Bat is entertaining, but makes me feel like I’m in a nature documentary narrated by David Attenborough.
“The species Chiroptera wakes in his cave, rife with mineral dirt, dust and a trace of smoke, hungry for the tropical fruits of his diet. Bananas and figs sustain him for several hours, but eventually rain hinders his foraging, and he must find refuge in the green forest floor, hiding under his own leathery wings in the woody undergrowth until it passes.”
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.
Camel is that delicious import shop halfway down a dark alley that greets you with dried roses in enamel vases and sticky dates on brass trays when you walk in the door.
Cedar boxes of incense, the animal musk of raw silk tapestries…
The shopkeeper has smuggler’s eyes, and you laugh when he tells you there’s a djinn in the bottle but you buy it anyway because he’s so incredibly sexy.
My cat just peed on the carpet.
No, that’s not what Civet smells like–it’s actually quite lovely. Leather and citrus and peppery carnations, smoke and it’s so lush.
But when I dabbed it on my wrist my cat freaked out, frantically pawed at my sleeve and then took a stress squirt on the rug.
Never have I felt so sexy doing laundry.
Carpet is clean, cat is sleeping, perfume calmed down to sweet black coffee on the skin.