Not one of them lists pheromones in the ingredients. Funny, that, because I live in a house with the four horniest people I have ever met.
The middle kid locks the door to the bathroom when he showers, and 30 minutes after he's gone in, when I am praying for having enough hot water left to wash a few dishes, I knock. I tell him to get out already. HE HASN'T EVEN STARTED WASHING HIMSELF. You know and I know and god knows what he was doing.
The toddler can get her legs into this position on the couch, when the mood strikes her, that I have tried in the interests of spicing things up for the mister, only to be laughed at loudly by several of my more important joints, just because she's discovered that her belly ain't the only button she's got.
The oldest one. I can't ever talk about this again. Deals have been struck and I get to remain almost totally blissfully unaware.
I will spare you the content of the nightstand on my husband's side of the bed. I will also spare you the contents of his desk drawer. Let's just say that the children have been threatened under pain of death to never open either. And he has been threatened the same, at least in my presence.
Is there a point here? No. But if I have to suffer through living in a Las Vegas Sex Club, I am totally dragging you all down with me.