The Smell of Estrogen

Let's say you are a man of a "certain" age, and you enjoy what is now dangerously referred to as "the feminine" in women.  You like the dichotomy between the masculine and the feminine, though that is not all you enjoy.  But you do enjoy that, too.  You are a liberal person and don't mind how others choose to live but you find yourself castigated by some people for speaking or acting upon your preference.  Being of a "certain" age, however, it doesn't matter as much as it used to.  Your options are shrinking.  "Perhaps I'll try men," you say in certain quarters with a chuckle, "and if I like it, I'll kill myself for not doing it sooner."  It is an old joke and you tell it differently in disparate circles.  You are smart, and you are careful, but sometimes you just enjoy turning over the table or upsetting the cart.  Yes, you think, that is one of your special talents.  You love to throw people's gyroscopes out of skew and watch their panicked eyes search for a horizon.  

Where you get in trouble, though, is when you disclose your predilection for youthful beauty.  You are visual, you say, to a fault.  Surely everyone understands that.  

Nope.  

Ah, well. . . what can you do?  Live and let live, you say.  It matters little.  Your life has become a dull and deadening routine, and your options are severely limited in your mostly solitudinous existence.  

"But I've had a long and glorious run," you say.  All you want is more.  

Your day begins as usual, coffee and "the papers."  But as you read the news on your laptop, your text chimes.  It is from a young woman you know.  She has sent you a song and a cute message.  You thought she had ghosted you, so the morning is off to a good start.  You text her back a song in the same vein, and she responds.  Well, now. . . how about that.  

Later, you go to the gym.  You know better than to talk to women there.  You will never be an old creeper, you say, but one of "the girls" comes over to ask about your mother.  She is sweet and you tell her you appreciate her asking.  You don't try to extend the conversation, but she does and the talk turns to her personal life.  She's being chatty for some reason.  It is nice.  

When you are on the treadmill, a young woman walks in.  She is attractive, so you notice.  As she turns the corner, she sees you and smiles without turning away for a minute.  Huh, you wonder. . . what was that about?  But later on in your workout, she turns to you and says hi.  A conversation begins.  She is reading a book on EST.  It is something you know about and she's kind of surprised.  She wants to know if you have gone to the institute.  No, you say, you just grew up in the environment from which EST sprung.  EST was the commodification, you say, of a conglomeration of philosophies from Buddhism, Transcendental Meditation, Existentialism, etc.  She wants to know more.  She is twenty-one, she says, doesn't go to college, doesn't work, and lives with her "partner."  You don't ask.  She has abandoned her workout now, it seems, and you haven't done a set in fifteen minutes.  But the old creepers in the gym can't stand it, and as they will, they gather around to horn in on whatever is happening.  Not to swell this crowd, you move on.  Later, when she leaves, the fellows watch her through the big plate glass window.  That's a hundred thousand dollar car, they say and the pieces seem to fall into place.  She doesn't go to school, doesn't work, was comfortable talking to older men, and drives a very expensive car.  

After the gym, you have errands to run, the last one being to drop off the fall comforter at the dry cleaners.  Comforters are the only thing you've had dry cleaned in five years.  When you walk in, the young Asian woman greets you--by name.  Holy smokes, you say with a grin, how do you do that?  You should be a bartender.  She laughs and says yes.  Does she remember everyone's name who brings in something twice a year?  You think not, and you are pleased.  You allow yourself to feel special.  Surely she likes me you think.  Surely.  

Early that evening, you meet your buddy at your favorite Italian place.  You get there first and save him a seat next to you at the small bar.  You joke with the woman next to the seat.  The bartender is one who apparently hates you.  She laughs and jokes with others, but she always looks at you like you have kicked her puppy.  You don't understand it, but you accept it as a dire reality.  You are attracted to her, anyway.  You have always thought she was a true beauty.  Everyone suggests she is a lesbian, and maybe she is, but you don't think that is the thing.  Whatever.  

As you wait for your friend, you ask the fellow next to you what he ordered.  It looks good.  He had them make something off menu, he says.  You like a person who knows what they want, you say.  It is rare.  You do the same thing quite often you tell him.  If they have the ingredients for what you want, they can make it.  They will charge you what they want and you will pay it, but if it is good, you have gotten your money's worth.  He is an older man.  You later find out he is younger than you thought.  He is dining with another man who is in his mid-thirties.  When your buddy arrives, introductions are made.  The fellows all get along famously and talk about things you either know little about or have no interest in.  The two are in sales.  The younger has a large territory.  The older is his supplier.  Your buddy used to be in sales, so they talk shit as you drift off thinking about the mean barmaid who doesn't seem to like your friend, either.  She is cheerful and friendly with the men you have just met, however, chatty, and you remark that to your buddy who says yea, let's go somewhere else, but you have your taste buds set for dinner.  At some point, however, the bartender is in conversation with the four of you and she lightens up.  She is smiling now and telling you about her experiences with eating mushrooms.  You share a story, too, and now she is looking you in the eyes and laughing.  Later your buddy says he had asked her why she didn't like us and he got it squared away.  Maybe.  You would have to wait and see how she is next time.  So dinner finished, you say goodbye to your new friends and to the lady you had spoken to earlier.  She is showing photos on her phone of some pretty girls.  I know that one, you say with a grin and she pulls her phone away.  It turns out it is her daughter.  The lady tells you that she used to be a dancer at a local bar.  She now weighs about 200 pounds but she is still full of vigor and you know your buddy has been flirting her up and down.  All in all, it had been a good night.  

Back home, you pour a drink and check your messages.  A girl from Cali has texted.  She is playing jazz and sitting by a fire and thinking of you.  You are tempted to check your horoscope.  It has been the kind of day you needed.  You feel better than you have for weeks.  Maybe more.  It is funny how that works, you think.  But you are still crazy about that stuff.  You are crazy for the smell of estrogen.  It is not an actual fragrance but you know it all the same.

You can say it out loud, but you know it only brings you trouble.  

And though the day was grand, you know it will not last.  

And so it goes.  Selavy. 

Selah.