Tipsy strawberries and seawater, roses and a tangled forest.
Projects like spilled wine and soaks clothes for weeks.
Several years ago I wrote a novella 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.
Smoke, leather and cocoa powder.
Peppery milk chocolate grows slowly, endlessly, with maple and balsam and kerosene.
This could be worn by a wounded-football-hero-turned-reclusive-lumberjack when he decides to clean up nice.
He has no clue that he’s sexy AF.
It fades after a long day to an herbal kiss on sweaty skin, left with creamy lip balm.
Alpha male cloves, softened by spring pine. Riding leather and a hint of spearmint underneath.
Slumberhouse designed it for men, but a hardcore dominatrix could pull this off beautifully. Bullwhip velvet and chai tea aftercare. Yes, please.
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.
Coffee with vanilla syrup and booze-cherry tobacco in a cedar wood humidor.
Italian plums, the kind they dry for prunes, and wormwood dust underneath.
Another scent I’d find cloying on a man but delicious on a butch woman.
Lighter than Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille, but no less intriguing.