Americans are seen by the rest of the world as being obsessed with cleanliness on a nearly… Americans are seen by the rest of the world as being obsessed with cleanliness on a nearly microscopic level. This reputation is totally deserved.

Just stroll down the aisles of any drugstore. You’ll find deep cleansers, pore scrubbing exfoliants, blackhead extractors and all manner of products for the eradication of funk you didn’t even realize you had. A trip to the toothpaste aisle recently gave me pause. My god, I’m not using tartar-control anti-gingivitis whitening formula? It’s a wonder I can still gum applesauce!

Clearly, there are a host of hygiene concerns for us all to be insecure about. My personal cleanliness idiosyncrasy has always been ears – mine or others. There is some sort of hidden-treasure thrill involved in the pursuit of earwax. This is definitely my mother’s doing.

Moms always made sure, after the requisite Sunday supervised bath, that the noggin-flaps were pristine.

“Looks like you’re growing potatoes in here, Pug,” she’d gleefully exclaim. Oh yeah, don’t tell anyone, but she’s called me that since birth.

She would savagely strip mine my poor ears until no wax dared survive. Every morsel would be excavated until the tubes were free. It was weekly surgery beneath a glaring gooseneck lamp.

Eventually, I grew up some and fought my mother off my ears. I didn’t realize that not everyone came up this way and consequently, didn’t share my obsession with unobstructed ear canals. This didn’t cause too many problems until later.

Later, of course, being when my clean ears and I started dating.

Things would go swimmingly for a few months and I’d eventually feel comfortable broaching “The Topic.”

“So, Thor, about your ears. May I take a look?”

Of course Thor, under my spell, would generally acquiesce.

My God. The things I’ve seen.

Once there was a boy I dated. He was grand. He paid more attention to his hair than I ever had in my life. He had style. He wore cool shoes that matched his cool pants. He even had better tattoos than I do.

His ears were filthy.

After we’d been dating awhile, I figured it was time.

Gently, sensitively … I didn’t want to offend him. It was like coaxing a woodland creature out from under a log.

“Damn you got some funky ears, boy. Lemme fix that!”

Subtlety ain’t my strong point, kids.

“I do not got funky ears!”

Of course. Now put your head down on Mama’s lap.

I poked. I prodded. The funk was proving disappointingly scant.

I sucked in a deep breath, hoping Thor wouldn’t jerk his head. I went deep.

The Q-Tip encountered a solid mass, more substantial by far than the gunk that clung to the outer ridges of his ear.

I scratched to the left.

I pulled up.

A glistening raisin that had to have been incubating for years rewarded me.

Jesus.

I have never before or since witnessed such a mass of ear funk. It was dense and black. He needed a cigarette after I pulled it out. I could only gape at the dark jewel.

“Turn around. Give me your other side.”

I showed him what I had extracted and he acknowledged my urgency. He flipped on my lap.

The other side was ornery. He was distressed because he felt the mass shudder and resist removal.

“God! I’m clogged! Fix it!”

After some major side-to-side coaxing, I dislodged another pearl. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t get off on the entire experience.

He drove off in his polite red Saturn, his ears in a previously unknown state of purity. Chain smoking. It was that good. For both of us.

The boy in question has forgotten I exist. I have no idea what he does on a Saturday night, nor do I much care. I do, however, often think about his ears.

There have been Thors before and since this particular young man. None has satisfied an instinctive, almost animal drive of mine with such elegance and aplomb.

Melissa Meinzer warns all potential Thors that their ears will be subject to inspection. Put your head on her lap at [email protected].