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Primal Desire

Your Solipsistic Thought For The Day contemplates Primal Desire

When I typed “Primal Desire” into an image search on Google, I came across a kajillion random thumbnails, none of which resemble the object of today’s rant. Therefore, I hereby call forth artistic license and officially sanction the use of this provocative visual aid which boasts more pizazz than the subject of my impending diatribe. Please attend as our story unfolds.

What's inside your tube of Primal Desire?

Another day of June gloom was well under way.  Muggy weather and my quart of French roast for breakfast managed to soak my shirt with fresh sweat even before we left for the beach. Prior to basking under dark skies and drizzle, I asked my pal for the use of his shower. He directed me to his wife’s bathroom; a fact that would have mortified the estranged woman only a few weeks earlier.

Fortunately, “She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named” had recently been promoted to ex-wife. As parting gifts, she left behind a newly minted bachelor, a condo, and a bathroom littered with an exotic array of skin care products unfamiliar to most real men.

I, however, do not fear these products, and modestly confess that I have been asked to prove my age for the purchase of ardent spirits on several occasions following my 50th birthday. I owe my youthful looks to a very fortunate combination of DNA, which I readily profess, and the excellent Oil of Olay product line, which I rarely reveal.

Susan Sizemore

Meet the author of the lascivious best seller in our featured visual aid. Susan Sizemore reinforces today’s theme, serving as cautionary reminder that one should never take for granted the contents of any product based solely on its shrewd marketing scheme. Let’s dispense with the dialectic now and press on to explore  compelling narrative.

In the soap dish above the tub I found an unassuming, hypo-allergenic bar which thankfully did not reek of cheap perfume.  At the corner of the tub, sandwiched between the Mr. Bubble and Selsun Blue I reached for the jumbo pump bottle of Kirkland brand hair detergent.  After shampooing I searched for a cream rinse in the little forest of plastic containers that stood sentry on either corner of the tub.  A clear tube with a milky cap caught my eye.  Upright and shaped like a wedge, the tube reminded me of a doorstop that had wandered into the wrong room.  I looked through the clear plastic and saw countless tiny squares of green, blue, and gold suspended in translucent goo.  Glare from the bathroom light turned the minute shapes into zillions of eye-popping sparklers scintillating with the slightest movement.

How would market research analysts choose the name for a substance which promised magical properties?  Only an elf or sprite would look to such otherworldly stuff with which to bathe enchanted skin.  A canny advertising agency would probably select a label hinting at something mythical like Pixie Dust or Ent Wash. I rotated the tube to its front and immediately added to my wonderment.  Primal Desire? Through my own field studies I have discovered certain fermented extracts in bottle form, which, when decanted and consumed in proper dosage, can and will unleash wanton arousal behaviors in the female Homo erectus.

Had modern science at last synthesized a topical chemical compound mimicking the pheromone signal of an adult female primate in full estrus?  Will the faint odor of this magical goo say “I’m sizzlin’ hot and ready for you!” like a steak fresh off the grill?  For my money, you could strip down a hot babe intellectual possessing dangerous curves and that perfect 7 to 10 waist to hip ratio, slather her body with the juice of a medium-rare rib eye, and every gland in my body would start pumping on overdrive.

Naked and dripping, I just had to experience Primal Desire, and since nobody was looking, I squeezed the tube till it spurted out a fat, shimmering globule onto my palm.  My body tingled in response to the lotion and I noticed the pervasive scent of vanilla.  Vanilla?  Could this be the pheromone signal that subconsciously arouses the male nervous system to race the heart, ooze sweat, and swell his glands to the bursting point?  I reached for the tube and examined the label more carefully.  At the base of the tube in light gold letters I found my answer. Cupcake?  Inconceivable!  I imagined a matronly woman attired in sensible shoes, cheap house dress and apron, offering up a tray of baked goodies right out of the oven. Then suddenly I realized I stunk like my grandma’s kitchen.

Clearly I had discovered a case of false advertising for there cannot be–nor will there ever be—a connection between Betty Crocker and Primal desire. In search of vindication I recalled that comforting quotation by Adrienne E. Gusoff:  “Any woman who thinks the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach is aiming about 10 inches too high.”  I reached once again for the unpretentious bar of soap and resolved to check my buddy’s freezer in the off chance his ex left behind something sweet.


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