I loved this passionately for three days–a torrid affair of chocolate tangerine jellies and peppery flower bouquets boldly stolen from the neighbor’s garden at noon–but then the ashtray dust and sweat socks became too hard to ignore, and I broke it off.
*
Dzing! smells like a bunch of hippies had a love fest in the rare and out-of-print section of the library.
It’s carnal–almost like the zoo funk in the big cat exhibit–with a touch of sticky sweetness, leather fringe and old paper.
Fresh, just out of the hotel room shower, squeaky-clean, man.
Big handsy citrus, a rub of green herbs, a switch of summer pine.
No personality whatsoever, but that isn’t what you hired him for.
Versace came out with Eau Fraiche in 2006. This song–“Stop. Forget it.”–was the hit in Italy then.
Put on that waxy red lipstick you can’t get rid of, bite a chocolate cherry cordial, then kiss the mirror. Voilà! Lolita Lempicka Sweet.
This one wears a short skirt with torn fishnets and whistles at construction workers and laughs outright when anyone tells her she shouldn’t do exactly as she pleases.
Drunk in Love by Beyoncé is by far the best song of 2014–when Sweet came out–but Lorde’s Royals is more lighthearted.
This is gorgeous.
A strike of a sulfur match, then a sip of mulled cider. An autumn crocus blooms from fallen leaves.
A lost-n-found sweater with leather elbow patches, soft enough to wear on bare skin, and as it warms to the body, traces of the rosewater worn by the previous owner drift from the wool.
*
Here’s a fun and comfy-sweater saffron:
The first bite is delicious sugar cookie made with vanilla and almonds, the center filled with lemon drop hard candy.
There’s a sudden hit of seltzer-water fizz, a loud ginger finger-bang, and then it settles down to D&G’s Light Blue amber musk…
And stays there.
For two days.
It’s kind of amazing.
*
More fire:
Vosges used to make a violet chocolate cream truffle that tastes like Midnight Sun smells straight out of the bottle.
It dries down quickly to aniseed powder and vanilla, anchored in place by vetiver–and lingers until dawn, a sexy Cinderella losing more than her shoes as she dances.
This was my date-night signature until I discovered Lolita Lempicka Minuit Noir.
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Love, love, love this sultry cover.
Cape Heartache is not really a unisex travel book–it’s a gender-fluid memoir.
It opens as a young girl sucking on a pink candy necklace, but the elastic string grows into sweaty teen boy burning tires on the pavement.
Then the car takes a turn, cool mint and chic college girl with the top down, winding up alpine roads–
but the pine trees are cut down by a lumberjack with a gas-powered chain saw.
Then a sultry strawberry in a red dress and bare feet watches a campfire until late into the evening, when the coals are covered by a passing dark stranger.
It’s like a romance with shifting his-and-hers point-of-view, but I can’t stop sniffing my skin to see if there’s a sequel.
A fluid song.
Opens with a big proud blast of Ocean Spray Cran-Raspberry frozen concentrate, then melts down to a puff of meringue and saucy caramel.
Dregs of vanilla extract sit on the skin, rubbed dry with sweet patchouli dust.
A bit mischievous–Pippi Longstocking with fake eyelashes and a pink sling-shot.
*
Love this saucy tart song.
An orange Dreamsicle and beachcombing date on Fire Island.
A drag queen in a glittering sherbet gown gets her train caught on a boardwalk nail, spilling sequins and she chooses to laugh, because it’s too nice an evening for swearing, isn’t it, darling?
Much later, sweet spicy comforting chocolate and cinnamon and flirty caramel musk, reggae night at the Latin bear club across from the Sandcastle–all the fabulous mustaches–and someone brought a marshmallow gun.
Miles of sillage.
I’m talking on the other end of the ferry on the way to the Pines. Against the headwind. They can smell clementines and vanilla before the boat has left Bayshore.
This stuff gets under the skin, deep into the hypodermis layer, untouched by ocean, shower or chlorinated hot tub–lingering tangerine peel and nutmeg and cream soda dum-dum pops–for days.
You find a glittering spangle in the sand when you come back next weekend, and it still smells like Myrrh Maid’s citrus spice smirk. She’s got a regular show in Cherry Grove serving sea-witch realness. Come see me, darling.
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Hedda Lettuce is my favorite.
(NSFW!)
kira a. gold 