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I like to torture myself, I guess — I ask all my friends about the ways I can't know the world. Sarah, a lithe young Georgian, says she wears her boyfriend's shirt whenever he's gone. "His smell can bring me to my knees," she says. "Ever been in a fight with your boyfriend, but you get a whiff of his scent, and then you just want to hug?" Alas, I seem to be lacking my primal just-forget-it button.

Josh says I could give Woody Allen a run for his money. "You don't need to analyze everything," he tells me over dinner that night. But at least Woody Allen has a working sinus cavity. Josh stabs at a massive burrito with a fork, and like he does with everything — whisky before he drinks, ink before he draws, me before he nuzzles — he puts the morsel to his nose before he eats it. "Just live your life," he tells me, like it's as easy as breathing.

Is it the schnoz? For every action I perform, I always have a novel-length monologue about it in my head. I question the hell out of anything, from turning left at a one-way stop to putting my arm around my boyfriend's waist. It's always been a big obstacle in my love life. I'm incapable of flirting without mentally debating all the ways my attempts at seduction might be interpreted: as loving, or silly, or stupid, or ironic, or whorish, or rude. Josh doesn't understand why I can't let go, why I'm never swept away. Why can't I just kiss him? Why have I never been able to just kiss anybody? Is it impossible for me to appreciate hormones? Is it because my primal self — my lizard brain, my animal nature — has gone awry?

"Aren't you ever just turned on?" Josh asks me. We're both sitting half-dressed on the sofa. I have my nose in a book.
Sarah, who wears her boyfriend's shirt whenever he's gone, says, "His smell can bring me to my knees."

"I guess," I tell him, "but not right now." I'm re-reading Perfume: The Story of a Murderer. It's about a man named Grenouille with a sense of smell so strong he can walk through black nights without stumbling. One day he discovers a scent, and its description is something I wish I could appreciate on more than a linguistic level: "The odor came rolling down the rue de Seine like a ribbon... This scent was...like a piece of thin, shimmering silk…like pastry soaked in honey-sweet milk."

Grenouille's sense of smell — and his attraction to the girl who is the source of the honey-milk scent — are so strong that he can't stop himself from killing her to distill it. I can't imagine this kind of passion, but I long to feel something so primal. I need to need something so much I could murder it. Forget about sex; what about love? I look up at Josh, who wants to kiss me, who sniffs my glands (the armpit, the lap). Am I releasing some sort of signal? I can't be — I don't feel like kissing; I want to read and continue to do so. I'm in control and, at the moment, Josh isn't — he fingers my hair, my neck. Will he do this to me: smash me, grind me away? Has this process already begun?

Everywhere I go, my world is stale club soda to everyone else's two-hundred-dollar reserve Pinot. Navigating the crowds of San Francisco, I don't pause before the perfumery, the flower shop; I can't sense the homeless man in a black quilt at night until I've tripped over him. I don't know what it's like to walk into a Chinese bakery like my friend Alex, who stops short, tasting the air, who takes a deep breath with her whole body and says, "Jesus, I wish I could live here forever." A Russian stranger sidles up to me at the BART station. He has the most peaceful look on his face when he tells me, "You smell just like my daughter did before her wedding." And now, I remember my father, five years ago at my mother's funeral, sitting in a church pew, grasping the petals he'd snatched roughly from each arrangement. He clutched roses, lilies, little purple blooming things I've never known the name of, and pressed each bloom into his face, weeping and weeping as though I could not see him.

And my boyfriend. After a long day of wine-tasting, I wash my face with an exfoliating scrub made of ocean salt, limes, coconut, grapefruit, violets, and vodka. I crawl into bed with Josh, our lips tinged purple from Merlot we've drunk straight from the bottle. He's half-asleep, he puts his nose to my cheek and inhales. He smiles without knowing it. I want to ask him what love is. I want to tell him the story of my friend Jenny, who knew she had to end it with her husband when his smell no longer pleased her. I want to ask him how to be sure of your feelings if they're all in your head and not your body; I want to ask if these things I think I feel could ever be called feelings. Instead, I go with my gut: I wrap myself around him and try to sleep.  


        


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Katie Wudel is a writer, educator, and arts advocate living in the Midwest. Her writing has appeared in McSweeney’s, among other magazines, and she was recently awarded a residency at Hedgebrook, where she'll work on her collection of short stories about sweet and monstrous ladies with unseemly desires.

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40 Comments

Wonderful!

jam commented on 01/26

Great article, but that one paragraph made me think you were about to stab Josh!

JCF commented on 01/26

This is the best piece of writing I've read on Hooksexup in a long time. Thoughtful, sexy, and will make me appreciate my wine a lot more now.

SC commented on 01/26

How odd and fascinating, I think, sitting here with a delicious hot cup of coffee in front of me. Still, her anxiety seems intense, perhaps stemming from something more than just olfactory malfunction.

Bwr commented on 01/26

great piece. something i never even considered! i wonder if other senses become heightened. isn't smell also the strongest connection to memory?

csm commented on 01/26

Dear Hooksexup: We want more of Katie Wudel! As a fellow scentless sufferer, I find myself yearning to experience the "ocean salt, limes, coconut, grapefruit, violets." Cruel! I just know I'm going to be the mother of chain-smoking children who go undetected...

HLv commented on 01/26

Love this piece! And I agree with Bwr: I'm sitting here with a fresh cup of coffee, raw sugar on the foam, and wonder would I love it as much if I couldn't smell? (Or, am I just addicted to caffeine?). Such gorgeous writing.

Kel commented on 01/26

I'm neurotic about dating and my schnoz works just fine! Wish i had a better excuse. :)

Opp commented on 01/26

Ha. this is great writing. thank the good lord...

co commented on 01/26

Best piece on Hooksexup of late. Was seriously giving up on you guys, thought it was just a bunch of 16 year old boys and twitter dick jokes. This was wonderful: interesting, clever, sexy, well written. Thank you.

man commented on 01/26

oh god i loved this. this is why i haven't given up on Hooksexup yet. because once in awhile you guys throw me a bone, like this gorgeous piece.

whee commented on 01/26

Bravo! Lovely.

jgg commented on 01/26

This really made me think and appreciate my senses; it's so easy to take them for granted. Of course if I never experienced smell would I miss it? Perhaps I'd miss it more if I had it and lost it. This sure made me think!

prp commented on 01/26

Love this piece. The ending especially -- amazing! More of this writer please.

yelp commented on 01/26

I really enjoyed this piece...my best friend suffers from anosmia as well, so it was doubly interesting. The writer is incredibly talented, and, dare I say, very cute.

LR commented on 01/26

I dated an anosmic girl once, it was an experience. She found out about it as a child when she almost let the gas stove in her house explode. When I told her that sex had a smell, she almost had a heart attack, like she might have been blowing her own spot for years without knowing it.

DT commented on 01/26

Your Latina roommate is lusty, sensual, sensuous, and a literal man eater who likes animalistic sex. Oh boy. Where do I begin?

SL commented on 01/26

I am a partial anosmic! No one ever believes me that it's a real thing.

JLY commented on 01/26

Katie - I can relate. I have "onset anosmia", as my naturopath calls it. I lost my sense of smell through years of the most aggressive allergies known to man. My blood allergen levels are about 350x higher than the highest that most "severe" cases show. Anyway, I too know what it's like to live without being able to smell. It drives people crazy when they want to cook me dinner or something and I can't enjoy the part they are enjoying (I love salty food, they are crazy for the aromas). But the benefits have been plentiful. I worked in a manufacturing plant once and a fish-processing plant opened up next door. Everyone else was asking the boss to call the EPA and I was totally oblivious. Granted, I have to do my best guesswork when it comes to hygiene, but at least I have a few great friends that will tell me the truth when I ask... :)

TS commented on 01/26

I think I am the opposite of an anosmic. I have an intense olfactory sense and it really bothers me. It has actually lead to end relationships because people are too smelly. This was a very beautiful article.

mle commented on 01/26

great piece. i have some of the same neuroses and a functioning olfactory Hooksexup, so it ain't just you, darlin.

ad commented on 01/26

what a fantastic read. whoever edited this should get a raise.

cm. commented on 01/26

That was very well-written and poignant; a reminder not to take anything for granted. I will say that just as people born blind compensate and live well, so do you, Katie, probably more than people around you acknowledge.

EM commented on 01/26

Beautifully written, fantastic descriptions of the anxiety and neuroses that are only heightened by anosmia.

JDT commented on 01/26

A fabulous bit of writing. Thank you Hooksexup and thank you Katie!

jt commented on 01/26

beautiful! Super interesting and lovely to read.

ELP commented on 01/26

Gorgeous. A robust read. Truly wonderful.

FJAT commented on 01/27

you need to say f*ck it every now and again. When you realise you can't consider All possible eventualities, realise nothing is entirely under your control. Think of the fear for a little while, and let it excite you, elevating adrenalin levels. Then take a deep breath and just do it, say f*ck it, get on with it and see what happens. You might not be able to control everything, but by doing something, at least you have completed an action. I have problems getting on with things, but it stems from my executive decision making problems because I have ADHD. So Go, live your life! (oh and watch The Notepad, the scene at the crossroads ;) )

GT commented on 01/27

very nice! i love my bf's smell and the scent of his cologne-- makes me wanna grab him and make love with him passionately. i agree, sometimes sense of smell is animalistic.

LV commented on 01/27

enjoyed reading it! thanks!

tt commented on 01/27

wow, this is really something I could never think of. It blows my mind.

mg commented on 01/27

really great writing. hope we see more of her.

hc commented on 01/27

Wow. Good writing. Sad story. I'm a noncasual smell gourmand - I love inhaling the scent of every good-looking girl that passes by. I notice the distinctive odors of friends, and find it reassuring. My roommate recently enlightened me to auguring the health of a dog by smelling its ears - they smell faintly sweet when in good health. So sad to think you miss this.

JPM commented on 01/28

PS - have you considered seeing a therapist about your anxiety levels? Your tend to overanalyze might be a symptom of GAD.

JPM commented on 01/28

I think it is and is not the schnoz. I think it's about being in a body that is so unconventional that our experience of the world is fundamentally different from everyone else's — and we're constantly aware of that, checking in, comparing. For me the difference is physical — I was born essentially quadriplegic, with full senses but virtually no strength. And I have struggled with nearly identical anxieties. Ideally, we get to a place where we accept the difference, celebrate it, stop comparing. Then the anxiety will ease.

reb commented on 01/28

"For every action I perform, I always have a novel-length monologue about it in my head."... This internal debate is not about smell, but anxiety. It's part of a personality that for some reason lacks confidence. It's an debate that I'm sure many of us have had. As for smell, I lost mine for a week once. When it came back the intensity and scents were improperly calibrated for a few days. Luckily everything went back to normal. Scent is a big part of my life. It identifies places and times; people and their stuff. I'm still amazed when I come upon a new scent. I'm probably not going to discover a new color or a fantastic new sound, but from time to time there are those new and unique smells that introduce themselves.

sng commented on 01/28

I totally relate to your roommate. I love the way men smell. I breath deeply and take it all in...

ER commented on 01/28

ohh, i don't know what I would do if I couldn't smell, I LOOOVE the smell of my boyfriend, it's one of the little things that makes me love him.

SB commented on 01/29

Look for the benefits. You've never had to suffer from the rudeness of perfumed people. I've gotten a migraine at the movies from sitting next to someone scented. Those fancy restaurant meals? The most delicious flavors can be tainted by the cologne wearing person at the next table. You're missing your sense of smell. But you'd be surprised how many people who can smell, lack sensitivity when it comes to forcing their scent on others. Ask anyone with migraines, asthma, or going through chemotherapy how sickening these smells can be. Meditation could help you enjoy sex more. Instead of thinking about all the senses, try focusing on just one to the exclusion of all others. For instance, concentrate on touch alone and tune out all the others. You might find this is an easier way to lose yourself in the act, and quiet your anxieties.

JXM commented on 01/29

Heartbreaking and hilarious--or maybe the other way around. My favorite line: "Am I too neurotic, or is it the schnoz?" You COULD give Woody Allen a run for his money.

MHS commented on 01/30
 

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