By J. Corbett Holmes

The Laboratory of Love

Can picking your nose be revealing or revolting in the hunt for your prime-mate?

As I stared into the bathroom mirror, the harsh lighting forced an additional lab coat-ing of protection -- my Kiehl's facial fuel. After liberally applying some fuel to my face, I gave my bod a swift spritz of scent -- my Comme de Garcons cologne. These were things I did without much thought -- just the required preening for playtime. But as I added these little enhancers, was I unknowingly reducing my ability to communicate clearly? The aforementioned, along with my shower, use of deodorant and spritz of cologne, (as well as other unnamed beauty secrets) were actually weakening my chances to succeed. Although it seemed like I was building on my beauty, I was in reality, creating an invisible wall. I was about to face the front lines of chemical warfare.

My friend John and I had planned to meet for a drink to affix one last bit of lubrication to the events of our weekend, and to better prepare ourselves for the combat of corporate life that following Monday. We were barely blended into our first margarita-mixer when I lost John to a conversation about his boyfriend's upcoming film. As I leaned into the brick wall behind me, John chatted on about the upcoming event. I surveyed the landscape while continuing to elevate my toxic alcohol levels. All around me the bar men were mixing, the go-go boys were stirring and various forms of connection were combining. Yet oddly, only a few feet away my eyes were drawn to one particular man. All I could see was the back of him (which admittedly was nice). There was no piercing stare, no knowing glance, and no motioning mouth -- only his back. That unrevealing view kept my attention for several unexplained minutes (and no I wasn't starring at his ass the whole time). Then, he turned around, and it was him -- Rocket-man! The first time I'd seen Rocket-man, he'd come into my view through an Internet dating site. He was one of a select few whom I had sent an e-mail to while in pursuit of a prime partner. He never responded. This was not the only time I'd seen him since my unreturned introduction, but the unexplained pheromone-pull left me perplexed. Was he secretly sending me silent sexual signals -- even if he didn't want to?

As John chitchatted on, Rocket-man headed in our direction. I thought ... Houston ... WE HAVE A P-R-O-B-L-E-M! With no way outta my space, I swiftly made contact with my test tube of tequila. I hoped to at least alter my chemical state-of-scared and transmit some nerve into my nervous system. John ushered the group through introductions, and Rocket-man mixed comfortably into our conversation. The evening proceeded, and eventually our various social situations shuttled us into different areas of the bar.

An hour later, while standing under the artistically lit pepper trees, my beaker was brimming with another cocktail to further relieve my singular status. In an effort to locate John, I perched on the top step of the outdoor patio. I stood mute -- staring out into the fragrant frontier of beautiful boys, inspecting them all as they mixed and fused. Some, like myself, were obviously altered by various substances, others by cologne or cigarettes. But as I studied their chemical equations, to me, this seemed the most natural way to make "scents" of the laboratory of love. They were my Cro-Magnon chemistry set. And tonight we were just man-to-man -- chemically conjugating our silent signals. Then I considered the various substitutions for the signal of a scent. With the infusion of the Internet, we are now afforded endless forms of e -"male." Next I wondered if anyone out there was secretly sniffing out his perfect chemical companion?

In our daily lives, we interact in varied social settings. Each of our relationships has it's own chemical equation. At birth our need to communicate without words begins at our mother's milky mound. As we enter into the petri dish of playground practices we form, mold, grow and morph -- eventually mastering our social mating skills. So ... is there really any substitution for chemical attraction? And, when it comes to choosing our "prime"- mate, does chemical communication help or hinder our hearts in the area of husbandry?

Some scientists say it is our pheromones that allow us to connect with our perfect chemical partner. They (pheromones) explain why people often decide as soon as they meet someone that they like or dislike that person. They are our internal Internet -- sending silent intoxicating messages to the brain that arouse our interests and desires.

While I was pondering all of this, I suddenly felt a subconscious gravitational pull coming from the launching pad in my pants. I glanced to my left and there he was again -- Rocket-man! My mister-match without the Internet infusion ... just he and I and our unspoken chemical equation ... our hormones without a homepage ... a chemical camaraderie sans the computer. So, after several dips into the beaker, I decided to lab-rat myself out. "So ... Rocket-man, do I look familiar to you?" I asked. "Umm, well yeah ... your face looks kinda familiar," he poured back, his expression showing curiosity over the Rocket-man reference. "Well, I know your nickname, because I sent you an e-mail on a shared dating Web site." I continued mixing. "And there wasn't very many men I did that with." His face continued to alter. "I'm still not sure if you can really replace that person-to-person attraction, but it seems like everyone's doing it. The jury is still out on Internet dating for me ... what do you think?" From what I could gather, we both saw eye-to-eye on the social sense of selection. Nonetheless, there we stood, side-by-side ... two singles sniffing out the sultry secrets of sex-cess.

So there I was between a Rocket-man and a hard place, as I tried to make "scents" of my unexposed attraction earlier at the bar. Then, with the excitement of the unexplained, my sixth sense made me feel like I was back in sixth grade. Finding my sexual soul-mate suddenly seemed so simple ...

... Maybe men really are dogs (in a good way), and maybe it's really as simple as just sniffing things out? Maybe, even with all the advances in technology, we can't really replace our prime ways of mating when it comes to the dating game? And maybe it's not really rocket science, but more like animal husbandry? Then I looked over at Rocket-man, and I couldn't make "scents" of whether I was the right man to rock Rocket-man into orbit. So I decided to throw chemical caution to the wind and I mixed myself back into the fragrant frontier of fags -- just to be nosey. And as I did that, all I could do was think of Elton John.

...And I think it's gonna be a long, long time/Till touch down brings me round again to find/I'm not the man they think I am at home/Oh no no no ... I'm a Rocket-man.

For your shaving graces, e-mail me at shavingsfrommyhead@yahoo.com.