This past summer I was having dinner with Dee when she became irritated at me noticing women who walked by, saying, “I can definitely see how this drove your wife crazy. What are you building some kind of virtual harem in your mind? Even if you are with a woman you are not intimate with, it is still off-putting. You are the worst case of this I’ve seen.”

I then said, most sagely I might add, “Oh. So what do you think of the character development in the Out of Time?”

As she sat with wide eyes of astonishment, I noticed the swish of a green translucent skirt on a pair of athletic thighs and she sighed, “Nineteen, at best—and you do not even have standards. You have looked at the short curvy counter girl numerous times—the entirely opposite body type.”

After Dee and I finished our meal we walked out, with her in the lead. As she waved to the skinny girl behind the counter and looked into the kitchen, she noticed my look down at the wood panel counter face and gasped in astonishment. I kept looking at the counter face as I walked by, and was treated, upon passing the gap in the counter—to the big-eyed image of the buxom shorty looking up at me, as she should, as that is her lot in life—while she cleaned something on the floor.

Once outside, Dee sad, “There is no way you saw her. This is unbelievable—you are like a caveman. You can actually smell pussy!”

I then confessed to her that I have long been aware of this “super power,” though tend to use it only unconsciously.

In the 90s I was working at a supermarket, really trying not to look at the only good looking girl in the store, and making sure never to compliment her on her appearance, as she was a lesbian and sought refuge working the non-food strips in my aisle until the other grunts went home. I did not want to be compared to those who I despised. The regular guys on this crew, who drank beer while they worked over night and had names like “Nasty Nick” and “Chicken Paul,” would just stand in a group and stare at her like she was the blonde washing the car in Cool Hand Luke and they were the chain gang.

She had also picked up on the fact that these guys hated and feared me and that it made them jealous when she smiled at me and talked to me, so I actually learned her name. I would occasionally tell her that she smelled particularly nice, because sometimes she did.

One morning, as I pushed my U-boat of cardboard flats past her headed to the bailer, and she flashed a smile at me, I said, “Miss, you smell very nice today. You ought to wear that perfume more often,” and continued on my way.

She then followed me down the aisle and tapped me on the shoulder, saying, “Mister Rambo,” [that’s what they called me, in my long hair and bandana] “I have to tell you something.”

I turned and looked, afraid I was going to get in trouble for sexual harassment, and she smiled and said, “I don’t wear perfume, and you have told me now three times, three months in a row, that I smell good, and, and, what’s crazy about it, is it has always been on the first day of my period.”

I was pretty horrified and tried to apologize, and she put up her hand and said, “Yeah, it’s kind of creepy, but kind of cool too. Now I know why those jerks on the night crew are all afraid of you—you’re like an animal, a caveman. I’m not threatened by you at all. In fact, you are the only man I’ve had a conversation with in years.”

The final confirmation of my caveman super-sense came at a restaurant called Bahama Breeze in Towson, where I often joined my son and his fiancé for dinner. My son was always dismissive and bothered by the fact that I’d turn my head and look at girls younger than him, and rightfully blamed my Neanderthal nature in this respect on the rift that had developed between his mother and I.

His fiancée seemed entertained by my proclivities and paid great attention to my interaction with female staff. She was actually counting women, by type, attire, etc., who got my attention. Then, as one cute college girl in a summer dress sauntered by she said, “Oh My God!” then covered her mouth, and began to laugh deep in her belly, trying not to blurt out her impressions. To my asking look she said, “I know what it is, Mister Jim—you aren’t a horn dog, you’re a caveman!”

Glenn gave her a critical look and she said, speaking effusively with her hands, “Mostly your dad turns his head and looks at women he has not seen, who come up from behind, that’s why it’s so noticeable. But what is really crazy, is he never turns and looks at a girl in slacks or jeans until they get into his peripheral vision. But, but!, if the girl is wearing a dress or skirt, his nose twitches and he turns his head while they are still behind him! Your dad has a superpower!”

There you go, and it goes both ways, which we will discuss in the Priestess section. This is, I think, not a matter of scent, but of chemical sensory perception that stops short of consciously smelling something, in short—I’m innocent girls, Mom, Siss!

Below are two video links that address the issue more academically.