Once, as I was blissfully absorbed in conversation with a beautiful, intelligent, and attentive woman over a delicious cup of coffee in a pleasant outdoor cafe, a situation in which I, a blissfully romantic Sapphic vestal is bound to lose any consciousness of the surrounding world, suddenly an ecstatic tremor barged in on my prefrontal cortex with the rude self-promoting insistence of the fat probing finger of a pervert on a crowded subway train. Losing my train of thought I looked up with alarm in order to identify the source of the disturbance. There could be no doubt. The inebriating odor was projected by a woman who had just arrived at a neighboring table having first liberally lathered herself with a soap, a lotion, or a perfume of the most astonishing erotic power.
Unbelievably, she was not alone. There were in her company her husband and her two sons, not one of whom gave any indication whatsoever that he was in any way disturbed by the erotic aura, or that he even noticed it. The waiter arrived and began to serve them.
"Pardon me, sweet Janet," I turned to my comely girlfriend, "but would you mind terribly if we moved to another table?"
She answered: "No, of course not, but why?"
I placed my index finger on my lips mysteriously and led her away. When we were at last ensconced at our new table, clear across the cafe from the enchanting MILF-bomb, and safely upwind from it, I explained. "Oh, yes," she said, "I did notice it." And then she gave a short, hearty laugh at my finicky sensitivity. "You are such a hottie." she said.