Cupid's aerosol

I hear that scientists are developing a nose-spray for human couples who’ve fallen out of love. The idea is to trick the brain into feeling gooey emotions, so that passions will be re-ignited and marital bed-springs will be tested to breaking point. It sounds like the greatest thing since penicillin, but I wonder if they’ve thought through all the consequences. How do they know that the couple will feel attraction for each other rather than the next-door-neighbour or the family pet? Do they have to make eye-contact while snorting the love mist?

Another worry is that the treatment might cause them to sneeze, which can have strange effects on the human brain. Back in my circus days, a young lady who worked with the big cats frankly admitted that she found sneezing more enjoyable than sex.

“It’s all so quick and easy,” she explained. “You get the build-up, the climax and the release… and it’s all done in a few seconds. Much better than lying on your back and hoping that the bloke who’s drilling you will eventually strike oil.”

I nodded sympathetically.

“Sexual gratification is surely a hit-and-miss affair for women,” I said. “However sneezes sometimes fail to discharge when you feel them coming. I have a terrible sense of anticlimax when that happens to me.”

“So you do know how a woman feels when a man can’t satisfy her!” she quipped. “You can always make sure of your sneezes with a bit of powder up the nose.”

“True enough,” I conceded. “But before settling down with a pepper pot, perhaps you should consider whether you’re meeting the right sort of man.”

“I generally assume the ones who paw me will be tigers in the sack,” she mused. “Are there differences between men and big cats then?”

“Their fingernails for a start,” I said. “You have made the mistake of applying ideas from the workplace to your private life. I suggest you judge future suitors by their virile qualities rather than their feline ones. Looking for the inner tiger in a man sounds like a futile quest.”

“What about the inner gorilla?” she said smirking.

“That is somewhat less futile,” I replied, “but beware of chest-thumping impostors.”

I am pleased to say that the woman did find a man who was able to satisfy her carnal needs, and he was nothing like a big cat. More of a sly dog with a slobbering tongue, in fact. Be that as it may, they lived happily ever after without the need for nose sprays, pepper pots or other olfactory stimulants.

The moral of the story is that scientific advances should be viewed with a healthy dose of scepticism. The boffins may claim that squirting stuff up your nose is a miracle cure for this or that, but the practice may open up a Pandora’s box of unforeseen side-effects. This caveat notwithstanding, human parents who worry about their teenage daughter being impregnated by Jimmy the Bozo might consider giving her a box of snuff for her birthday. Those sexually repressed Victorians knew how to savour their sneezes.
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