WARNING: This post is about sex (gasp!). If that’s not your vibe, no worries. How about you read this post about summer or consommé or my dog instead?
Since I’m too cheap to pay for parking, I had a bit of a walk to get to the bar. Even with the July heat, I didn’t mind. A few blocks’ stroll seemed like a good way to get into the right head space. For whatever reason, being in heavily queer spaces (specifically gay bars) still makes me nervous. Even at 34 years old. Maybe it’s residual angst from when I was underage trying to sneak into Chicago’s gay clubs. Or maybe it’s a natural reaction to the ‘meat market’, a safe-ish space to ogle and be ogled by other men. In any case, walking a few blocks eased my jitters as I reached the front door of Church.
The bar’s full name is Sister Louisa's Church of the Living Room and Ping Pong Emporium. But Atlantans, the ones who live inside 285 anyway, simply call it ‘Church.’ It’s a campy establishment with ping pong tables on two floors, a church organ, and large patio. A pillar of the Edgewood restaurant and bar district. It’s owned by a former divinity student and has been written up in The New York Times. And as the bouncer checked my ID and halfheartedly scanned me with a metal detector, I made my way inside.
Wyatt and his friends were already there. So I had to navigate my way to the patio alone. I sauntered passed the front bar without stopping for a drink. This was a mistake. Whenever I’m at a club or bar (which isn’t often these days) I need to have a drink. Not because I need alcohol but because I need to have something in my hand. It’s a security blanket. A prop. Nevertheless getting to Wyatt et al felt more pressing than retrieving my security gin and tonic. So I marched forward determined.
“Thanks” I said, as cooly as I’m capable, while some shirtless gentleman held the patio door for me. It was the bright light at the end of a dark passageway. Quite literally. I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the light outside. The sun was a few hours from setting so stepping out into the jam-packed patio, with bodies organized like sardines in a can and club music blaring at top volume, felt anachronistic. Shouldn’t it be dark for this type of scene was my thought as I scanned the crowd for Wyatt. That’s when it hit me like a freight train —
Body.
Odor.
My stomach lurched as my nostrils were assaulted by the smell. Tears started forming at my eyelids as the light stank mist rolled passed me. Someone had seriously neglected their deodorant today. Poor soul. An unfortunate event given that it was July in the south. A hand shot up out of the crowd. Wyatt waved me over.
Maneuvering through the crowd was no small feat. The not-large patio contained maybe 200 partygoers. A pack of shirtless bears were gyrating near the entrance. My first obstacle. Some women to my right, presumably lesbians and roughly 80% of the 10 women there that night, were laughing with fists in the air. I dodged every manner of twink and muscle Mary and otter and circuit queen. I was doing a homosexual bob-and-weave all in an effort to reach the safety of my friends.
I finally reached Wyatt and his crew, a safe harbor for a weary traveler. After the obligatory greetings and introductions, I started to feel a little settled. My internal frequency mellowed slightly. The initial sensory overload quieted down now that I had found my people. The sun light. The bodies. The music. It was a lot. But as my system returned to equilibrium, I was suddenly hit again by the unmistakable smell of body odor. Only this time it wasn’t just a light mist. It was a tidal wave. A tsunami of unwashed funk.
While holding back my nausea, I subtly sniffed around. None of Wyatt’s friends were the perpetrator. Neither was I. With each passing minute and as each grey stretch cloud wafted by, I became more certain that there wasn’t a lone culprit. This wasn’t just a random ‘stinky kid.’ At such a volume, this was a team effort. A cadre of stankers. A significant portion of this party’s attendees were not wearing deodorant. Not only that, the depth of funk, the layers of reekdom, indicated they had been that way for quite some time. It was intentional. It was endemic. I was completely dumbfounded.
“I need a drink,” Wyatt said while grabbing my arm. I was happy to not only finally get a glass in my hand but to give my olfactory senses a reprieve. We made our way upstream through the crowd, back inside, and beelined for the bar.
Maybe it was the air conditioning but I could breathe again. Therefore I could think again. “You need to try the sangria,” Wyatt said while he ordered us both one. Sangria isn’t my first choice but I didn’t dare oppose my rescuer.
“Um, so I have a question,” I began. “Are we not doing deodorant any more?”
Wyatt looked at me with an eye roll, “girl don’t even get me started.” But of course that did get him started. While the bartender prepped our sangrias, which ended up being pretty tasty even if my glass was 58% ice and 34% cubed apple, Wyatt proceeded to tell me all about deodorant and the modern homosexual.
Body odor is a kink. Or at least it can be. Natural smells, particularly in the armpit and groin, turn some folks on sexually. People who are into BO will forgo deodorant and possibly showering. A growing percentage of queer folks, particularly gay men, are into this kink. Seeing as Church was a gay meat market that night, it appears that those men decided to lean into the kink. Odor play (as I’m calling it) was no longer relegated to the bedroom. It was on full display with 200 bodies packed onto an outdoor patio in July in Georgia.
To be fair and completely transparent, I knew about this. I’ve dated men who’ve asked me to be “natural” around them, aka sans deodorant. In those situations I’m comfortable playing along, mostly because by the time I see them I’m maybe 45 minutes out from a shower. At most. There’s only so much bacteria that can grow during that window. I also assume these guys are similarly bathed because I’ve never experienced extreme BO from them. If I had, the date would have ended right there.
“To criticize it is to kink-shame,” Wyatt concluded as we took our sangrias back outside. He had an air of resignation. As though this was something those of us who deodorized simply needed to endure. As though we bathers were puritans stuck in some ancient and repressive time.
I lasted another hour out on the patio. While being hammered by wave after wave of stank, I kept thinking about this whole phenomenon and Wyatt’s words. Was I behind the times? Was hygiene passé and out of touch? When did this happen? Was there a vote I missed? Am I square for still liking deodorant and showers?
As I strolled back to my car I came to a few conclusions but was left with even more questions. First and foremost, people should not be shamed for their kinks and fetishes. Our culture, as progressive as we may think it is, has a deep history of anti-body, sexually-repressive, shame-centered ideology when it comes to sex. These puritanical roots still have a stronghold on our society (case and point: modern sex education). It’s harmful. When people are made to feel shame for what naturally feels good in their bodies, it leads to legitimate damage. As a queer person, I can confirm this.
At the end of the day if it feels good and involves consenting adults then do it. Life’s short.
But here’s the thing: me and my nose didn’t consent. I hadn’t agreed to swim through someone else’s fetish when I walked in the doors of Church that night. The sexual proclivities of a few superseded the desires of everyone else. It was unpleasant and was the opposite of a kink (whatever that is) for me and others. That doesn’t feel right either. And I refuse to accept that acknowledging this fact is kink shaming.
So what do we do when we have antithetical kinks? Mine being soap and someone else’s being funk. I’m not really sure honestly. That’s the wacky thing about the human experience and living in community with one another. As much as a live-and-let-live policy works, and to be clear I think we would benefit from tons more of that (looking at you policymakers), sometimes it can’t work. Sometimes the desires of one are in direct opposition to the desires of another. It’s rare but it happens.
I’m just spitballing here but what if bars started having ‘Deo Nights’ and ‘BO Nights?’ Back in the day we had smoking sections and non-smoking sections. Why not recapture that vibe? Just a thought.
And perhaps this type of separate-but-equal policy won’t hold up but it could at least get the conversation moving. In the meantime while the queers continue the great deodorant debate, I will do my best to balance respecting others while also respecting myself.
And maybe stay in air conditioning for awhile.
I can smell if from here. Like when you get around a crowd of tourists from a country that doesn't value deodorizing. Times 1,000. On crack.
LA has been at this trend for a minute. I am also a soap, shower, deodorant, lover. Let’s both shower and hug each other for support while we smell like baby powder and whiskey barrels. That’s what men smell like these day, right? Whiskey barrels and the woods or Pine Forrest? I mean aside from the BO.