He smells good. This scruffy boy-man sitting at our kitchen table. He dares to tell me he smells good.

It must be like the moment when a father sees his guileless pubescent daughter sport a bikini for the first time and he realizes, “Oh my God, when did she sprout breasts? She didn’t have them last week…” That mix of wonder and sudden self recrimination for noticing how perfectly buoyant she is.

I won’t say I have always felt “motherly” towards our guest, our age difference is probably only ten years. Perhaps “big sisterly”. But now he’s wafting the possibility of male scent under my nose. Now he’s forcing me to think of him sensually…suddenly I see the vein that happens to be running down his rather nicely defined bicep and notice how blue his eyes are—almost purple, how he’s rubbing his finger against the corner of the table…damn him.

He smells good.

Doesn’t he know not to divulge this to a married woman in her late thirties? It’s like waving raw meat in front of a lioness. I wasn’t hungry before…

I get up from the table in a flurry of cleaning up, scraping dishes, feeding the dogs.

I don’t know how we originally get onto the topic of smell. He’s a wanderlust camping out in my husband’s office this week. We have been collecting a few stray pups lately, a way to channel our thwarted nurturing instinct since losing our child. And that is how I typically feel about this bright and gracious all-terrain Jesus look-a-like. We enjoy being his West coast pit stop. He laughs at my husband’s jokes, pets the dogs, compliments me on my cooking, reads my daughter stories, puts the Murphy bed up and the toilet seat down. Of course we love him. You couldn’t ask for a nicer guy.

SENSUAL ARROGANCE

But tonight, we’re on the subject of human scent and apparently it’s a bit of a deal for him. He bitterly recalls a room mate whose stench could permeate cement. He winces over the memory of the “oily” woman he hiked with in Australia who had big red hair and smelled “barny”. Apparently even his own brother stinks like rancid butter. But him? No. He was lucky enough to inherit his Dad’s smell: sweet. Imagine. Sensual arrogance.

Suddenly I am very self conscious, resisting the urge to lift up my arm and whiff my pit for self assurance or damnation. “Why didn’t I put gloves on when I rinsed out pee-pee toddler panties today by hand?! Why didn’t I take a shower after cleaning the house and getting sweaty? Why, dear Lord in heaven, did I cook black cod tonight?!”

I blurt out, “My first boyfriend smelled like bacon and wheat fields. He was delicious. I used to wear his sweater just to be wrapped up in him. But he told me I smelled funny until he got used to me. It put me in a tailspin of deodorant and mints for years…”

Our young guest does not offer me any sort of comfort. Bad fishing trip on my part. He doesn’t even blink. He just gives me that cool hard stare as if to say, “Truth hurts, old lady cheese toes.”

All night I can’t stop thinking about it: smell. It’s something I rarely pay attention to consciously and yet obviously it holds great power being one of the five senses. I smell garlic and tomatoes and I am transported to Nonna’s house immediately. I smell mouse turd and I am back to my college dorm.

My second favorite smelling boyfriend was a gorgeous, lanky, tortured fellow I used to meet over coffee and cigarettes late at night at a cheap diner on Kingsway. He was going through a nasty divorce and I was going through artistic angst while running a theatre company. His scent was burnt orange chocolate. Truly. One of those nights, heading back for a more torrid conversation…his nose against my skin, he inhaled all the way up my naked spine, like I was an exotic flower. “You smell so good” And he healed me from any former misgivings.

Great. So now I’m thinking about my young guest and my ex-boyfriends.

It does give me comfort to confirm my all time favorite smell, hands down, is the man I married. As it should be. The closest I can pinpoint my husband is: a hearty merlot with oak sawdust. I actually love it when he comes in from work and protests that he stinks, he’s sweaty, it turns me on. It’s so animal. It makes me wonder how much of our sexual appeal we wash down the drain and cover in wax, chemicals and aluminum?

LINGERING SCENT

The next morning I drive the young man to the airport. He’s off to his next adventure. Normally I get out of the car for a hug, but I just can’t do it now. The distance is better. I can’t smell him from here. He quickly leans in and says “sideways hug”. I hold my breath.

When I get home I set about cleaning the house and this time I shower afterwards. I grab a towel and start rubbing myself down when I notice…something is different…I…oh my God. It’s his towel. I gave him the green one.

Suddenly I am struck still as a stone sculpture, dripping, a slightly dimpled Eve in the garden. I have just rubbed his scent all over my naked body. Wantonly. I bit into the apple by mistake and now am meltingly aware of my nudity. What do I do?

Well, this is ridiculous. It’s only a bloody towel and mine is hanging up in the bedroom off the door, just…finish…the…job…

I wiggle straight into my husband’s office. Showered toweled naked and wet. He is, thankfully, rather accommodating.

Later that afternoon, it’s time to do the laundry. I head for the bedding and…of course. There are the guest sheets. Red ones. Stripped from the bed. Lounging in the corner like a cheeky gigolo, winking at me. “Come on, sniff me. You know you want to, baby.”

“Okay, just get this over with” I say to myself. “Consider it science. You are simply gathering data to prove or disprove his theory.” I gather the sheets up in my arms and take a big whiff.

He’s right. He does smell good.

Kite string…and…puppy fur.

Thank God.

. . . . . . .

Photo courtesy of Abhi