Ugh. No. I hurked in my mouth. My cat ran from the room with his ears back.
An explosion of rotting bananas and decomposing rubber bath toys that settles to moldy marzipan after five wretched hours. (I was so astonished at how vile it was, I had to see how it played out, the way one sits through a bad movie.)
The guy came home and said, “Huh. Not bad,” and now I’m questioning all my relationship assumptions.
No. Just. No. This does not smell like some sexy anthropomorphic Furry wet dream musk, this smells like road kill during rutting season. Shrieking tire residue and terrified mammal anal gland excretion.
It won’t scrub off. My skin still smells like turtle pee and tarmac and rot-gut bourbon. I am not okay. My cat is not okay.