You know how sex smells. You noticed it the first time you came back into the room and thought, “Oh [epithet deleted]! My parents/roommate/sister/janitor/whatever is totally going to know what was going on here!” It smells so totally unlike a locker room that all of those weird fantasies in high school suddenly seem completely hysterical. You open up windows, light candles, maybe some incense, no, not incense because now your parents/roommate/sister/janitor/whatever is going to think you’re covering up for drugs. You jump into the shower. You realize that at some point, this could be a turn on but right now you’re still in panic mode and you’re out of air freshener and going for mom’s perfume is going to totally look weird so put it down now.

Your sister is still suspicious.

The door opened to more than a whiff of sex. That was like the smell of sex the day after spring break ended. You know, when you got that first chance to stay wherever you wanted with your snugglefoofoo of choice? It smelled like that.

And maybe the tiniest bit of brimstone.

Bleepin’ demons.

I tried to focus on the girl who opened the door. She was dressed in an oversized man’s shirt, half-buttoned, and a pair of wrinkled jeans. Her glasses were a bit larger than is stylish now, but I don’t get how they’ve kind of devolved into a thin line of sight anyway. Her hair was mussed. She had thrown on clothes because, even in the midst of things, she was modest.

But she was smiling.

“Sylvia?” Magda asked.

The girl nodded. She had streaks of brassy gold in otherwise tawny brown hair, and large blue eyes. Typical GND looks, wouldn’t have drawn attention anywhere west of the Mississippi, but I was never a “Girl Next Door” fan anyway, so what do I know?

She smelled good.

Bleepin’ demons.

I realized I was in trouble when I was thinking to myself, “I can almost taste her.” Maggie gave me a Look, a withering one, if you know what I mean.

“How many people are in there?” Maggie asked.

“Eleven, including me,” the girl whispered. It was one of those husky whispers, and her voice was gold. I fantasized briefly about her talking dirty to me. Like, right now. I wanted her to tell me how much she was…

I leaned over and pulled the pebble out of my shoe. If the house had this much of a field, there was more than one of the -cubi in there. Looking away helped me focus.

I looked up at Maggie. Her mouth was slightly open, and her cheeks had flushed. Oh good, it was getting to her, too. She adjusted her beige jacket to show more cleavage, and then turned to glare at me.

Fine, fine, all an act. Whatever you say, dear.

Maggie was too good looking for her own good. She looked like a professional business woman. Those legs that reminded me of fields of gold in capris, smart beige shoes both practical and dressy, matching jacket and white undershirt, hint of gold in the jewelry, it was all carefully calculated. It went well with her short-cut dark hair and liquid brown eyes. She had full lips. I liked full lips on my women. Full everything, usually, but I wasn’t particular. Magda liked attracting attention.

Whereas me, I was good to blend in. I’ve got green eyes, a cut Magda said looked good on me given my mouse-brown hair, and I can almost dress myself without looking like a fool. I did some basketball and swimming in high school, but I’m really not an athlete. Average height, ordinary guy. I do have some unusual scars, but they’re reminders of Stupid Stuff I Should Have Run From…and getting less and less common, promise. Nothing to complain about, but I wasn’t getting calls from modeling agencies.

Or lots of pretty women, I might add.

Pheromones. That’s the word I was trying to remember. The hall reeked with them, I’m sure.

“Making us thirteen. Stereotypical,” Magda said in an undertone. “Will you let us in?” she asked the girl.

“Oh, yes,” the girl said, way too quickly. You know, this is just a rule of thumb, but anything that waits for an invitation needs to be carefully thought out. Of course, if I was right, “Sylvie” was simply being used as a ride for something that wanted a taste of more willpower. It wanted us inside so it could manifest its Xanadu just a little faster. “Please, you have to help us.”

Bleepin’ demons. And bleepin’ bait. Maggie knew… and so did I.

I walked into the lion’s den. The spider’s lair. The orgy room. Whatever.

Sylvia stroked my arm as she led me towards the back. I could hear the sounds of soft moans and the liquid squish and thumps I had been predicting. Sex sounds funny. I tried to think of that, and not of the way her nostrils were flaring and her nails were starting to lightly score the inside of my elbow. Maggie followed, closing the door carefully behind us. The feeling of a boundary snapped against my skin, but endorphins don’t care now, do they? Not once the “turned on and ready to go,” point has been opened.

Her hands dropped to the top of my jeans as we got closer. She tried to pull me in for a kiss.

My brain interrupted. I was here to close the door, not keep it opened.

Her mouth was soft. She kissed like a girl. She kissed like a girl who was going to open more than her mouth to me, all giving and wet and melty and soft against what was becoming hard. Her hips angled against mine, and she smelled like salt and sweat and promises. I pulled away softly, trying not to hurt her.

She pulled with a bit more strength. “No, no, we need to join the others,” I said, doing my best to sound convincing. Because, “I’d totally do you against the wall here in front of my ex-girlfriend,” sounded bad, and adding on, “And maybe she’d be so turned on we’d–” just made it worse.

Withering. Think withering thoughts, E.

The human mind is turned on by the strangest things. It’s all a matter of mood, right? Why was I staring at the lamp shade like it was screaming, “Do me, baby!”

Maybe it wasn’t all in my head. I knew that voice. Where had Maggie gone?

And why hadn’t she ever said that to me?