I spent a few summers on Fire Island when I was little, the volleyball net at the Pines marking the nude beach–suits vs. skins games all day except high tide–and I’d come home with a pail full of seashells, a permanent sunburn and sand everywhere.
This scent has that freedom, wind and ocean spray and surf and naked skin, with a lovely base of top shelf zinc tanning lotion.
Projects two beach blankets over, and lasts til the sun goes down and the disco starts.
“Somewhere there is a gay man with a magic lamp and two wishes left.” -Jerrod C.
Peach blossom candy and fortune cookies, creamy tuberose sharpened with cardamom, and a bite of sandalwood on the bottom.
There’s a voluptuous mystique to it, gorgeous but with an edge, the sweetheart next door with a femme fatale secret.
Elusive on skin and lasting on silk. I love it.
I loved Chinatown, too, all the crazy smells and the languages and the colors, the shops with fish and spices and trinkets. The restaurant with the sweetest old man who taught me to eat with chopsticks when I still needed to sit on a phonebook to reach the table.
Deee-Lite is also from New York. This song always makes me happy.
Alcohol and asphalt, perhaps.
I might get a slight gust of subway air rising from the station at Jay Street-Borough Hall. Maybe a whiff of the spices from the import stores on Atlantic Avenue, and possibly a floral green breeze from the Botanic Garden.
But Kings County New York isn’t tentative, or maybe.
Give me the jazz zest, the hip-hop fire and the Philharmonic sweetness.
Give me diesel fumes of the BQE, Fulton Street funk and Coney Island animalics.
Give me drag queen cheesecake, everything bagels and spumoni on the Bridge.
This stuff projects only inches, not the length of Flatbush Avenue, and lasts barely through lunch, much less a Spike Lee movie, or a season binge of 2 Broke Girls.
I was born there.
Don’t spill a weak gin and tonic on the sidewalk and tell me it’s Brooklyn.