Ding Dong, I love your Pong! In which I discuss Pheromones.

Imagine: you met him on Match, or Eharmony, or wherever.  He has teeth, a job, and likes animals.  You arrange to meet in a public place.  He suggests that chic, fine dining place that you know you shouldn’t really afford, but what the heck! 

He is there, waiting at the bar, with his neat amber measure bathing on the rocks.  He looks good, better than his picture, and you start to wish that maybe you hadn’t hurried straight from work, but had stopped to tame the humidi-fizzed nest on your head, that maybe you had spritzed with your perfume and sucked on a Listerine tab, reapplied the lip gloss that feels like a weight in your pocket. 

But the date goes off well.  He compliments you, asks you questions, orders the wine with alacrity; suggests a couple of appetizers to start.  He waves the waiter over and speaks with bon homie, like he’s been there a thousand times before and he and the waiter are great mates.  You notice the way he treats people and acknowledges them with a raise of his dark brows and a Cheshire Cat beam.  He is confident.  People like him, and you like that. 

You share dishes.  It’s surprising, this sudden coupling, but you go with the flow and enjoy his attention.  At the end of the date, you see your reflection in his eyes.  His focus is all for you and it’s consuming.  You know you shouldn’t, but you do want to kiss him, to feel his hot lips on yours, the rhythm, the taste of him.  It’s a long unawkward kiss as you hover by your car—knowing that you should get in and drive away, but that kiss! 

The next dates pass just as the first, but the kisses are deeper, longer.  He’s full of stories!  So entertaining!  He wears charisma like a leather onesie.  He makes you feel special.  And then IT happens, x number of dates in, maybe after three-too-many white lotus martinis: the frantic peel of clothes, the clash of flesh, the flail, the push, the pull, the thrust, the pneumatic motion as your bodies writhe in unison, pumping to catch that elusive wave that will bring both of you to shore, beached.  You fall asleep a tangle of sweaty spent limbs.  Morning comes early, you roll over and inhale the daylight, and UGH! GOOD GOD, WHAT IS THAT STENCH?

Hereeeeee's... Stinky Pete!

Just imagine.

Now, you are pretty sure he didn’t consume a double bean burrito last night.  He shared your flatbread and salad and drank from the same bottle of wine you did.  And you don't smell like a toxic wasteland.  No, you smell of vanilla and linen and sex.  He has not been poisoned by some dreadful unholy explosive gastric virus.  You are sure.  He sleeps.  You sniff.  You tent the sheets over your head.  Dear God, is this Auschwitz?  You rotisserie-chicken yourself over, not to disturb the slumbering form that was, pre-coital, quite lovely, but now… noxious.  You tentatively nestle back into that nook beneath his armpit, your flushed cheek burning through his cool contracting and expanding chest.  Maybe you were wrong.  You inhale again.  It’s not deadly farts, or inexplicable breath, it’s just... him.  He has a smell, and ain't no Gucci.

Pheromones.  Tricky little fuckers.  The scent that can drive a woman uninhibited and legs akimbo, or… sorry Chaps, running for the shower, or her keys, or the door.  Or all three.    

Scents are used to influence the senses.  This can be done defensively, ie: my brother pinning me to the ground and farting on my head; or as a lure, to turn a head just as a peacock tail, a six-pack, a delicious raucous laugh, a red Ferrari.  Scent can be key in sexual selection.  And I suppose this topic appeals to me because I can’t figure out how a chap, who could not be a good match in any way, shape or form, but—nice one Evolutionary Biology—has a smell so delicious to you that the bitter-sweet inhalation as your nostrils fill with the scent emanating from his skin, the waft of his manliness as you brush your cheek next to his in some faux display of civility, JUST GETS YOU, like someone has stabbed you in the intestines and twisted the knife like a Sicilian.  What is this Sense and Olfactory Captor?  What is this elixir that can drive us buck wild or headache-bound? 

Humans possess three major skin glands: sebaceous, eccrine and apocrine.  Apocrine glands occur in greatest concentration on the hands, cheeks, scalp, breasts and body hair and they are thought to produce this sexual elixir.  Interestingly, male apocrine glands are larger than women’s.  Women’s olfactory receptors are greater than men’s, and when women are ovulating their sense of smell becomes heightened.  It could be because the parental investment of women is greater than in men—we have to put in 9 months at least—so sniffing out a suitable mate has more consequences to a female.  Yup, the onus is on us.

So, Ladies, whilst it may seem like we are just suckers for Aqua Di Gio , Hermes, or High Intensity, we are not.  The underlying odour our nostrils are pulsating for, has deeper and greater significance for our offspring.  No wonder the perfume industry has been trying to bottle that bewitching ‘Love Spell’ for years.  Sadly, slaughtering deer for their musk, tigers, or goodness know what other poor creatures.  But it is not a fruity, oriental, musky, woodsy headache-inducing synthetic pong, it’s sex-smell from skin and hair that tells a potential partner about your DNA profile, a sequence of genes that broadcasts info about your immunity, and has us ovulating women snuffling for pheromones, as if for truffles!

In research on mice, females were found to choose males whose gene sequence least overlapped their own.  Ie: she wants her offspring to have as broad DNA and immunity profile as possible, so ensure a greater chance of survival.   In mice, the female sniffs out fitness by smelling her suitors urine.  In monkeys, they they rub urine on their feet to attract mates, advertising their immunity and therefore sexual fitness.  Now, I don’t know about you, but I have never sniffed my potential chap’s pee or rubbed my urine over myself.  (Hmm... maybe THIS explains why people enjoy golden showers?  Weirdos.)  However, I have made some shitty choices, so maybe I should.  Dogs waste no time in crotch-whiffing.

“Hey, I’ve just met you, and this is crazy, can I sniff your crotch please, and call me maybe?” 

There has been extensive research, not just on rodents, but I—a young college-attendee En--was part of such a project when I had to sniff male ‘T’ shirts and rate them for attractiveness—oh Phil Le Pelley and Dr. David Goulson, I remember—and women do prefer scents exuded from men whose MHC (major histocompatibilty complex) differs from their own.  And in terms of offspring fitness, that makes a lot of ‘sense’.  Lordy, innate instincts are clever. 

But there’s a twist—oooooh—yes, oral contraceptives can screw a female’s olfactory senses.  Since the contraceptive pill fools the body into thinking it is pregnant, it reverses our natural preferences.  So maybe if he smells irresistible, and he is a prize Bastardly Dicktard, it is just because you are being betrayed by your daily baby blocker.  OH NO!  To really get a sense of him, you, ladykat friend, should take a break and give him a good old whiff around a more hairy area.  If you want to puke, you might want to question your choices; if he smells like sex and desire wrapped in a weirdly attractive non-six-packed body, then maybe he’s for you.

Maybe he nuzzles your neck to get to those scent releasing factories behind your ear.  His olfactory receptors are not as receptive as yours, but he can, according to research, subconsciously detect the pheromones females release when ovulating, and accordingly, testosterone levels in men are higher during these times and lower when not ovulating!  Way to go, Evolution, conserve manliness for times of need!  Yup, LadyKat, he is inhaling you there, because he knows you like his warm, whiskeyed breath behind your earlobe, it's because he's sensing your fertility, like a rutting buck.  

Soapy cleansers and perfumes make it harder for humans to detect true histocompatibility, but in the morning, sans contraceptive pill, when the Gucci has disappeared with the stars, take a good inhale of him.  If you click, if there is chemistry, if his stench and your waft make a nasal cocktail of chemical desire, that sends loins into overdrive, then tally ho!  If not, perhaps it's another biological siren that you should heave ho.

Caveat: I am not necessarily recommending sniffing crotches or asking for urine samples on a first date.  Second date?  Well, absolutely!

(And, if you do happen to take a contraceptive break, I am not responsible for the consequences.  Thank you.  PONG ON!)

Your-fertile-smell-is-affecting-my-testosterone-levels

The-smell-love

"Let's Date!" "No, thanks!" In which all the Romantics Reach for the Smelling-Salts!

Sometimes I think I was born a century too late. Not that I would have enjoyed living through World War I or II, but there is something I find comfortable in the whole well-mannered, polite, corseted existence where one knows the rules and what is expected. One doesn’t dare speak of such awkward things as dating and disappointment; one's papa and mama simply have it all arranged. 

Perhaps I have watched too much Downton Abbey, or have read too much Edith Wharton.  The problem being with this type of existence--where time seems only to be measured by society balls, meals and whether it is time to change for dinner--is that I like making my own choices and loathe being limited.  I am not sure I could ever surrender Self to the whims of elder matchmaking, being paired off, discussed like an item at auction, my stats being compared with others to find the most fitting match.  Yet, I realize, it's alive and kicking, maybe not dressed up in a hoop and crinoline, but it is there, and it is huge, it's a multi-million dollar industry!  It's...ONLINE DATING.  Maybe it's necessary.  After all, we've done such stellar job of coupling ourselves--what's the divorce rate now?  50%?--that is it any wonder we want to entrust this job to a third party?  

"In the U.S. alone, the target demographic for these services is 90 million singles that are between 19 and 45. Then there are the forty percent of frequent users that are already married." (Marty Zwilling, Start Up Professionals, Inc.)  I get it, I do.  Young professionals working all hours... who has the time to trawl restaurants and charity doodahs to meet nice folks?  Specimen loitering at bars are easier to approach, but really are they the chosen one you can take home to mother?  Instead, Generation X and Y are putting their fate and faith in the hands, not of The Dowager Duchess, but the "29 dimensions of compatibility" of eHarmony, Match.com, Ok-Cupid, Plenty of Fish, Christian Mingle, J Date... Oh lord, shoot me.

I don’t mean to poo-poo it. (I like doughnuts, once in a while.)  I like to think I am liberated, and gung ho, and huzzah carpe diem! But this morning I found myself reading of this new app for the I-phone called “Let’s Date.” My eyes widened with alarm, my pulse quickened. I needed a good rousing waft of the smelling salts, so I reached for my coffee instead and inhaled deeply. 

Let’s Date came out of the Apple Closet at the end of 2012, so I am probably WAYYYY behind the app - ball here. I bet you Krazee Kids have been using this wangle-dangle technology to lure and hook and gaff a mate for months, but, ever a tech-tard, there is a little lag for Ennie. It’s not that I’m incapable—I tweet, I Facebook, I instagram, I reluctantly Link In—but the thought of sifting through dating profiles of potential snaggle-toothed offerings who probably aren’t telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, just leaves me cold. “Granny,” as Lady Mary Crawley would call her, would do a far better job! 

Don’t get me wrong, am not being a snotty little bovine, but, well, I guess the thought of a) openly serving my heart on a page, trying to explain me without jazz hands, and putting Self out there for the perusal of weirdos, psychos and inmates... erm... not tempting; b) I never imagined explaining the story of how I met the love of my life would begin, “Well, William, I saw your father’s picture on a dating website..." Fuck the doughnuts, I'd rather eat a lizard, shave my head and join the foreign legion.

Many of my friends use online dating sites however, and I am vicariously enthralled! And is it any wonder, thus far the friends' online trail has unearthed many Disappointments, one Illiterate who "doesn't read... because (he) doesn't have any books, one Ego-Maniac, a Stalker and a Midget. (Sorry, I know midgets have feelings too, but if you plan on dating a 6ft tall lady, I believe there should be some pre-date disclosure, right?)


But this Dating App has me truly befuddled, because now Daters, you can eliminate people on-the-go, and I am stinkin’ fascinated! Like watching-plastic-surgery riveted! I know I don’t want it, but I want to watch it! I want to know exactly how it works!

The concept is to have as many daters pass before your eyes, like a human buffet, each offering shown on a card (a profile) with five adjectives, or ingredients, that make them appealing to you… or not. It’s a speed dating of sorts, a microwave meal, a rapidly-served amuse bouche to give you a little flavour. It rather reminds me of Top Trumps, or baseball cards with players stats, and you compare the adjectives and photograph to see which win a “Let’s Date” touch of the screen, or a “No, thanks.” (I do like that rejection is polite, even when micro-waving away this poor untried Human Entrée.)

You can also highlight with the handy dandy touch of your screen the characteristics or preferences you dislike. This information, combined with the Daters you decline, gives the programme more detailed info about your likes and dislikes, and will present the cards of potentials who similarly do or don’t like that trait or activity. The more cards you decline, the more traits you highlight and dislike, the more accurate a vision of what your ideal would be. It is basically a computer model that uses the power of elimination to whittle the field of potential suitors and propose a specimen you might enjoy. 

When you select your dish of the day, your own profile goes to near the top of their virtual stack of cards. If they like the sound of your menu, and similarly click, “Let’s Date,” well, colour be happy, no diggety, the Let’s Date app suggests a public meeting place based your joint interests. A conversation window pops up and apparently—how traditional!—it suggests that the chap treats the lady!

From the stats and science point of view, I think this a really interesting concept. Certainly, for quick, easy breezy cavalier, thumbs up, thumbs down, ruthless dispassionate rejection, it surely can’t be beat!  But crumble my macaroons, should there be stats and science when it comes to dating?
 
Here’s my problem, one can’t cover the complexity of human attraction in an i-phone photo and 5 adjectives. Sure, the model of preferences and dislikes might be a science, but it fails to include chemistry or biology. What about pheromones? You can’t add that on an app. And I know some of the chaps I have dated and enjoyed fabulous, all-consuming relationships with, I would have never picked in a squillion years; yet, there was something irresistible: a fire in his eyes, a contagious laugh, an enquiring mind, a generous heart, a bon vivre—things you just can’t relay on a five adjective long MENu. 

So it worries me that the science stats, or ill-chosen five adjectives might potentially knock out that computer geek who doesn’t own a suit, or the hunter who makes you laugh and smells so delicious to your senses, or the older man who just makes you weak-kneed with one look.

Am I saying don’t give it a go? No! Go for it, my fine Dating Friend! Enjoy, meet publicly and act kindly. But the hopeless romantic in me just quakes at the sterility, the lack of adjectives! Give me more adjectives! And maybe this will be a gateway to a longer conversation, I hope so, but the adjectives that don’t conform to your ideal, the ones that would have surprised you if you'd given them a chance, are lost in a click, consigned to cyber purgatory.

If you are traditional, confident and out-going, it’s not apps or online sites you need, it’s good people.  Surround yourself with positive friends, friends with gumption, friends to have a coffee with, lunch or dinner with, friends to adventure places with, and it's whilst enjoying life, just as you are, that you'll catch a glimpse of those intriguing eyes which stop your smile, suck the breath from your lungs and make you feel like you are the corseted heroine in an Edith Wharton novel,
“Oh… hello!”
“Hello there. Dreadfully cold, isn’t it?”
“Rather. I’ve lost complete feeling in my fingers.”
“Lord, you are looking blue. Perhaps… can I get you a coffee…?”