I Conditioned Myself to Associate My Ex

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And now I can’t use it ever again. 😇

My favorite body wash is Spring Water by Dial. It typically costs between $2 and $6, depending on where you buy it, and it doesn’t even pretend to be anything more than glorified dish soap. It’s a baby-blue gel that smells like what you’d use in the summer as a kid, after a post-pool shower and before putting on your pink denim jumper and jelly sandals. In my opinion, all the Dial fragrances are great, but there’s just something about Spring Water. It’s fresh, light, airy and it has a certain innocence that I didn’t realize I would violently corrupt in my naughtier, adult years.

I always like keeping a bottle of Spring Water on hand, not necessarily to use on the reg but more so for special occasions when I’m trying to disassociate unwind. I kept this tradition alive when I moved in with my boyfriend a few years ago, until one day, I had a brilliant idea: I love this soap; I love my boyfriend’s penis—why not combine the two?

So, one random, uneventful afternoon, after picking up a fresh bottle of Spring Water from Dollar General, I told him, “You know that blue soap I buy sometimes? I want you to start washing your penis with it, and then bringing your penis directly to me. I want to see something.”

“You mean anytime I want a blowjob, I just need to wash it with this soap?” he gleefully asked. (Imagine living in such ignorant bliss.) “Not quite, hon. It’s Spring Water by Dial, not a genie.” But despite my refusal to grant his BJ-on-demand wishes, he had zero additional questions. He was in. So in that he dropped trou right in the living room and marched into the shower like a horny little soldier. Approximately 30 seconds later, I found myself (Mom, stop reading) performing some spunky fellatio.

It’s important to note that my boyfriend’s peen had zero odor issues and this was 100 percent me being overindulgent. It just seemed like an affordable and easy opportunity to level up my pleasure in a way that was very specific to me, as a huge fan of both Spring Water and my boyfriend’s penis. Plus, taking a man downtown is fun, but it’s also honest work! There are a lot of moving parts and it can feel like you’re playing that surprisingly difficult brain game where you simultaneously pat your head and rub your circles on your stomach. In my mind, the Spring Water pre-wash was like taking pre-workout before the gym—not totally necessary, but when used, it’s a little extra boost to, quite literally, get my head in the game.

Over time, we started gradually incorporating this silly little soap into our sex life. If we were about to hook up, I’d ask him to go wash his penis with it real quick. Sometimes, he’d even use it without warning as a ~surprise~. On days when we both worked from home, I’d suddenly smell it wafting from the shower steam and flare my nostrils like a dog whose owner just opened a big jar of peanut butter and dick and jokingly blurt out something corny like, “Uh-oh! Smells like fresh cock in here!” Then we’d bang it out. “Sorry about that. Something urgent came up,” I’d say to my coworkers as I turned my Zoom camera back on mid-meeting. And urgent, it was.

I don’t know if it started as ironic and turned real or if it was the opposite, but his washing his penis with Spring Water just became our fun, sexy thing. Before I knew it, I had unintentionally but very much classically conditioned myself to expect sex whenever that sweet, cheap aroma welcomed me home. You know, like how Pavlov, the Russian scientist, conditioned his dogs to start salivating whenever they heard a bell, knowing food would soon follow. Call my experiment Pavlov’s dongs, if you will.

But unfortunately, despite our frequent and spicy (yet very hygienic) hookups, we ended up going our separate ways for reasons unrelated to the Dial soap perversion. This was my first relationship, and subsequently, my first breakup, and the uncoupling really did suck as much as everyone promised it would. Seeing our future plans slowly fade into a fever dream stung, and the bouts of sadness always hit at the worst times.

It’s been a few months since the split, and it’s safe to say I’m doing “better,” which loosely translates to being back on the apps drowning in a cesspool of mediocrity. I still find little Easter eggs from my ex in my apartment from time to time, things like socks or Tupperware that I’d stolen—nothing too meaningful. But my beloved Spring Water realigning herself as a memory of him instead of my nostalgic childhood was a betrayal I wasn’t expecting. She was mine first and highly treasured. I can no longer keep an emergency bottle at home—the ties run too deep.

Now, will you find me on hands and knees, slack-jawed, tongue out and eyes glazed over, voraciously hunting for my ex’s penis through the streets of New York City whenever I catch a whiff of Spring Water? Yes.

Just kidding—no. But I do start to feel nostalgic. And hurt, sad, confused, happy, hopeful, and angry. I have to constantly fight the urge not to purposefully withhold making new memories with new boys just in case destiny rudely weaponizes the good times against me again. (Oops, this is called trauma! Call your therapist, Victoria!)

Am I supposed to just stop using Spring Water by Dial? Would switching to an adjacent scent be enough? How does one de-condition themselves? Can I rewire a memory by finding a new boy and washing his penis with this soap? I don’t know if anyone has been successful at shrouding an old memory with a new one, but it’s worth a shot??

Weirdly enough, I don’t regret abusing my soap or the connection she and I shared for so many years. I’ve learned that if you’re not going all in on a serious relationship, you’re doing it wrong, and for better or for worse, that’s going to include sharing your quirks, kinks, and habits. Ultimately, we didn’t break up because of my inexplicable obsession with Spring Water by Dial; it was just collateral damage. And honestly, my personal growth and the lessons I learned from the relationship were well worth all the highs and lows, so my advice? Don’t hold back! Go ahead and let your new partner in on that weird thing you like that probably isn’t that weird at all. My only regret is not identifying this perfect pairing sooner.

Victoria Hoffman is a writer and comedian based in New York City, with recent work published in HuffPost and The Belladonna. Dallas born and raised, she is also a former NCAA Division 1 athlete and most importantly, an overzealous Yoga Sculpt instructor. When not performing stand-up comedy or with her sketch team, Victoria can be found writing personal essays about how her life is very hard, unlike everyone else's. You can connect with her on Instagram and see her other work here.

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