A cartoon woman, barefoot and buxom in a skintight green dress, a pair of platform shoes dangling limply from her hand.
This is the predictable graphic chosen by Smell Bent to represent their Walk of Shame. Cue the sniggers and smirks of derision, the Stupid bitch! hissed under the breath. Of course, a man just as well as a woman could make that trek through the streets at dawn-- and either gender could do it without shame in this day and age. Couldn't they?
The landscape through which we travel smells pretty industrial to me-- its acrid/sweet, chemical vapor reminiscent of that hazy vista of landfills and refinery yards found in North Jersey or Staten Island. Avoiding risks, we sleepwalk our way down the safe routes where "bodega blossoms" bloom, presumably at all hours. (Supposedly there's also "morning-after musk" in this mix-- but possibly we left it behind on someone's bed table by accident.)
I strain to detect any hint of naughtiness, fresh or stale, in this odor. That in itself is the worst thing about Walk of Shame. I do not doubt that this is what shame smells like-- but if we're going to made to feel bad about ourselves, shouldn't there be a tiny suggestion of the enjoyable act which put us in the penalty box?
In other words, shouldn't we smell not only a hint of the eternal hell to which we're going, but also one of the heaven from which we've come?
Scent Elements: Whatever's in Bulgari Black, only half as much.