The onset of my period is always a nice (albeit crampy) time of rest from the constant chest-puffing, stomach-sucking, lip-licking activities of life as a woman of fertile age. Although I'm married (happily!) with a small child, the mammal rituals don't die with the convention of modern life. Our biology tells us to flirt. Our biology knows that we mate and mate often. Monogamy is our choice and like all conscious choices that deal with matters of the flesh it's a struggle not to bat our respective eyelashes. Our pheromones continue to pump out their alluring, mysterious aromas even after we've jumped the broom. We're just moose, bears, beavers, apes. We're a pack of wolves who have decided to become swans, who mate for life. We don't all make the transition smoothly: a sleek wolf is very different from a graceful swan.
On rare occasions I feel my chemistry reach out of its own accord and sniff around for a complementary top note. On even rarer occasions it mingles with someone other than my husband. But that's all it is: a flirting session infused with hormones, a quiet reverie. It might culminate in a private spread, my fingers quickly pushing past soft covering to find the slippery velvet of the inner folds, a ritual as familiar as brushing my teeth, shaving my legs, french pressing coffee.
If I were to repress these impulses, these invisible chemistry experiments of the universe, I might actually act on them. Eventually they just float away.