The eye sees. The ear hears. The nose knows.
The walks each day with Mook A are sometimes irritating (yank-yank-yank, come-sit-stop-no!) and sometimes illuminating.
You see, A talks to me. He can talk to me about things that I don't give a fuck about ("You know what, this walk is doing me the world of good!") and I just ignore that. But he also does this running commentary about the world that, for me, is like anthropology. In it, he explores (and exposes) his belief system—his hopes, wishes and desires. I also get to see how smart he is because as he comments I always know (note: know), whether he's wrong or not. The reason? Our eyes—both his and mine—see, our ears hear but only my nose knows and my nose is always right.
For instance, the other day we were walking behind this pair of men. Right away he told me, "They're a couple." Now I wasn't sure how he defined "couple" so I couldn't readily agree with him. While A was telling me what he saw, I listened in fascination. "You can tell from the proximity of their bodies as they walk—almost touching. You can tell by the lowered tone of their voices they are talking about something intimate. You can tell they're gay by the way they dress. Look at the one on the right: if those pants were any tighter, his cojones would fly out of his mouth...and sadly, he simply does not have the ass to fill those pants."
All very interesting. But it still did not tell me if they were a couple. They were gay: the smell of a soap that only a woman would use was on both their bodies (a very subtle soap...an expensive one)—that they shared the soap was clear from the intermingled scents: the soap and the aromas of each of the men blended and could be smelled on each man. Now, sure!, you could say that this was a sign that they maybe used the same shower or tub and soap and that there would be traces of one man's scent on the soap which could be transfered to the other man. But the scent was stronger then that—strong enough to suggest they had used the same soap, at the same time, in the same tub and not just to wash with. (If you know what I mean and I think you do.) They had fucked in the shower, if you want bluntness, and it wasn't too damn long ago. And the guy's ass might have been too small to fill out the tight pants but it wasn't too small to be friendly.
Call it my gaydar. I see it all. Visions through the nose. The fact that I am becoming such an expert on the gay world is the Mooks' doing. They both do it (though Mook B doesn't even realize he is): slowing down the walk slightly so that they can stay behind good-looking men or even follow men in a surreptitious way (ie: walk along with them but across the street from them).
I know A is going to start his commentary because, after eight months or so, I know his type. I know B is going to slow down the walk (ever so slightly) because I now know his type. A likes the solidly built guys with hairy legs and chests. Oaks. B likes his willows; waifish quasi-androgynes who look like lead singers on the cover of Tiger Beat. (B also likes black guys but as they are few and far between in this neighbourhood, he has to settle for eyeing the guys who have beards but who really shouldn't and who look like they're on a diet of pot and diet cola). When I finally figured out their likes and dislikes I wondered how the hell they had ever ended up together. Couplehood is a strange thing, isn't it?
Anyhoo...
What fascinates me also—back to walking with Mook A—is that he is usually right, if for the wrong reasons. He can tell you that a couple has just fucked, are going to fuck or are about to break up. He says he sees it in the body-language. I smell it. I can smell it in their pants and in the hormones they exude. And now I see it all and am hypnotized by it and enjoy figuring it out. Lordie what have these queers done to me!
I see it on the sidewalks. I see it in the alleys. I see it in the schoolyard (and I have to be fast on this one because A is very self-conscious when he walks past a schoolyard and he does it fast and without so much as glancing at the kids frolicking there—apparently, there is some kind of societal proscription against middle-aged men watching children frolic...go figure).
There was one fascinating scene that A didn't even catch, the other day and he would have caught it because his beloved body-language was as much in play as were the scents of it all. But you had to watch and observe to get it. What you would have seen was three luscious females and two gawky but slightly handsome males. They were chattering away as they exchanged cigarettes and texted and dallied along the street. It was clear the girls were warm for the boys (not only from the studied aloofness but also from the fountains of estrogen spraying about). If a normal person saw them they would have seen the two guys goofing about—maybe even showing off for the covey of birds. The dark-haired guy was pushing the blond guy about and pulling the hood of his jacket over his head. Lots of laughter. But as I watched, and smelled, the dark-haired guy was doing none of this for the pleasure of the girls. He was doing it for the blond. The blond was king of the hell—the way everyone deferred to him made that clear—and the dark-haired guy was his lackey. The play between the boys—for the sighted who cared to watch it—was too intimate for goofiness but not so intimate that anyone in the clique would have noticed anything wrong. But the scents...unmistakeable. But here's the rub (so to speak) the blond guy, despite that he loved the attention he was getting from everyone, had no idea what the dark-haired guy was up to nor did he care. His scent, as we dogs will tell you, was neutral. But the dark-haired guy was another story. The dark-haired guy was not only spraying out a scent that even the basest animal knows well but was also scenting with an aroma I think is specific to humans. Young couples have the scent. Old couples, walking hand in hand, have it too. Even the Mooks have it. It's the one scent no human can smell on another and it's probably just as well because if they could place the scent it would give them all way too much power over each other. It's not love though it's like that. It's not horniness, though there's a little of that there.
I'll call it attachment. It's the scent of hope and hopelessness. It's the stuff of dreams and murder. Humans are slaves to it. Every dog knows this scent on their human, but none of us (me included) understand it. It's the source of everything human (good and bad).
It's the scent that makes people so darn fascinating...and funny.
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