myself!”
Her eyes zoom in on the putrid proboscis.
Match cut to: Int. The Nosiest Man’s Apt. – Late Night.
The crickets are rubbing their feelers together in the dark, cacophony of fucking on the edge of the moon-drenched onyx nightscape. And there he is, the nose, a sniffer getting his full snoot with Vise Grips clamped tight around the throat and “Pleasure Tape” secured firmly around taut flesh.
It’s the consummate moment in his beak’s adenoidal career, a whiff to end all whiffers. But he’s overzealous and inhales too hard and, the next thing he knows, she is gone. But to where? How did she get away and why is there a lavender rope dangling from his nostril?
No matter. The rope is sucked up right quick and the man is left to blink idiotically, standing dumb-founded over his water mattress, now coated in renegade sperm and snot.
His eyes roll up involuntarily when she goes to work. And in an instant He is no longer himself. Control is lost.
Olfactory nerves are nerves like any others. He learns this when she tugs on them from within. And suddenly, he has a powerful desire to go shopping.
In under twenty-four hours his bank account is drained, his credit is rendered non-existent, his landlord is fucked dry and his appliances multiply ten-fold. He no longer wants to snort anything but the finest fish-scale money can buy and powdering his nose doesn’t mean just that but, rather, a combination of concealer and rouge.
The purple rope is no longer visible, but it is there all the same, metaphorically wound round his neck. It’s got him by the short and curlies, willing him, walking him, sending him straight where it wants him to be.
She’s one booger he’ll never shake, never finger, never prove in a court of law. He is done for. Suck too hard and she’ll burrow in deeper and brain rape him. And from there she’ll head further until there’s nothing left. She uses his lobes to let him know this, so he’ll think twice before attempting to rattle her loose.
He knows better now than to use his nose for no good. He was a naughty boy with a nose fetish, but now he’s a crafty girl with an eye…an eye toward destruction.
Bob Freville is a writer from Long Island, a freelance writer of fourteen years, a former associate editor of Kotori Magazine, and the writer/director of the Troma vampire flick Hemo.