8. The Nose Knows What It Knows
8
THE NOSE KNOWS WHAT IT KNOWS
O’CONNOR
After an eternity, the luggage carousel at JFK finally groaned into movement, causing the kind of false hope in the assembled passengers that must make baggage handlers giggle. The belt rolled along, utterly empty, mocking us all for long minutes.
Finally, the first suitcases were spat out to slam down onto the belt, piling up with no regard for short people who couldn’t reach their prize at the top of a pyramid that was toppling, but not fast enough.
First-class luggage was supposed to come out first, but as a seasoned traveler, I knew that was a small airport’s practice. Here in Noo Yawk, you can go fuck yourself.
I stood tall and still, practicing Mountain Pose and a little calming deep breathing while I endured the indignity of the baggage claim. The text chime went off from the phone in my pocket.
Ah. Look at that. Archer Armstrong. We weren’t scheduled to meet for another twenty-four hours, during which time I was counting on a long bath in an expensive hotel to wash away the residue of a cross-country flight.
We need to change our meeting location
Oh, fuck you. What do you want, you pouty man? A rainbow hot-air balloon at two thousand feet? Do we have to meet in a submarine or on the median strip of the Long Island Expressway?
Hello to you too
I was perfectly capable of being every bit as snarky as he was.
I’m sorry
I mean hello how are you
Nice to see you
How was your flight? Trust me, you want to change our location
In fact, you want no location
My Tumi duffel at last flew into the pile of luggage chaos. Soft-sided, yes, but the ballistic nylon just laughed at the assault. If you can afford it, I recommend grabbing one. The video I’d made about it did decently well—people loved to see how extremely pricy versions of everyday shit stood up to a baseball bat—and netted me the hundred-thousand-dollar fee from Tumi.
I arranged myself so I could grab it as it came by. There were advantages to being taller than most people, and yoga-strong.
Bag acquired, I delayed meeting my driver until I could fire a text back at that beautiful brat.
Are you canceling the meeting I just flew across the country to have?
I pushed down a small flair of guilt as I sent the message. I actually had two reasons to come to New York, but he didn’t need to know that. I was also meeting with my new book agent about the tell-all I was going to write about Archer Armstrong’s overprivileged rise to quasi-stardom. I had already tracked down seven women by their social media posts, all of whom had date-stamped photos of themselves with Archer, proving he went through women at a blistering rate. These women were eager to share the details of their trysts with journalist “Becca Stapleton” and were happy to spill the details that went from three-day sex weekends all the way down to fast encounters pressed up against the tiled wall of a stadium locker room. The only positive thing I’d learned about Archer during those conversations was his insistence on condoms; the rest pointed to a licentious (and mesmerizingly scandalous) life of using and abandoning women.
Not that any of the women I’d spoken to were nursing broken hearts . . . but the tawdry nature of the encounters would increase the appeal of my tell-all. Any publisher who didn’t see the lure of such a tale was a fool.
I handed my bags to the man holding a sign reading stapleton . I never traveled under my own name. Announcing that I was O’Connor is asking for trouble. My middle name always did the trick.
“Ma’am,” the driver said, tipping an invisible cap.
“Let’s get going. I’m at the Aman on Fifth Avenue.”
The hotel would have comped me if I’d agreed to mention I was staying there, but until I knew if they were worth the twenty-five-hundred–a–night price, I’d pay my own way. If they weren’t worth it, I’d mention them, all right .
They just wouldn’t like it much.
Once in the back of the town car, I checked my phone. Archer had replied at length, and his text sent my eyebrows into my hairline.
Not canceling, but we’d better have our meeting by FaceTime or Zoom or something
My dog tangled with her first skunk this morning and all of Aftermath now smells so bad that we had to drive the rest of the way from before Pittsburgh with the windows open
And my eyes still watered
Trust me, you don’t want to meet in person
Good lord.
I couldn’t come up with anything more useful to say, so that was what I texted back.
Good lord
Yeah I know. We couldn’t even go into a grocery store to buy a few cases of tomato juice. That’s supposed to help right?
We had to send Nicky after it (Nicky = marketing manager/Ian’s girlfriend/band sweetheart)
In consideration, I thank you for your courtesy
I’ll set up a call I can record and send you the link. Same time?
Same bat channel
Thanks for not being too pissed
Well I was going to be pissed but I’ve changed my mind
Your schedule has you playing at the casino in two days. Those places aren’t that big. Are you going to be in smell range of the audience?
I was stuck in horrific traffic. Of course. Welcome to New York. Why else would I ask this man a single question?
That’s what the tomato juice is for
So you’re literally washing your dog with the makings of a nice Bloody Mary?
She likes to munch the celery
To be clear, we are washing ALL of us in tomato juice
Three times each so far. Ian’s in the bathroom now. He’s on number four.
I was horrified and also laughing.
Is it working?
Absolutely
Now he smells like a skunk with a Bloody Mary
I snorted when I laughed, which caught me by surprise. It wasn’t that funny. Was it?
I regained my composure. Even practiced scowling at the phone. In a huff, I Googled remedies for skunk funk.
The Humane Society says to mix hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and liquid dish soap
Here’s the link for the proportions
https://www.humanesociety.org/resources/de-skunking-your-dog
We’ll try that! We’ve already bought out the tomato juice supply in central Long Island
Please note the warning:
do not make this mixture and store it as it could explode in the bottle
Oh I am so going to make up the mixture and leave it under Ian’s sink
It was very, very wrong of me to find that funny. He wasn’t a mischievous devil, after all.
You’re an asshole
Yeah but we knew that
He had me smiling again. This conversation was not what I expected.
Thanks for the recipe. I’m tired of smelling like a Big Mac
I hope it works
If it does, we can meet in person
Definitely keep me posted
You’ll be the first to know once I no longer clear a room by walking into it
The Aman was luxurious, and the check-in process was blissfully fast. My suite was beautifully appointed, and the butler unpacked me in moments. She drew me a hot bath and practically backed out of the suite bowing.
Hmm. Might get a good review after all.
I sank into the hot water and smiled at the fizz of a hibiscus-scented bath bomb. How would you actually wash a Great Dane in tomato juice? Would you pour it over her outside and let the juice pool on the ground below her, making mud? Would you stand her in the bathtub and put the plug in so you could drench and redrench her? Dogs shook when they got wet. The entire bathroom would look like a crime scene.
And what about the man? If Archer Armstrong stood naked in a bathtub . . .
I got a little distracted and had to clear my head.
If Archer Armstrong stood naked in a bathtub and lifted a large can of tomato juice over his head . . .
If he braced for the cold and then poured it over his golden head . . .
If the runnels of crimson liquid traced down those cheekbones, along the tendons of his neck, along the abdominal muscles almost visible through the white shirt he’d worn to the interview . . .
This was not productive.
Or maybe it was.
The heat from the bath had relaxed my muscles. My heart rate had come back down, and my blood pressure didn’t feel like it would blow out the cuff. And I had always liked tomato juice.
What if someone were to lick those abdominals?
The bliss of a good fantasy paired with a strong imagination. In my mind, Archer no longer smelled like a skunk. He smelled like Archer.
I could lick down his abs. Put my hands on his long, powerful thighs. Make his breath hitch with anticipation.
Lick the rivulets from his cock, which would be engorged. Excited. Pushing eagerly toward me.
He’d want me. Not an endorsement, not a favor, not a mention. He would just want me.
Only me .
My fingers found my core. I was hot and slippery in the warm water.
I would suckle him. Lave him. Lick him clean.
He would pull me up and crush me to him, kissing me as deeply as I’d sucked him.
I need to fuck you , he’d whisper.
My own orgasm, small and tight as it was, was still a delicious release. I drifted in the water, feeling my heart beat normalize again. There would be plenty of time later to examine the lunacy of fantasizing about a man I truly didn’t like. After all, he was undeniably handsome. Any woman would dream about him. Especially if he never spoke a word during the fantasy.
Except that it was his words that had pushed me over the edge.
Not worth thinking about. Fantasies and masturbation were the private actions that maintained sanity throughout the known universe. No need to examine or censor.
Would you heat the tomato juice before you bathed in it?