David Bowie wore Minotaure.
So of course I had to know what the Goblin King smelled like.
Paloma Picasso’s only masculine opens with a sharp and spicy fizzy lime pop, then eases into fruit candy–the fancy jelly slices with sugared edges. The sweetness turns floral, then herbal, bubblegum slowly drying down to brooding cedar.
Sandalwood talc and vanilla tonka powder settle above the skin, shimmering all night long, both comforting and seductive, sexy Stardust indeed.
Fades into the collar and cuffs with androgynous amber, and leaves songs stuck in your head–You remind me of the babe–for days.
Happy Merry to me.
Vagabond Prince’s Enchanted Forest is exactly that: dark balsam fir woods and tangles of black currant shrubs and wine and roses.
The first spray turns one into a wayward elf, dressed in flowers and drunk on berries. The acid bite of the fruit slowly softens with benzoin, sweet on the skin, and lofty on clothes for hours.
I feel like I’m the heroine in an epic fantasy novel saga wearing this stuff.
Tipsy strawberries and seawater, roses and a tangled forest.
Projects like spilled wine and soaks clothes for weeks.
Several years ago I wrote a short story set on Öland, an island off the coast of Sweden. My two young lovers celebrate midsummer eating strawberries and getting drunk, and if the pages could be scented, they’d smell like Sådanne.
Salty sand and boozy sweet fruit, so sun-ripe it’s alcoholic, eaten in the shadows of the sea-wind twisted trees on the shore.
I adore it.
A Midwinter’s orgy.
Opens with fir and sticky chocolate, incense and sex.
Seriously. This stuff is like having violent Viking-love in a heap of furs in front of a balsam bonfire. It writes runes on your body with spruce psychotropics and sweet ash.
The juice is dark and lays heavy on the skin, like hands and honey and pine tree sap, and stains clothes with green spoor.
A walk through the produce aisle in sexy shoes that only come in European sizes.
Byredo’s Pulp is lush fruit rind you want to press your thumb into to check for ripeness. Tart currants spill onto a heap of figs, then there’s a nuttiness, a bite of candy bar like a bawdy pick-up line, funny rather than insulting.
Drunk apples sit on the skin for several hours, waiting for elegant lipstick bites, then they fade to a woody stem.
I bought the biggest bottle I could legally take on the airplane.
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.
Fully loaded Bazooka Joe.
This stuff is like the sexy battle armor you put on before conquering your own world.
Tank Battle opens with a wet bubblegum pop, and a moment later a bright sulfur flare. Smoky haze sits at arms length–a burnt spice offering, a swallow of bourbon, metal shavings from a sharpened blade.
Sun-scorched patchouli and cloves settle to the skin after an hour, with an occasional whiff of daring and sweetness the whole day long.