Eldo’s divisive masterpiece has distinct topography.
At arms length, we go down a flirty Rococo corridor, powder pastel whispery blue iris, edged with coconut cream. A sweet pretty floral, like those sugar pastilles that taste of cosmetics.
Breaching personal space opens the boudoir door, and we’re thrust into the climax of an orgy–the smell of sweat, fluid and semen hits the back of the throat before we even see who is connected to whom, and how.
Plenty has been asked about context. Would this, on a totally blind sniff without knowledge of the name, still have the same connotations? (Can the innocent innately understand the scent of sex?)
The cloying milky-metallic ooze–with a weird side note of bleach musk–is instantly recognizable, quite loud, and long lasting. Sécrétions does indeed have a magnificent time, for hours and hours. Perhaps there is tantric practice involved.
Eventually, finally, the earthy dissonance eases down until there’s nothing left but a sweet balsamic afterthought on the skin.
It’s kind of amazing.
Would I wear it? Absolutely not. Do I keep it around to dare friends to sniff? Absolutely. (Good revenge on my scotch drinking pal who slipped me that shot of Laphroaig–the stuff tastes like bogwater dipped in tar–just to watch my face.)
This cover is just wrong. Brilliant, but wrong. (Like Secretions, very NSFW.)
Another citrus-coconut-floral for barefoot surf dodging–
A soft bergamot opening, with that squeeze of lemon juice to lighten the hair in the sun, then coconut creme sun lotion and sweet tropical flowers carried at arms length, ending in a sheer driftwood musk that melts to the skin after a few hours.
Fierce out of the bottle, smoked black tea with two sugars and burning cedar shavings, loud in personal space, soft outside. Lasts three hours before sliding into nutty vanilla and dark woods on the skin for three more.
Aggressive but interesting, with enough sweetness to be inviting. Recommended for corporate mercenaries and apocalypse vigilantes.
DAG: Angharad used to call them anti-seed. CHEEDO: Plant one and watch something die. ~ Mad Max: Fury Road
The latest Nest is a big splash of generic herbal tea at the beginning, then gets greasy with coconut oil and milky white flowers for two hours. (Hibiscus is in the Malvaceae family, a kind of mallow, like ambrette–which explains the musky weight of the florals.) The bottom is actually a bit nice, amber making a long lasting Nutella accord on the skin, perhaps a nod to the warm Cocoa Woods, which I liked very much.
I imagine it’s better in high summer than early spring, but I’ll likely pass it along to someone who enjoys suntan lotion scents before then.
Love this cover, which has a certain weight, too. Last summer was cruel, but a lot of artists have produced some neat stuff during the quarantine.
Moon Bloom is ridiculously decadent, an indulgence of white flowers with that indolic reminder that flowers are sex organs.
Opens with fresh sharp green, like the first cut of a thick plant stem, of big florid tuberose and jasmine, then gets even lusher with a hint of spice in sweet cream, and fleshy coconut. That’s all in the first five minutes, and where it stays for two days, melting slowly down into the skin.
There’s a roughness to it, making one aware of the quality of the raw materials (the way a really good olive oil has a heady earthiness, or how heavy dupioni silk bends light) that easily justifies the top shelf cost.
I’d consider springing for a bottle, if I weren’t already cheating on Fracas with Love Tuberose.
Nest is hit or miss with me–though I love their pretty little bottles. White Sandalwood leans masculine with fresh cut wood and an earthy leathery note, and dry almonds–almost toasted, but not gourmand at all–and I like it. A little lasts a long time–too much explodes with Hypnotic Poison strength Sharpie marker. Pair with jeans and a flannel shirt.
A blast of sweet powder out of the bottle, with a bit of white flower–what I imagine vanilla orchids smell like.
Then marzipan–the strong stuff that reminds you of cherry stones and the secret hole-in-the-wall bakery with the amazing almond danishes.
It morphs back to powder an hour later, with huge sillage that lasts forever.
The Cookies backed up Little Eva and Ray Charles, but had several hits of their own, including this one.
First breath is sangria and smoke, a quick break between acts on the side door sidewalk of the theater, then sticky honey sweets to soothe the throat as the lights flicker–Places, please!–and meanders back to leather and walnut-wood seats and gaslight.
Stays close, and lasts on the skin with benzoin and incense for ages.