Joxygen (or, A Rose By Any Other Name)

What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man.  O, be some other name!

What's in a name? that which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title.

--- "Romeo and Juliet," Act II, scene ii.

I had to percolate on this one for a few days, because I wasn't sure if this was one of those "I need to go there" topics.  It's a fact of life that all mammals have some type of odor, and for most of them, that odor is what tells friend from foe, brother from sister, Panthera leo from panthera tigris.  But let's be real: one of the most relevant arguments between couples is the smell that comes from working out, night sweat, the lack of showering for five days, etc., and it's usually directed at the guy and his clothes.  So, I'm going there.  It's a bit off-theme, which I admit completely, but I think the argument can be made that the body "wears" an odor.

One of my college roommates (B.K.B.) was a former football player, and he is the one who introduced  me to the term "joxygen" (jock + oxygen = joxygen), meant to describe the odor originating from a guy's "special secret no-no place," to paraphrase Martin Short's Clifford.  Now, I should probably make clear that B. did not go around with a pair of boxers in hand (yes, boxers ... that lowest form of undergarment) demanding, "Smell these!"  No, he did not.  In fact, it was quite the opposite.  Although he no longer played football, he did belong to a band, and was accustomed to weekend-long jam sessions or trips to the middle of nowhere for a gig, so it wasn't unusual for him to arrive home ... pungent.

Same thing for my sons over the past five years.  There's nothing so ... ripe ... as a teenage European male athlete, especially my last two (and I want it noted, I love my kids to death, but seriously ... what the hell are kids secreting nowadays?).  I used to complain they were taking too many showers, until Tom pointed out they had weight lifting as their last period in school, were at basketball or wrestling practice after school, and liked to go for a workout - after school but before dinner.  Not really surprising then when their laundry would arrive downstairs in piles that were sopping wet (yuck), smelling to high heaven (double yuck) and that they were constantly taking showers.  After a month of doing baskets of laundry that had to be held at arm's length, I had to join Tom in not caring how often they were showering, much less what they were doing in there.  I simply paid my quadrupled water bill in fuming silence.

There's a certain disparity involved with matters of this type.  Guys are perfectly content to smell their own effluvia and not bat an eye, but other guys (in this case, roommates/exchange sons) don't want to be anywhere near said underwear, much less touch it.  ("Let's save that for our girlfriends/parents.  They won't say anything because they love us.")  Never mind that you've seen your best friend in a jock strap, or, as in my and B.'s case, shared a bedroom (two bunks, you dirty-minded sods); never mind that in the extremest cases, you've actually rubbed up against another guy's genitalia on purpose.  But don't hand another guy your underwear.  That's like touching plutonium.

B. would chuck his shorts into the basket in his closet, slap his hands clean and head off to do his calculus.  I felt like I was missing something.  Honestly.  I've covered in previous posts that I was a swimmer, and when you're a swimmer, you don't get joxygen because you're literally and constantly in or under water: swim a few laps, shower to rinse off.  Prepare to dive, shower and rinse off.  Come out of pool after dive, shower and rinse off.  Swim 500 meters, shower and rinse off.  Swimmers don't have the same opportunity that allows germs and microbes to grow as guys who play physical sports do.  If anything, we smell clean because of the chlorine.  (That s*** strips away everything.  It's like turpentine.)

I actually had to embark on my journey of self-actualization (i.e. come out of the closet) before I learned the true meaning of joxygen, and that was only because I was dating someone.  All of the normal barriers were gone, and seeing the guy I was dating after a game of racquetball or spending a weekend together put everything into perspective.  Guys smell.  No two ways about it.  And when those smells are compacted into a very small and tight space - "the special secret no-no place" - it's enough to make most people lose their lunch, no matter how practiced their gag reflex.

(Keep in mind, and I have to be clear on this, I'm not talking about the natural odor our bodies have.  I'm not talking about the scent of his body wash combined with his cologne, or that woodsy, mannish smell he has at the end of a non-workout day.  These are comfortable smells, not full-on blown-out joxygen.  And it doesn't preclude some midnight cuddling, or a little "sumpin' sumpin'", as my friend Monty refers to intimacy.)

I compare it to those old Summer's Eve commercials, and I admit I never understood the lead-in: "Mom, do you ever have that not-so-fresh feeling?"  Now that I have 44 years of life under my belt, a majority of them spent with guys of various builds, makes, models, and jock mentalities, I know precisely what the young woman is referring to.  She's referring to that reeking, old-car, oh-my-God-you're-making-my-eyes-water stink that some guys absolutely just revel in.  Ick.  I've never understood how a guy can feel more masculine by smelling like a lawn mower in a sewer.

Now I'll admit that since I've been unemployed (November 15 and counting), I've had my days where I haven't showered or changed out of my bathrobe, but that's where I draw the line.  Tom would leave me if I went full-tilt Matthew McConaughey (no deodorant, shampoo, cologne, underwear) on him, and I have absolutely no desire to descend into the depths defined by Brad Pitt in Kalifornia: pure white-trash, holes-in-my-socks, hold-a-gun-like-it's-your-pecker "yuck."  That's just not a draw, even if it's the best you can do under the circumstances.  Gay men get this, as I think it's part of the genetic re-sequencing that made us what we are (perfect!), and I feel sorry for (wo)men who have lunkhead boyfriends who don't.  I mean, even Quiche Lorraine from Bloom County wasn't afraid to tell Steve Dallas, "I can't wash your socks without tossing my cookies."  If your formula for doing laundry includes a pair of tongs for items of clothing your cat wouldn't touch, there's a problem.  For goodness sake, stand up to the joxygen!  Don't suffer in silence!  Burn those babies!  (We now teach our kids to do their own laundry if they don't know how to already.  Always an eye-opener.)

My last thoughts on joxygen - it's there for a reason (man musk?), but I think the human has evolved to the point where we don't need to sniff each other to ascertain the viability of a potential mate.  In the same vein, having a little bit of that inner lumberjack doesn't hurt either, if it makes you feel good about yourself.  No, joxygen is something that definitely needs to be cultivated in moderation.  You let that stuff go, and there's no telling what could happen - your undershorts could spontaneously combust, you could attract zombies during an apocalypse, who knows?

The Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  The Ancillary to the Golden Rule: Fresh undies, every day.  And don't forget to wash ... you know, all over.