Thrash-metal stereotypes Slayer once wrote a song called Dead Skin Mask. After peeling my watch from my wrist (something that I've probably only been done a dozen or so times over the last half-decade), and inspecting the yellowing accretion of keratinocytes now integral to the structure of the strap, musical inspiration has struck: "Dead Skin Watch". One for the Dieticians rather than the Squad, there. Or maybe not.
Talking of dead skin, one of my favourite smells is the smell of the skin behind my ears. Now I do wash regularly. But if I rub my fingers behind an ear, they pick up an exquisitely natural fragrance. (Maybe it's my genetically altered biochemistry at work here, either in secretion or detection; my money's on the former - my fingertips also seem to have some sort of advanced exocrine function, acidly burning through the ink of magazine covers with ease.)
I remember jug-eared superstar Martin Clunes once saying in an interview once that his favourite smell in the world was the smell behind a dog's floppy ears. The filthy ear-pervert. Well, doggy-ear-undersides may be good, but he's thankfully never inhaled my back-ear-odour.