Flannie

Read our full interview of Marc Atlan about Petite Mort, the intimate scent of a woman

« Some days are harder than others, and this was one of them. The day I received two envelopes in my mailbox, as exciting as they were eagerly awaited: on one side, one of Carole Martinez’s novels, Du Domaine des murmures (From the Realm of Whispers), and on the other, a sample of Marc Atlan‘s first perfume, aptly named Petite Mort, a woman’s perfume.

On one side, a white envelope containing the story of a young virgin walled up alive after refusing to offer herself to anyone but God. On the other, a package containing a small bottle of a surprising, intimate, intense fragrance—the scent of a woman offering the warmth of her orgasm to everyone’s nose. Needless to say, I was impatient. »

I knew very little about Marc Atlan’s creation, except that it was a limited edition of one of the most improbable perfumes in the evanescent realm of scents, inspired by the fluid secreted by a woman close to orgasm, and that it was dark and viscous due to its extreme concentration. I had read words like « repulsion » and « obsession » about it, and heard that it evoked notes of sweat, salt, and urea. So, I carefully unsealed the packaging. I opened the bottle even more cautiously, expecting anything—or rather, nothing, since I didn’t have the luxury of smelling another woman but myself in private. To say that I felt as if I’d just been dropped headfirst between the legs of the model who posed for Gustave Courbet’s *The Origin of the World* is the most polite way I could find to describe my initial impression.

And, lost in my analysis, I placed a drop in the crook of my arm, forgetting that I was surrounded by them, by humans… When my son came to kiss me in the kitchen an hour later, he jumped back with a look of profound disgust, then tried to recover: « You know, Mom, your smell isn’t so bad, but it’s very strong. » My daughter wrinkled her nose and refused to kiss me (she also refuses to kiss anyone who hasn’t brushed their teeth first). My husband was very disturbed to feel another woman on top of me.

At lunchtime, I had to rush to the local supermarket to buy a box of cereal. In the same aisle, a young man bent down at the same time as me to grab something. My bare arm gave off an unmistakable scent of sex. The young man looked at me with a look of astonishment. Indescribable. A stunned expression beneath a veneer of politeness. I didn’t have the courage to open my mouth and tell him it wasn’t my bodily fluids. And I never saw him again.

Poor sinner, smelling the full force of a life of sin, I then went to meet some ladies of great virtue—pious mothers of children as good as gold—in a park on a windy day. I was invited to a religious tea party. And each time I brought a Templar cake to my palate, I could smell that fluid on my fingers. Carried by the wind, it spread, not like the salty scent of a man mingled with his sweat, no. Little Death is the strong scent of an unknown woman who had come on my fingers without asking my opinion… And I endured her presence while a little boy proudly explained to me that the biscuit I was eating was a cake for the Knights of Jesus. Two showers and a swim later, the stranger was less wicked on my skin. The chlorine had somewhat calmed her ardor. That evening, I went to bed with the vague feeling that we were three in bed, and I didn’t dare embrace my husband. It felt strange to wear another woman’s most intimate scent on my skin. Turning sideways, alone, or almost alone if you count her lingering fragrance, I imagined her, this other woman who was toying with my modesty. From the scent, I pictured her as dark-haired, with very dark skin, thick body hair, and an ethnic background different from my own. She was dressing me in her unveiled intimacy. Clothing me in her animal, wild, provocative scent, a kind of trashy sophistication because, after all, pleasure isn’t a public matter. Completely uninhibited, she totally masked everything I might feel or think. My olfactory personality, that of a white woman with light hair, was battling against hers.

What if this woman never intended to overwhelm me with her scent but rather to remind me of my own primal instincts? After a day spent with her against my skin, I felt as though I already knew her a little better.