L de Lolita

IMG_9070An 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 silage.
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.

Tank Battle – LUSH

tank battleFully 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.

Amarena Whim – Lolita Lempicka

AmarenaAmarena is the vanilla ice cream and sour cherry cough drops after you get your tonsils out. Medicinal, comforting, delicate, soporific… one to wear to bed when sleeping alone.

The sugary musk on the bottom is delicate and delicious, but also metallic, like the scent of a tin of silver dragées.

I’ve doled this one out over a decade, my Rx at the end of a rough day. I’ll be heartsick when the last drops are gone–I look for it at every airport shop, every high end thrift store.

 

Tabu

tabuTabu was that night you wore thigh-high stockings but forgot your fake ID, so someone’s older sister gave you rootbeer schnapps and after the party you watched the sunrise drinking Constant Comment tea with the guy your friend wanted.

A stray cat in heat reeking of orange and cloves.

I wore this once in high school and the boy who never noticed me asked my name, and the skirt I’d worn all year got measured with a ruler twice. My mother took the bottle away and told me I could have it back when I went to college.