He travelled some days over the flat plains. It was the wide open savannah, covered with golden wheat, undulating and rippling for miles. The breadbasket of the isle.
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Each Morning he'd take out her panties and sniff them to get a whiff of her and his dowsing rod would stand up right up, ready for the new day.
And he would sniff out her trail. Tomek had an unusally long nose. He wasn't Pinnochio, — he was not a liar, but he did seem to have a nose for women. He could sniff out a good one a long ways away. And none had such a strong and bewitching scent as this lass.
Pungent, melodious, and musky, it curled his nostrils to their end. It caused him to breathe deeper; like a drug he always wanted more of. It was almost visible, oosing through the mists with a rosy glow. Crawling in the heat.
Little, wispy trails of rose colored scent that hung in the air where she had been. Full of the same strange, potent floral scents her panties were.
This is the smell that leads one to a woman’s door. He will sniff the air for her, and follow her trace.
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Far, far, far ahead of him, her scents were floating out of her, from under her skirt. Like the diaspora of pollen from a flower to the whole, wide, world.
Other hunters would not necessarily pick up her trace, or follow her scent. Because different bees are attracted to different flowers. (You kiddies, ask mom about the birds and the bees.) It was a scent that spoke directly to him, filtering past the others, making his rod tremble.
Tomek sometimes passed other stealthy hunters in the brush, or out on the plains, or later, in the jungles, as their trails criss-crossed, each following a different scent. Of a different maiden. They would each wave, and wink, but not dally long. Each knew their kitten, their doe, their maiden, was at the end of their trail, waiting.
Like an open pot of gold.
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When Tomek lived on the Fatherland, he hunted for deer everyday. He tracked them. Followed their trail for miles, up and down the mountain canyons. He stalked them. When the trail was poor, he got down on his knees and sniffed the ground. Like any true hunter, he had a good nose, and he could sniff them out, crawling around on his hands and knees like a dog, sniffing at the ground. Like a pig.
Some women call all men pigs. And if man in his instinct is a hunter, then maybe he is.
He studied and knew the habits of the deer. He lay in waiting for long hours. He sat traps for them. Snares. And all the time he held his spear raised in readiness.
But now Tomek was hunting a different kind of 'dear'.
Could his experience in the wild help him now....?
He followed her pretty little, slippered feet on the dirt trails. But there were a lot of pretty little women with pretty little slippered feet on this isle, and sometimes it could get distracting.....
Then he'd take out those panties and sniff them, so he'd remember who it was he wanted, and drop to the ground and sniff along the trail. Try to sniff her out. Like a dog. Or a pig.
Women sometimes complain about 'those pigs' after their tail. Well, there was one on her trail now.
He sniffed some more. Whenever he got a trace of her scent, his phallus raised like a spear in readiness.
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'RED HERRING'
Out on a country field. Approaching a town. A line of beautiful women pass him coming from the fish market. They all have baskets of fish atop their heads, and walk so enchantingly. All in long, different colored 'gown' dresses. They come in from the left, and their line crosses his path.
The smell of their fish was very strong, as the women passed. They flashed big, wide, lip-full smiles, and sparkly eyes, and coyly said: ''Oh! Stranger, sir! We come to sell our wares! Do you see anything you like...?''
They sold 'red herring'. Tomek is hungry, and so he pulled out some small coins, as the women circled around him, and bought some.
After they'd left, he sat on the ground scarfing down/eating the salted red herring. It had a very strong smell. Not so bad, if you don't mind fishy things. But very strong. And it stayed with him.
He closed his eyes and thought about that line of beautiful, enchanting, undulating, wavy women passing by, with their basketloads of market fish.
Women smell like fish. They all do, when you get them naked. They're of the sea, and the sea is in them.
When he sat back out on the trail of that one particular 'fish-tail' he wanted for his own, he realized he'd lost her trail. All those beautiful women, and their strong, fishy smells, filled his head, and now he couldn't sort their scents out one from that of his one true love. He'd lost the trail of 'her'. He was a bit embarassed, for every hunter knows this trap, — laying out a 'red herring' across your path to throw someone off your trail.
And he'd fallen for it. Hook, line, and stinker.
It's pretty easy to distract a young man with some beautiful bait. There's nothing too fishy about that.
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