Travel Smells

I’m not wearing any deodorant.

Didn’t think I needed it, didn’t want to pack it.

Didn’t think I smelled.

I was wrong. And now all the sweat that exudes from my body is concentrated in the pores of my pits. It’s as if the toxins decided to play a really mean joke on me to get me to shape up my health.

Maybe B.O. is really the result of traveling. Hence, the stench of the metro.

Not sure that’s a fact, what I do know is last night I resorted to using the deodorant of my host.

Bet when she agreed to share her couch, she didn’t expect to be swapping pit sweat with another dame. Still, I’m certain she appreciates the subdued stench.

It didn’t help much, my feet are starting to smell too.

I took my shoes off to go through security and the putrid odor rose in waves of body heat choking me out. Diffusing to every crevice of the check point.

Sorry?!

Bet they were glad to give me back my odor covers post x-ray scan. Man, silent & deadly. Probably, why the security guy didn’t bother searching my bag.

I must find another expert smelly person, maybe start a case study to discover if the fetor ever ceases. And if they smell as bad to themselves as to other people.

If the later is truth, I’m screwed. I might as well become a hermit; because no living being with olefactories is going to go near me.

There goes my sex life.

I’m about to embark on a plane. I hope nobody sits next to me. What if I have the middle seat?

The plane ride is eight hours long and I smell like the musk of a skunk born in the bayou. Scratch that, I smell worse.

I smell like a dead fish, cured and pickled in an onion and garlic purée, left open in closed quarters with 70% humidity, air temperature 101 degrees Fahrenheit (something hot, Celsius).