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“I am so happy to have you all here for dinner tonight!” exclaimed Colette Vogin (assumed name) raising her glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape. We did the same, all of us, with a smile on our lips and our eyes moist with emotion.

Perhaps it is necessary, dear readers, to say that the 14 people united around the table (among them, yours truly) at Colette’s private house on the Ille Saint Louis, were all, in the past, lovers of this lady; she was a gourmand and changed lovers as rapidly she changed perfumes or depilations. (In fact she was one of the first adepts of “hairless nudity” in France.)

We were, all 14 of us, crazy in love with her; we brought her bunches of flowers, the most exotic and the most expensive; we offered her reserved seats in boxes at the most sought after european operas. In short, we were all her happy slaves.

You might ask the reason for this; it’s quite simple.  Colette, even more than being a woman of dazzling beauty who turned the heads of all men whom she passed, was also a sex machine. Never satisfied, la Colette. At that time, whenever I left her bedroom, I was on my knees, exhausted, with a curious sensation of having passed the night with a harvesting combine. I was always in need of several days of convalescence.

And there, that night, my companions in misery, happy victims as myself, sat around the table each endowed with souvenirs of happiness mixed with nightmares.

In spite of, and because of our torrid histories we continued to maintain relations of profound friendship with Colette, well after the end of our debaucheries.

That night, after many bottles of grand crus, the ambiance was high spirited. After the profiteroles, Colette slightly tipsy, put her feet up on the table: “Gustave, I remember very well one night when you assured me that my vulva had a strong odor of sardines. Am I mistaken?”

“Yes, you are” said Gustave, “you put your finger on… I never said sardines I said wild trout.”

“And you Louis, what do you think?”

Louis got up slightly staggering and approached Colette, his head disappeared beneath her frilly skirt for an instant and declared:

“Neither sardines nor trout! The way I see it is “Baltic Herring”.

Then Paul took the relay from Louis and assured us:

“I don’t agree! For me, without a doubt, the odor of this celestial pussy is Mediterranean Octopus!”

Herve rose up and after having stuck his long nose in the admirable fissure of the friend of us all:

“Octopus my ass! The perfume of the shrine of our dear hostess is neither more nor less than that of the shrimp of Madagascar!”

Colette then addressed me:

“Fleche, you who have such a refined sense of smell, plunge a moment into my orifice and give us your conclusion.”

I obeyed and after giving it much thought:

“As far as I’m concerned there is no doubt possible. The odor of the royal orifice of Colette is a perfect mix of chorizo, sausage de Morteau and garlic sausage.”

After this memorable night, little by little, our relations faded.