One Hungry Nose

I love the smell of feminists in the morning. They are the hosts of an olfactory banquet catered with the musky, unabashed scents of sex and sweat and blood and cum. Odors designed through countless rounds of natural selection to stir the imagination, quicken the pulse, and bind event to memory.

This is not to say that I will not stop in for a quick snack offered up by some freshly showered, heavily perfumed, fast food chain of a woman. But in these cases, I find myself seeking out crumbs of scents in places I am always hoping they have forgotten to scrub. Inevitably, my nose is rumbling again in less than and hour and I am searching the draws of my cupboard for a take-out menu.

My father once told me "You can always tell if you lived life fully by the way you smell at the end of the day. If you smell like nothing, then you've done nothing worthwhile." I have found this to be an excellent way of taking stock of my life. Each night I take a moment to sniff myself and jot down a quick note in my olfactory journal. If I end up smelling the same way for three days in a row my nose will begin to revolt and I will be forced to find some new adventure, something that will permeate my clothes and my skin.

I also take note of interesting scents I come across, but do not have the opportunity to bathe in, during my travels. I qualify interesting with honest, as I am no fan of false scents. My other senses will collaborate with my ever inquisitive nose to undo any attempt at deceit. Together they will decide whether or not you have freshly mowed a lawn, or just been out for a walk in the fresh mountain rain. And if you are found less than forthcoming I will wonder, but only briefly, how dull your life must be that you can acquire no interesting scents of your own.

My nose can be a bit judgmental at times, but if it is up in the air it is only trying to catch a whiff of something that will sate its appetite.