It is smell.
I roll over, late at night early in the morning, and I whiff it.
That smell. What's that smell?
Between your thighs.
That smell. That starchy, smelly, spermy smell. I want it. I need it. I honestly could not live without it.
It's intoxicating. If you don't smell like that, I don't think you want me. If you don't smell like that, I don't know if you can help yourself. If I can't smell that, I don't know that you're falling for me.
And yet. I'd never want you to tell me that I smelled like that. I'd cringe if you told me you revel in the smell of my spunk.
No.
Rather:
I want you to roll over early in the morning late at night, and find me.
I want you to wrap your arms around me and whiff, and tell me about how you smell the clean smell of my shampoo and the scent of my Right Guard and murmur to me that I smell good and clean.
This conflict keeps me awake.