One can’t strive for debonair.  It’s a quality that becomes more distant the more it is sought.  No, the essence of debonair is effortlessness.  It’s a bracing, stimulating aura that naturally precedes and trails a man of parts.  A man at the center of, yet subtly apart from the crowd.

There is great masculine pleasure in mastery of social graces and social gatherings.  By virtue of beauty and grooming, of urbanity and wit, to exert magnetic force and proclaim top rank.

The invitation arrived by hand, in fine calligraphy, on fine paper.  A great event, in company with great humans, names familiar from headlines and marquees.  My tailor had just the thing.  And I knew just the “plus one” to decorate my arm.  Or so I thought.  I never should have invited a vegetarian. 

Faye selected the restaurant for dinner before the event.  The place served no meat, which annoyed me severely, but at least it was expensive.  Being ignorant in the ways of the mineral-deficient herbivore set, I deferred to my date.  She ordered a tapas-like selection of many dishes beloved of the pale and weak.

There was asparagus this and broccoli that, legumes three ways, something called “spelt”, if I’ve spelled it correctly.  Everything was tarted up with onions and oil, in a futile attempt to make plants seem like real food.  The only thing I appreciated was the kimchi, that spicy Korean fermented cabbage that burns and delights.

An hour into the exclusive party, I was happily engaged with an Asian diplomat, discussing the pros and cons of the Euro as reserve currency, when my date “tooted”.  Audibly.  She said nothing.  Well-bred people, the chargé d’affaires and his wife did not divert their eyes in Faye’s direction, and did not react, beyond a split-second pause in conversation.

Clearly, it was time for a quick visit to the facilities.  My date and I disappeared to two of the numerous, brilliantly decorated water closets.  It was while I was washing my hands and adjusting my cuffs that I felt the first movement in an unfamiliar and unwelcome symphony.  Being a man, I bore down and stifled the message, then strode back out to dazzle and impress with my erudition and bon mots.

Faye looked fine.  Better than fine, in truth.  She’d chosen a dress that showcased certain assets just enough to inspire male lust and female hatred.  The two of us reconnected and renewed our flirtation.  But as we approached a small group orbiting the chairman of a large, powerful and possibly evil company, I became aware of an intense, deeply unpleasant redolence. 

I brought us to a halt and pondered two considerations.  First, leading with a chemical assault is not the recommended way to win business from executives of large, powerful and possibly evil companies.  Second, and more alarmingly, I couldn’t say definitively whether the offending air had emanated from me or Faye.

“Uh, Faye…” I began.

“I know.  It’ll pass.” She replied, employing a very unfortunate choice of words.

I turned to gaze at her lovely face, a picture of sweet perfection at the center of a shocking sulfurous cloud.  “Does what’s happening to us now happen to you often?”

Her composure slipped slightly, button nose crinkling prettily.  “Um, sometimes.  I don’t usually eat so many different things.”

I am a man capable, on occasion, of iron self-discipline and impressive courage.  I’ve faced down physical threats, teams of litigators and recently-divorced IRS agents.  I could handle this situation.

“Okay,” I said with a suave smile and a squeeze of Faye’s hand, “let’s keep it together for one more hour.”  She nodded, resolved.

We each took a deep breath.  And that was the fatal error.  Some things relaxed, and other things contracted.  The horrible, bland, fibrous stuff we’d eaten had combined to create a perfect storm of foul wind.  In stereo, we loosed loud, terrifying blasts of compost.

Nearly dislocating Faye’s arm, I swung us around and toward the exit.  My large and dear friend Rodney and his diminutive and brilliant wife Celia tried to intercept us.  “Hey, come talk to the mayor.  He’s interested in…”

“Screw the mayor.  Gotta go,” I spat, deftly swerving us around my favorite couple and accelerating toward the door.  Trailing not the magnificent aura of debonair, but a noisome nebula of noxiousness.

In the car, the afflicted persisted.  I mashed the buttons to roll down the windows.

“Faye, I want nothing more than to take my time peeling you out of that dress…”.

“It’s okay.  Take me home.  I’m free tomorrow night, too.”

We reconvened the next evening.  I prepared omelettes.  The only bouquet was of cologne mixing favorably with perfume and clean perspiration.  The only sounds were involuntary, but much more desirable.

ManTalkNow… Now saying odd things on Twitter:  http://twitter.com/ManTalkNow