Sex and the sillage  

NOT NECESSARILY APPROPRIATE FOR WORK

in this thread we will examine the aptitudes of certain perfumes to perform beautifully during sex, and the lack there of noticed among others. We will also examine the elements of attraction that mysteriously dwell in specific perfumes, and what part revulsion plays in this phenomenon. This thread may contain suggestive language and images but no graphic content will be welcome. Everybody is invited to post. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.

This thread this and this thread that: Not even begun and already dissected. Hopefully, people will have something of interest to recount: To wit, the following phenomenon: It has become increasingly clear to me that there is indeed some built in attribute of attraction which is very mysteriously buried in vintage Givenchy Gentleman. (By vintage I designate the "Greek Key" inspired black and white printed boxed and chrome labeled version, and not the current one, which comes in a black box: I have never smelled this though I do have 100ml of it on order, out of curiosity.) Some of you will know that I recently bought out, and now plan on using to the last drop, the world's last remaining dead stock of this, in all concentrations and formulations, and have been making a steady diet of all for the last few weeks: I wondered how, after all of the turned heads and compliments, it would heat up during a tryst, as fragrances do. When I wore this in the mid to late 80's, codes of conduct in France allowed for a virtual dousing of one's entire body in eau de toilette: For me, this was a daily ritual. I now make due with tiny sprtz's and dustings over remnants left of the bubble bath, the soap, the deodorant, and the after shave, which makes for an excellent body splash and hair dressing: The Eau de Toilette proper seems to have the strength of a modern day "parfum." Recently, I reviewed this: It has not gone unnoticed how people have suddenly changed their physical behaviours toward me, with both women and men seeming to grow more affectionate and close physically in a very noticeable way. I recognized this from the first day I wore it. There must be something in there, something illegal now. Or, more simply put, it just works nicely for me: Obviously, these things are specific to each person's chemistry. Recently, I got to experience how this "Gentleman" performs in bed: The very one who announces upon his arrival that he intends to take you to tea at some swell venue, whilst simultaneously raping you, in front of all. As it panned out the heat of bodies entwined and the dews of lust all took on a woody, balmy and not-so-subtle lilt of something indescribable, and fur. I could smell it very clearly: My partner seemingly could not get enough of it. In the Eighties, I had a "Sex Scent," one I would wear when I knew for a fact that my jeans would be off within only a matter of time; it was the original "KOUROS." This is something so enveloping (I still have a bottle) that I believe it would be overwhelming today. I also find it smells like youth. My current "Sex Scent" is
Khiel's Original Musk, worn with an economy so extreme that, when applied, the molecules seem barely to touch my skin at all. As far as scents that I personally find erotic, I have found them to vary according to the wearer. I suppose I would have to cast my vote for "The World's Most Erotic Perfumes" for two Guerlains: Shalimar for women, and Habit Rouge for men, both in their original formulations. I have experienced the effect of both of these, and can not imagine anything could be more seductive. Both "embalm" as the french say, that is they explode as passion heats up, but, rather than being headache inducing, they just seem to make the experience all the more thrilling. I suppose I have very classic taste. On me, the re-discovery of G-Gentleman came by surprise: Just as it almost always seems to happen when you get laid, I wasn't looking. Now, of course we know that a large percentage of you prefer no scent at all during moments of intimacy, so nobody needs to point this out. What we are looking at here are phenomena involving manufactured fragrance molecules: Not human pheromones unadorned.

I am quite sure that any fragrance that the wearer happened to steal would automatically become more erotic by proxy: I can't say that I have ever stolen a perfume, but, in my youth, it did come to pass that I would steal books, smuggle them home, read them very carefully, taking care not to tatter the covers or bend the pages, then commit to return to the equally dangerous scene of the crime, invariably W.H. Smith on rue de Rivoli, in order that I secretly slip them back onto the shelves, unnoticed by all. It was not for lack of money that I should steal books: It was from lack of nerve to actually buy them, for by the age of eleven I had developed some very specific tastes: My parents had "Lady Chatterly's Lover." I was far more aroused at the time by certain works by E.M. Forester: The first book I procured this way was called "Maurice," and how I thrilled to read it! Interesting observation above, made by The Good Doctor: Lubin. Recently, I saw the entire range of these newly launched scents displayed in a very fine shop downtown, all in their new, very singular cubist designed bottles and boxes. I must say: Lubin, for me, holds no attraction whatsoever as I grew up considering it not only sub-par, but not considering it at all, as in many respects Lubin would be considered then as a kind of equivalent to today's Pinault. As it appears the firm has been re-launched and much care has been taken to erase this veil of cheap, sub-pharmacy stigma. I love the name "BLUFF" and the bottles are exquisite. Very chic indeed. It was the same with Molinard. Molinard, in France, notably in Paris, was always considered "Ringard," as it was Grassois and not Parisian, so in essence it didn't quite count as being real: Much like Fragonard, which, far worse, had for reputation one of copying legendary scents and selling them at cut rate prices. Recently, though, I finally broke down and bought a 3.4oz tester of "Habanita," which has now been reformulated and repackaged: These testers, in their Marc Lalique black slag glass bottles, can be had for around $20.00US online. I nearly fell over when I sprayed it: A more sultry scent, I don't think I've ever experienced. Nor Guerlain nor Patou nor Caron has ever come up with anything like that to my knowledge: It is downright pornographic. I am now in possession of at least 20 and counting of these eau de toilette testers, and have amassed about 5 ounces of the parfum strength, which, interestingly, is not much different than the eau de toilette: It has replaced Shalimar as my "bedtime scent." I have tried to wear it during the day. Unfortunately, though, it makes a bit too much fuss over itself for my own comfort. I have been longing to spray some on a woman: One of these testers I have hidden in my office, and I am waiting to see if the right one appears. It is very obviously a brunette scent: It would be completely out of line on a blonde. I would be very interested in knowing how it "performs." Like Bal a Versailles, it definitely sends out a promise of some very spectacular behaviour. Has anyone ever sped off into the stratosphere wearing nothing but sweat and "Habanita"?

Well, Jab Jab Jab, Miss "Mon Precieux Nectar." I will take the liberty here of pointing out that everyone should be equipped with at least one small spray bottle of Khiel's Original Musk: The oil, not so much. The thing that must not be overlooked is that KOM is, at least by my estimation, designed to be "worn dirty." (Yes, I know. None of you ever get dirty.) By this I imply that it is most definitely not an after bath splash. It's more of an after all manner of shenanigans splash, or micro-dusting, as it were: It sublimates sweat, even rank sweat, secretions magnifiques, vestiges of any kind of smoke that may cling to you or your clothes, and has come in very handy, at least for me, at those specific times when I have required it, such as the time i discovered, short of water as I was, that brushing your teeth with vodka is not only effective, but stimulating. There is no control here: We are letting our hair down. If it's "TMI," nobody's got the Jean Desprez purse flacon of "Escaramouche" (which, I am here to tell you, was not only shaped like a dagger, but being made of solid brass and heavy rock crystal, could most definitely be used as one, with its razor sharp point) to your neck to read. All day today, I thought about it: My lovely BN friend Merely, who is gifted with a mind most intricate, has recently launched a thread entitled "Monsieur de Givenchy." I have posted some thoughts there on, notably the memories I have of how I got my first bottle of Givenchy Gentleman: Put into my little seven year old hands by le Grand Monsieur himself. I'm afraid it is true, what Lillybelle points out above: I'm sorry, Hippie-Loathers out there. There is something to be said for the erotic qualities of patchouli. To all I recommend Molinard's "Patchouli." Here is a very French take on the note, beautifully blended, and extremely satisfying. Interestingly, it's so well rounded, it almost doesn't even smell like patchouli: Just something green, dank, rotting and wonderful. G-Gentleman, on the other hand, all heated up and forgotten in the throws of seemingly ceaseless passion, appeared no longer to harken patchouli at all: It reminded me of skins. If ever you go to the showroom of a purveyor of leathers and fur pelts, say, for instance, Poulain in Paris, the odour that floats about in those rooms is the very one of which I was reminded: I was keenly aware of my explosive scent, but somehow, it made me all the more randy. It wasn't "leather," per se. It was skin, and fur. Interestingly, the moment occurred, I have calculated, a full fourteen hours after application, yet when things got hot and bothered, it blossomed up out of me and enshrouded us both. Even I was surprised. As the interaction progressed, the scent grew stronger and seemed to become very faintly sweet. I remember being briefly reminded of the soft, singular scent of summer tea roses, but in the most surprising sort of way, as if the scent of the roses included the unmistakable stench of the enormous bag of peat-moss you are mulching with. The patchouli, I'm afraid, seemed to have been lost in the mix, or, failing that, the specific type of patchouli used here is so expertly blended that it shines only during the first ten hours. In retrospect, it is testament to the supreme quality of this vintage juice that I, bathing in the afterglow, as it were, felt every bit the gentleman, which, considering what went on, and would go on all over again after what seemed to be less than an half an hour, I never once felt "sleazy." Fleurine, I will give you this: Having "Practiced" KOM, it can feel somewhat wicked this way, but of course that very feeling of abandon is part of its strange allure. Defending it I will point out that this little gem is not packaged in those tiny rectangular amber spray atomizers for naught: The 30ml spray is a lifetime supply: I bought mine when it was launched, which must have been at least 8 years ago, and I just checked, the contents of my little brown bottle are not even half gone, and believe you me that little thang has seen some wild times: You just need the slightest dusting of molecules of it: If you can feel the moisture of it on your skin, you have applied too much. What other fragrances function like this for you, readers? and why? I suppose it is presumptuous of me to ask: This thread is inspired by a true story. I threw all lilies to the wind, had it off, and off again: Played hard like there was no tomorrow: I just happened to be wearing G-Gentleman, and, I think, for the first time, I experienced what fragrance is for: Not only did it attract and augment the experience of my partner, but it made my own explosive. What else, that isn't a drug outright, will do that?

OK: My turn. Ladies and gentleman; jabs are nothing at all to me, used to them as I am. However, do please avoid having recourse to that "escaramouche" flacon. I own one of these: It is astounding that such a thing could have at a point in time been produced and fearlessly sold on the open market. Handling it, one is awe-struck by it's very frankly and even unabashedly menacing design. One thing all of you may have already gleaned about me is this: I, for many, many years, worked and played with the big boys in Parisian fashion and perfumery. Eye rollers, be aware that by this I do not suggest I was spritzing innocents at Printemps or Bon Marche. I was directly involved in the design of fragrance, packaging, ad campaigns, and more. In truth, I may say: There is a fragrance, now legendary, that fetches hundreds of dollars an ounce online, if you can find it, that, believe it or not, was custom made for me: I never liked it, hardly ever wore it, wore it really only when I knew I would be meeting with its creator, then, four years later, it was launched commercially under a name that was by all accounts an inside joke. When I left Paris to remove to New York, I put 5 one liter lab decant bottles of it in the rubbish: The whole lot. When I read of the brouhaha it has since caused, for instance, here on BN, I laugh, because I know exactly how it was made, why it was made, and from what, and that its creator spent all of about one week, maybe just an afternoon, blending it. While this phenomenon may have happened a bit by accident, (Just like the Birth of Shalimar) I can personally attest that other things, designs such as this dagger-flacon, for instance, most certainly do not: An infinite number of sketches and diagrams are first presented, followed by an equal number of plaster of paris mock ups, after which experimental phase, what could be the affair of months, the glass and metal work just begins: This flacon, being as I have mentioned fashioned out of solid brass and rock crystal, as this weight of glass would have been the only one hearty enough to support the lead-like lourdeur of the screw cap and tip, could so very easily be used as in instrument of murder that it boggles the mind: A perfume, already very daringly called "Escaramouche," was not enough. It had to be presented in weapons grade metallica: Holding it in your hand, the design allows for a firm grip on the cap side. The opposite tip is honed to such a point that one might very easily cut through just about anything with it: One jab strategically blown, and, guaranteed, Death ensues. It's "etui" is of heavy pebble leather, hand stitched: I wonder, just how many wounds were indeed inflicted with this little feminine wile, to the heart, but also, to the jugular of the neck? Really, Fleurine: You are a magician with the imagery. I was hoping that you would swoop in and plaster up an image directly under my title page, and you did: Pity it's so small. On the other hand, it's tiny size works in its favour as, when blown up, a stylists very common taste in shoes is revealed: You will have to agree. I know you. Before launching this thread, I read Grant's rule book about posting images: My vote is that you edit this page, remove the shoe-crime, and replace it with real crime: How about that full frontal male nude from the YSL M7 campaign? (We're allowed only that: It is specifically mentioned in the guidelines) And do please make it big, would you, Dear? Ehm, also, while your at it, could you colour wash it in burgundy? What I want to know is how you do this: I mean, really! I mention "Esacaramouche," and BAM! there it is! Clearly, we have among us a genius. I'm sorry, people: As you will all have noticed, I just discovered how to add those...those faces, as evidenced by my opening titles. (I love the little bouncy one) So, good work, Lillybelle. I'm not sure they reformulated KOM: after all, what's to reformulate? It was all synthetic from the get-go. You can't produce this level of jasmine and rose flight at $24.00US an ounce, even if you are Khiel's. Have you noticed how well it harkens memories of vintage joy, the one you smelled at the time, perhaps in the fetching little black bottle, when it was new? Fleurine, I'm just telling you: I am blown away by your prouesse. I had an entire plot devised for tonight's post. Now, it's evaporated. Excuse me while I try to grab hold of it, ponder a bit, and see if, again, it blooms.

Alright: I've approximately one hour to cover this. I will attempt to stay focussed and remain on point. A preface, though, is in order. Mike Perez, we must have some sort of brain wave connection. My entire plot, the one I was meant to explore, you harken with your post above, which, clearly, you were writing at the very moment I was engaged in writing mine. You are aware that this thread is a dream sequence: We are all still air borne, you know. I just happen to be asleep. Rubbed and kneeded into an erotic fantasy by your crew in the Lavender Lounge, my dream progresses. Monsieur de Givenchy. First of all, life is full of coincidences: Rediscovering these two iconic men's scents created under the direction of le Grand Monsieur himself, I have been all but lost in the effluvia of both of them. Today, on my way home, I saw in the window at B's a pair of....gulp. Mandals. Yes. Let it be known that I am not a fan of such things: These make themselves necessary only in Hawaii, where flip flops become so tiresome. As it happened, I quite liked them. Certain and encouraged as I was that I should for once be from safe from my usual suicide-inducing behaviour which any visit to B's will invariably bring on, purposely avoiding the perfume counters all together, bravely I took the lift directly to the shoe department: I have "a guy" up there who is a real gem. He knows my taste (A fondness for Pierre Hardy) and also knows I take an unusual size. As luck would have it, as soon as the lift doors opened, I was face to face with him. "Those.....Oh. You're going to laugh at me. Are you ready? Those.....ugh. I hate even having to say it: Those sandals in the window. The black slavey looking ones: What do you think? Any chance we can locate my size?" Guy: "As a matter of fact I think I may just have it on hand. We have three pairs left. One is in the window, and the other two.....excuse me for a moment." He didn't laugh, but quickly disappeared. I was looking at pocket squares when he emerged with a white box, opened it in front of me, and in it, were a pair of gargantuan black strappy slave sandals. Immediately, I was in a panic. "Now I'm going to have to try them on," I thought. For some reason, this felt...invasive. The department was populated with its usual collection of short, over-dressed ethnic logo-wearing clientele cooing over the usual pair of mercury patent leather Lanvin sneakers, all of whom were now eyeing me suspiciously. "Can I try them on over my socks?" GUY: "Of course!" So-I slipped them on, stood up, walked around. They were a bit tight. Guy: "You should take your socks off. They'll fit better." Me: (Blushing) "Oh. I......ehm......Oh, Ok." (Ethno-logo-posse now all spying on me, with their Louis Vuitton shoulder bags and prada sport trainers, whispering low to each oher in foreign tongues) I peeled my right sock off, slipped my foot in, buckled the buckles, stood up, walked around again: "What do you think? Do my toes hang over?" GUY: (He's magic) "Here: Try this." At this stage he knelt down, and re-fastened my buckles. I was mortified. I have such a devout respect for men who work in shoe departments: When I begin to detest my life, I think of them. Here is this fine man, with his nose mere inches from my bare foot. As it happened, once he worked his buckle trick, the right one fit perfectly, which in and of itself is astounding. "They have been running a full size big: You're in luck. They look great." ME: "really?" GUY: "Very sexy." ME: (one shade redder) "I, you know, really only need them for Hawaii." GUY: "They're perfect for Hawaii." Well, I couldn't ague the point. Out came the black card. When I got home, I hastened to try both on, secretly grabbing at straws for any reason to return them: "My left foot is bigger. I'm sure of it!" thought I, that is, until I pulled the white box out of the black bag. On it, one word: GIVENCHY. Now that, was a digression. What I meant to say, was this: Where to begin? First and foremost, Givenchy Gentleman and Monsieur de Givenchy are fascinating polar opposites. GG seems to reek of patchouli only through the nostrils of men: When they say something, it never fails to be a snide comment involving....you guessed it: "Are you wearing patchouli?" Invariably, I say: "Yep. Buck ninety-nine. Can't beat it." Women, on the other hand, go wild. I can tell, as I read body language very fluently. They bat their eyes. Blush. Smile. Make eye contact on the street. Whatever it is that is in GG, the fairer sex adores it. When it happens that you become their prey, and get caught, they will inhale you with an hunger that is palpable, being attracted to your armpits, and your neck: All of the places you have put it. (My All-Vintage GG Diet: Bubble bath, Soap on a Rope, Deodorant, Aftershave lotion poured copiously then rubbed all over my chest and back and in my hair, massaged into my scalp. Then, before the shirt goes on, two micro spritzes of eau de toilette at the base of my neck, at the shoulder, one on thr lower abdommen: Any more, and it becomes intrusive.) The looks you get when walking around in this fragrant veil are priceless. Naturally, you get the second look: At any rate I always get it, merely because i look as though perhaps I may have escaped from a circus. But in the haze of GG, that second look becomes probing. I have very pale blue eyes, and they are extremely sun sensitive, so outdoors, I am forever wearing polarized dark sunglasses: I can follow the eye contact of any passer by discretely: If I don't turn my head, they don't know I'm watching. There is a look of carnal intrigue, or, failing that, pulsing physical longing that dwells in these looks, and they emanate from the most surprising people: Older, proper looking women, all foulard Hermes and pearls. Young, shy, adolescent girls, turning visibly pink before my eyes as I walk by: Now, lest you all think I am a braggart, I will state point blank I personally find myself repulsive to look at. I am not one to harp on and on about my devastating looks: In fact, it has been pointed out to me many times that I do everything i can to hide myself: I hide behind lots of hair, lots of clothes, and just about anything else I can think of. When I look in the mirror, I sometimes sigh in disbelief. Often, my courage and self-confidence fails me as I brush my teeth in the morning. To the mirror, I have addressed the words: "How can that be me?" many, many times. As I grow older, I have found that I live in a kind of denial, and don't even look into the mirror all that often any more, and when i do, it is to adjust my belt, or straighten my waist coat: rarely do I look at my face. My whole life has been a kind of concerted effort to distract people's gaze from my eyes. Ah, but GG has been a game changer. Not that suddenly I have become brave enough to look at myself. More that suddenly I have become intrigued to witness how others look at me. There is something, something that roars, that is hidden in this juice: There is no question. For my young assistant to look down blushing and tell me that this fragrance I have come to wear, as she put it, "Is makin' my head go all kindsa places," then look back up, frankly terrified, there must be. There is no other explanation. What it is, and how it works, I can not say. My personal theory is that it has something to do with the frank note of beeswax that's in it, as this rings very unusual and produces a singularly suave sillage that is so far above the norm that it simply can not be over looked, except by men: All they can detect is patchouli. Interestingly, I have worn this "Diet" for now close to two weeks and i can not remember once the word "Patchouli" coming out of any feminine lips. The men on the other hand, they can't get over it. In bed, it explodes like a nitrate: Fourteen hours in, and I was exploding scent I never knew I had, and it was clearly thrilling both parties in the room: It seemed to empower me, erase her inhibitions, calling me to push harder, probe deeper, hold the kiss longer, as it was with the flesh on flesh contact that alchemy occurred, and a an humid, magic mist rose up and enshrouded the bed in a kind of chemical haze I can liken only to that of a bottle of poppers circulating on a dance floor: Inhale, you're higher. Inhale again, you're floating. Breathe deeply, nothing else exists except two bodies, spiraling out of control, each intent on invading the other by any means possible. After the storm, the calm of dawn: Monsieur de Givenchy. This has been my "Fall to Earth," chill out scent for the last three days: For three days i have been wearing it, (using the same "Diet," minus the aftershave "lotion," which in M de G I was only able to obtain in "balm," which, being more emollient, cannot be used as an hair tonic. It's a very strange scent. There is no flight to it at all: It proceeds directly to the heart. It is an herbaceous lavender: It smells like nothing else. A fougrere it is not. A bizarre, alien Lavender Soliflore is more what I would call it. There is no sweetness to it whatsoever. Not an hint. "Pour un Homme" or "Jicky," this is not. Nor is it "Eau Sauvage," as many reviews indicate. This scent stands alone and will have inspired many, many copies, none of which match its uncanny elegance: It is the most discrete fragrance imaginable, yet it lasts and lasts and lasts, and this, miracle of miracles, without the slightest suggestion of lavender absolute, which I detest. (Lavender absolute is what's in Pour un Homme, and "Whatever it's Called" by Killian.) For three days, I have wondered: "But...is it sexy?" My answer, I found this evening, on my way home. M de G is sexy this way: There is a band called "the Walkman" who once did a CD called "Everybody Who Pretended to Like Me is Gone." A more sultry make-out circle-player, you will not find. On the cover of this, is a photo of three six or seven year old boys taken during the depression, all of whom are wearing paper boy caps and are smoking cigarettes. It's a sepia tint black and white, grainy image. When you pop the CD in, there blooms a kind of strange world that lasts the entire length of the work; a good 70 minutes. In this world, everything moves at a different pace: the cadence is skewed. Everything seems a bit off kilter. There are waltzes and dances and all you can imagine are old, dusty interiors full of derelict furniture and a band of horny misfits that live in them that just happen to be wildly attractive. Alternately, It is sexy this way: If you look, you may find some Edwardian porn. Edwardian porn is equally strange and off kilter because the men in it are always half dressed, while the women are quite naked: The women are obviously prostitutes, as some of them are quite beautiful, and the men are all disguised: Along with copious amounts of absurdly styled facial hair, they wear bowler hats, black knee socks with garter belts, and, invariably, some form of cover over their eyes which can take the form of a masque outright, dark, round sunglasses, even blindfolds. Sometimes, they are only seen from the back. They are often either noticeably gaunt, or slightly rotund, and usually quite hairy. While they engage in their trysts with their ladies, who will feign delight, surprise, horror, lust, according to the plot, as there always seems to be a plot, the men smoke cigars, or puff deeply on long, Dutch pipes. The images are grainy, and the movements do not follow the norm we have come to know today. There are black outs and spots, pauses and cuts: Then, out of a moment of stillness, there they are: The disguised smoking men gang raping the buxom, wide-hipped maiden, who, again, according to the plot, is either enjoying it, or fighting it off with terror: If M de G is sexy, it is sexy in this hazy, bizarre, David Lynch "Erasurehead" sort of way, just like the tiny lady who lives in the radiator and emerges from time to time to do her little, sultry burlesque dance. M de G is indeed soporific: Upon application it calms you in a very noticeable way, makes everything go just one beat off. (My dear friend Merely says it makes him "feel like an inavalid." It blows on you like dust. Do what you will over the course of the day, and it will follow you, and never fade, playing all the while it's strange, decadent, grainy waltz, shutter-lit but without ever being discordant, because as soon as it is on you, you are marching to its beat, like it, or not. Ladies, Gentlemen: I give you here are two very powerful scents.

NATURALLY, RUBE STEPS UP TO THE PLATE, AND DELIVERS

OK: You, Mr, I want a complete breakdown of Habanita. Make with the e-bay search and choose overnight shipping if you haven't done so thus far (3.4oz tester: $19.99US): You're the one who must shed light on this. I, for all of my insights, am too much in a muddle the very minute I inhale it to provide any kind of coherent commentary. As I have mentioned above or...or somewhere...Habanita seems tailored specifically for incendiary brunettes: Thoughts? Has Aphrodite taken this on a test drive? We want to know!

Fleurine, Honestly. Is Rubegon right? (He has a very impressive track record for no-nonsense accuracy, you know) You can't possibly be....ehm.....frigide, hmm? If your .02 cents indicates that it's not part of the physical act, perhaps you're not applying properly? You know the lower abdomen trick? Must we blindfold you, then drop you into B-G to get any enthusiasm? "Part of the seduction" indeed. Oh, Dear. Well, you brightened my day: Strange things must indeed happen when you are married. First of all, you get fat. Then, your very perfume starts being for others? those you're not having sex with? Oh, Brother! My .98 cents: I have decided to renew my subscription to bachelorhood indefinitely. Perhaps this is very French of me, which, by the way, FRANCE IS SAVED!!!!!, (in case anyone out there didn't grasp) but LIFE ITSELF is seduction. No amount of perfume poured on an hideous, wicked, evil man would entreat you to consider its sexuality, would it? mere perfume does not give it, (as you will have seen with "Mon Precieux Nectar," Water's joke of the season chez Guerlain) your mind, and your heart is where it lives: Neither may be perfumed. Perfume is merely the light, the one that allows you to see it, and feel it, the way a torch might, shone into a dark, dark room, a room so vast, that the brightest, most powerful torch will not shine through to the farthest reaches of it.

ANYTHING ELSE GOING DOWN, OR UP, IN THAT BED, DR? (THAT IS MY QUESTION, INVOLVING "IN BED.") FYI: THE GOOD DOCTOR IS ALWAYS RIGHT: EVEN WHEN SPEAKING IN IMAGINARY CANTONESE LILTED WITH A SOUTH AFRICAN ACCENT RE-WORKED BY A UNI-LINGUAL SWEED, AS RECITED BY SIRI, SUCH AS IS ILLUSTRATED ABOVE ^^^

MY ANSWER: THERE ARE FUNNER PLACES THAN THE BEDROOM. OBVIOUSLY, THERE IS THE HOTEL ROOM, WHERE, CONVENIENTLY, YOU CAN WALTZ OUT AT ANY MOMENT: EXAMINE THE LESS OBVIOUS, AND VOLUMES OF MORE THRILLING DATA MAY BE PRODUCED.

MY AFFIRMATION: THE STRANGEST PLACE, FOR ME: PERE LACHAISE CEMETERY: SOMEHOW STRANGER THAN THE CATACOMBS, WHICH, THE ALL-SEEING KNOWS, HAVE BEEN TERRITORIALIZED BY MY DNA IN MANY PLACES: GRANTED, IT WAS THE EIGHTIES.

Oh, Dear. Where might I begin? Let's say.....hmmmmm: Why not Anger? Let's get that out first. Fleurine, you are in massive amounts of trouble Missy! How could you? I am now so utterly mortified that I thought long and hard before responding: The question was as follows. Should I call upon my dear friend Socalwoman, the moderator, and ask that she slam the lock on this one, too, now that everyone in the world is imagining that I would be seen wearing the menu of horrors illustrated above? OR: Should I merely point out the obvious? Did I not preface my entire mandal discussion with a frank expression of revulsion at the very idea of them, let alone the reality of them? Scroll up now, and look: I made it perfectly clear, didn't I? I loathe mandals. I've hardly ever seen them effectively worn outside of, you know, exotic, third-worldy places, like....Brooklyn. Furthermore, I also did cover my bases: Everyone knows that wearing shoes in Hawaii is near impossible, and if you do, people stare. By consequence, everyone wears those hideous "slippas" as they call them: Including me. I will have my odd Birkenstock moment, but even those are just too hot. (There's something about that cork sole) Fleurine, if you post a grid of hairy man feet in Birkenstocks, you may just find someone who smells familiar waiting for you somewhere with a purse flacon of Escaramouche secretly tucked in his waist coat pocket. FOR THE RECORD: (Damn! I wish I could post pictures! EVERYONE has tried to teach me how to do this. Is it easier to post pictures from your i-photo library?) The mandals I bought look NOTHING like those pictured above: They are more abstract and look slightly Greek. Also for the record, I will insert here that the only parts of my body that I find absolutely perfect just happen to be my hands and my feet: this is a very greek trait, and as it stands that I am of greek blood, It follows suit that I should be blessed with perfectly formed extremities. People marvel at my hands all the time: I've been told that my feet look like those of a marble statue. I am also a fanatic about mani-pedis, and get one every other week. (no polish or buffing). But really, Fleurine! How could you? Ugh! I'm livid. I'm so livid, that I'm afraid I shall have to excuse myself in order that i.....in order that i go try on those mandels again. Truly: they look nothing like those ^^^ those.....monstrosities above. Ugh! I just looked again. DISGUST!!

see? see? he's always right!

I would have returned them by now, had I not had the most EXHAUSTING day--Really: I only brought them up because they were Givenchy, and I didn't even know until I got home. It was odd: a strange synergy. Givenchy obviously has been on my mind. Today I tried the following experiment/variation of the "GG Diet."

Bain de GG as described above. (I would KILL to have GG bath oil)

Body rub with GG after shave. NOTE: Gentlemen, "After shave," something we don't typically use these days, makes for a superb hand refresher and a wonderful hair dressing. I have 8, or maybe 10, 7.5oz bottles of GG "apres rasage," and Initially i was stumped concerning what precisely i would do with them. As it pans out, "after shave" does all manner of lovely things, and does them with finesse. Obviously I would never put it on my face, but it's fantastic in the beard, hair, scalp massage, on the hands during the day in the office, leaving all smooth, slightly moisturized, and faintly fragrant.

GG deodorant

THEN: Mouchoir de Monsieur all over everything, in the linings of my jacket and coat, and on my pocket square.

FINALLY: Two firm spritzes of GG edt (the vintage is stronger than a current Guerlain parfum) low on the abdomen, just above the pubic area, up to the belly button, directly on skin. This is an interesting trick: If you have a fragrance that you consider a bit too "loud," (I do consider GG slightly "loud," in all honesty) try mixing it with something lighter as I illustrate above. Mouchoir de Monsieur singles itself out from Jicky mostly by its patchouli laced basenote. Wearing it with GG scented bathing products/deodorant is a natural. Blasting your lower abdomen with GG edt produces the the most scintillating effects: It does waft out and up through of all of the layers of clothes. In today's instance, that meant: Boxer briefs, vest, cotton pique shirt, and waist coat: All this underneath my blazer. It was interesting how the GG was distinctly there, yet it didn't overwhelm the delicate Mouchoir: It just seemed to augment its vague spiciness. Ladies, you may try this as well, wearing your typical lighter daytime edt as per your usual regime, then, if wearing a skirt, apply the darker scent to your ankles.
If wearing blouse & pants, proceed as proscribed above. It's an interesting method of "layering." I've never really believed much in layering. If, for instance, I had sprayed the GG on along with my MdM, the GG would have merely consumed and dominated the scent scape. It's strange to witness how I can not abandon my MdM: I believe it has become part of my DNA. Unfortunately, since it's now rubbish, I am as you have all witnessed forced to evolve. As for how Jicky or MdM perform in bed, I'm afraid I would have no idea. When you wear something for 30 years, you become so accustomed to it that you lose the capacity to judge. Many of you have mentioned that you consider fragrance application a non-sex related gesture: Personally, I disagree. I'm afraid it appears that of all of you posting I'm the only one who isn't married. I can safely tell you that it is a sex-related gesture, in that, if you happen to "engage," your fragrance will be part of the experience. This can be a positive, just as it can be a very distinct negative, as it was when, one time, I found myself engaged with a wearer of Jo Malone's "Black Vetiver Cafe" and had to call the game because it was giving me the horrors. (I detest this kind of "Black" perfume. It's so....intrusive. I found that, having stopped the action, I could still smell it on me two days later: I would get "tastes" of it here and there. Habanita, I think, may well be this sort of scent: Personally, I adore it. I'm not entirely sure I want to make out with it, though. It's got such presence, one imagines that, were you so engaged, you would end up tasting it in your mouth. I had the same experience with "En Avion." Someone with whom I have regularly been intimate had such an aversion to it that she finally asked me flat out to never wear it again if I intended to see her, at which point I started spraying my cigarettes with it. This works so beautifully with En Avion: It erases the disgusting cigarette smoke odour even from your fingers, and the smoke you emit smells delicious, almost like incense. As it happened, though, people just weren't "ready" for this: When I am in society I sometimes use my mother's beautiful cartier cigarette "necessaire," which is of vibrant green enamel and gold. It has a built in lighter, as well as it is equipped with a smashing blood red cigarette holder. I once attended a formal affair harboring this, full of "En Avion" cigarettes. My date, the very one who had interdicted me of wearing En Avion, snatched it away from me as soon as I opened it, telling me I was not allowed to smoke these, since, as she put it, "they cause a commotion." Personally, I thought they smelled, and tasted delicious. I tried the same experiment with Habanita: Though it did work, Habanita could not hold a flame to en avion in this alternate usage. I think, all tastes are different. On a woman, my choice for a scent would veer toward vintage "Je Reviens," which I consider the most erotic perfume in the world, or any incarnation of Shalimar, even its current two-penny bollocks linen spray version. It is clear that men and woman want to inhale different notes when in a state of arousal. For me, it's baby powder: Something extremely powdery always gets me going. Other men might find other types of scents alluring. Why so many men find Chanel No5 so appealing, I'll never understand: To me, it smells....it smells like law and order: the antithesis of sex. I wonder: What is it that women find the most attractive in a scent on men? Clearly, whatever that may be, GG has it in spades. Could it be a sort of raw earthiness? Ladies, we've heard from you that it depends on the man, which obviously it does, but do please tell us what "aura" you find incites erotic thoughts and designs for you. Again, for each, I am sure, it will be different. There are men's scents that do very well on the international market designed for and worn by men that to me, smell of "Locker Room." I often wonder how anyone could find this attractive. The bulk of male-designated scents have this cumin + herbal soap accord. Obviously you ladies have not spent time in men's locker rooms, but this is precisely the odour that floats in them: A distinctly clean, soapy-fresh main frame with an undercurrent of cumin. I can't think of an example as I have never been a fan of "men's colognes." With few exceptions, GG, obviously, most just seem too heavy to me: I would most definitely not want to smell this between the sheets: That "Cleanliness" aspect--it's off putting. Clearly, I'm one who is attracted to dirt. Something squeaky clean on a woman, "Ma Griffe," for example, would never "do it" for me. But obviously it must for some. I know there are more people reading this thread than there are posting on it. Would somebody please step forth and enlighten us about your feelings concerning our subject matter here? There's got to be someone reading who likes a perfumed partner: We all know, for example, that most everyone prefers "the nothing approach" when it comes to intimacies. Is there no one else out there reading who fancies a fragrant bed fellow? If so, do please step forth, and tell us what, why, and how. We know it's none of our business, but that's of no matter: Are we not merely comparing notes? This is no forum for judgement.

Oh, Rube. You and your outright perfection. Isn't it amusing how none of us know one another, yet we perhaps do in fact know one another more intimately than many whom we actually do know? I'm still exhaudted from yesterday: Imagine spending all day with a world famous person who is a self-entitled, self-absorbed, demanding, self-annointed legend, taking it, along with its posse to a restaurant where you happen to dine almost daily, where you know everyone, and everyone knows you, and sitting there mortified while it treats the wait staff, all of whom are your friends, like slaves, dealing with the press and their incessant flashbulbs and microphones, and throngs of people everywhere vying to get a piece of the scene. I'm wrung out to a point of almost near abandon. Why ever would I, as you say, Rube, "Make this stuff up?" If anything, I temper it all, knowing as I do that anybody may have access to it. I will assert: You can't make this stuff up. What you can do is "edit it" in order that it not become so shocking, as is the whole, real reality, as to result in being....gulp....banned. In answer to your question, the catatcombs are far more vast than most realize and spread in veins all throughout the city of paris: There are secret points of entry through some of the vandalized crypts in pere lachaise, even to this day: One must know precisely which, as they are all very cleverly hidden, complicated of access, a VERY highly guarded secret. In the 80's, the catacombs were where the best parties were had, the most thrilling and memorable sex, and all kinds of other involvements: This "scene" is still active today, though it is NOTHING like it was. (And also, I am that much older, and no longer a rough rider, as I was then. Readers old enough to remember the years of 1979-1984, will know that all things dark and depressing where the height of chic. It was actually "the" statement in those days, much as is clueless wealth today. Naturally, I was an integral part of the former. I will never be part of the latter. I know nothing of Facebook: Never been on it, nor do I care about it, and its IPO, the subject on EVERYONE'S lips for the last three days. I do know, though, for example, how to traverse the entire city of paris through the catacombs, gaining entry at pere lachaise, and exit in Cimetiere Montparnasse: This actually crosses through and underneath the Seine, which is, i must admit, the terrifying part, and the most precarious: The explorer could very easily drown at this stage, and be VERY swiftly swallowed up through the pitiless sewer system, leaving no trace, as this ultimately lands into a kind of grindhouse, which would very effectively erase your remains forever. Those who have taken the public tour of the catacombs, (I never have) must know in so doing they are witnessing about 1% of the actual footprint of these halls and corridors, as the entire city of paris is built on a platform under which there are not one but two levels of subterranean open weave mazes. In the late 19th Century, whole neighbourhoods were known to collapse into them. To this very day, it still could happen: This is a detail of the City of Paris of which few are aware, as there has been little attention paid to it, given that the French Government has little interest in making it public. One detail about this is the sewer system, which is the same since it was constructed under Napoleon III: Crossing paris secretly underground has the very unappealing element of sometimes having to trudge through it, notably around the areas that surround the Seine, as here is where the voyager must actually get wet, and by getting wet, I dont mean in water. It is flattering that Rube suggests that my life is like a movie. For me, it more like......nothing, really: Just a life. I suppose I am equipped with an unquenchable thirst for adventure, and always have been: This, I believe, is born of having spent the bulk of my childhood in "lockdown." Certain private Catholic schools in France, the better ones, in my day were located outside of urban areas and towns, and functioned a bit like prisons: The student was captive. It has much evolved today, and, I believe, could be nothing at all like it was in my time, when corporal punishment involving paddles and whips was a very real threat, as was a kind of "solitary confinement." When I was "released," I made a pact with myself that NOTHING would ever confine me, ever again. I must, looking back, admit: I made good on my promise: Nothing ever has. I have been blessed with an huge amount of good fortune. We, though, never know when our lives will shape shift: Even though we are all convinced of the contrary, we are not the master of our life here on earth: Fate is. Unfortunately, Fate is a perfectly unpredictable master. I imagine, knowing this as I do, it has an integral part in my current status of bachelorhood, now growing somewhat tiresome. I wonder though: Would I ever be able to be tethered? In any way, and still be happy? Many readers will think: "Ah! But yes! The tethers of Love!" Here I make an humiliating admission: Me, I don't think I've ever known Her, so on that I can not comment. Other details related above by our National Hero will be addressed later, when I "come to" out of my current state of exhaustion. One is: The now dreaded mandals: They are the FIRST PAIR--the black ones--except that they are not in that version of leather finish: They are in pebble leather. The ones you show are patent leather, but the design is identical: The advantage here is the sole, which is very pliable and rubberized, and, also: They are quite comfortable, and don't cut anywhere, or rub and chafe. After all of this, I am still on the fence: I'm wondering--will I ever dare to be seen wearing designer mandals? The alternate: ABC $11.99 strappies, of which I have bought and lost at least ten pairs. One of the problems with me and mandals, including flip flops, is that, as the day progresses, my state of mental precision fades: Being on vacation when in Hawaii, which is the only place I would ever wear such things, by 4:00pm I am very distinctly "altered," and I lose them, sometimes having to make my way home from the party barefooted, which, thankfully, in hawaii, is not really an issue........

WELCOME INGAMI!!!!!!!!!!

So funny that you mention "Spiritual Skye" Essential oils: I remember these very well. They had them in Holland, and I used to love the wooden based tester bar, which contained the small vials with screw caps, each of which had a glass dauber. I believe I owned many of these back in the day: The one I remember was "Frangiapani," as its oil was a vibrant, fluorescent watermelon colour, and the odour it emitted was very sweet. I believe these are all still made as it seems to me that I have seen them in head shops, still in those elongated square bottles with the black screw caps: I can only imagine that the "Musk" must have smelled a bit like Jovan Musk? The one in the bright orange box? I'm sure that, when I was enthralling over these, being 7, or 8, I had no idea what musk was: I was more involved in the obvious choices then, sandalwood and the like. From those days I also remember many scents now long gone: disappeared to oblivion, like Jean Desprez "Jardanel," which I always loved. I still have several bottles of it, all of which I bought as a young man to give to my mother, who, of course, never wore it. I don't think that KOM will remind you of "Spiritual Skye." I think it may harken Joy, but the Joy of years and years ago, many many years ago: It has that bright rose-jasmine trickery going on, along with all different kinds of sweet musks. Joy actually had an incredible amount of natural civet in it long ago: You can still detect this in the vintage bottles you might buy online, especially in the pre-1980 packaging. The closest i've smelled to it is "AMOUAGE GOLD MAN," where it is so rosey, and so bursting with jasmine, yet its underlying civet base makes itself known immediately, harkening urine to the modern nose. I still wonder about this AGM: I have a full bottle, and I keep testing it: It is so brazen, yet fascinating. there is the strangest quality to it. I couldn't quite imagine it being sexy, regardless of gender, but I could easily imagine it being intriguing: Anyone who smelled like this would most definitely be noticed, if for nothing else other than originality and daring. It's easy to imagine the Sultan of Oman wearing this: A mere mortal, not so much. I wonder just who wears it, what kind of man, outside of the middle east, where, i imagine, it is wildly popular? When I layer in searing desert heat to this effect, I just can't imagine the level of fragrant monument it must produce around the wearer. Initially, I found this scent wildly entertaining: It sort of reminded me of so many things. I did attempt to wear it, but only once: The day I did, a mate of mine who is a make-up artist told me I smelled like "the toilets in a gay bath house," then hastened to add: "But in a good way." Ever since then, it's been impossible for me to enjoy, as each time i attempt to do so i find myself wondering just how toilets in a gay bath house could smell that would be "good." It was a lucid comment, i'm sure, as now, when I smell this, all I can detect is urinal cake, and sweaty, dirty sex: I know both of these odours well, yet their marriage in AGM just rings very distinctly off putting after having had that idea introduced into my head. Interestingly, I'll bet it does smell like the toilets in a gay bath house! One scent that *really* smells like toilets....I would say in a high turn around unkempt place: The toilets in the Montparnasse Station, or worse still, Gare du Nord, is "Moustache" by Rochas. It is amazing to me that scents have been made that are this evocative of urine. This is the detail I wanted to propose we examine on this thread: Revulsion. Now, clearly, things we find sexy seem always to be tainted by some manner of filth or rot: I love "Bal a Versailles," for instance, because it smells like panties. Now, isn't this fascinating? I can love a scent to the point of filling rooms with it, which I have done with Bal a Versailles, I have so much it is frightening, because it smells like dirty panties, all the while, mind, finding that perfectly normal: Obviously, BAV was created for women. "Moustache," on the other hand, created for men, smells like dirty pants, which detail I find nauseating. Clearly: Our nose receptors are hard wired to "pipi-caca" in some way that secretly arouses us. I wonder: What it is, and why? My theory about, for example, loving Shalimar, (on a woman) is that it reminds me of being a baby: Perhaps, I was only ever truly happy as a baby? Perhaps we were all (mostly) ever truly happy as babies? This postulation must pull some weight. There is one thing that none of us will deny: Men LOVE shalimar. That's why it's shalimar. To me, it smells like love. My theory is based on my own experiences which beg the question: Was maternal baby love the only sort I have ever known that was perfect? How else to explain this raging fondness I have for the fragrance of powder? Babies in my day inhaled quite a lot of powder....It was sprinkled in cribs, all over everything. Nowadays, I'm sure all of you neurotic mothers out there have replaced this with corn starch since it has been discovered that talcum is frankly carcinogenic. But my age group, we were covered in it head to toe daily: even slept in it. To this day baby products still are scented with this distinct powdery aroma. Ah, yes: But there's love, and there's sex: Baby Love and Sex. What a thesis this would make!

They are somewhat out of line, aren't they? I finally wore mine: Didn't return them, on Saturday last, with thick heathered German wool socks. I love the idea of wearing these with droopy, heavy very obviously German socks: They were brown. Mine are the first pair in line, except that they are not patent leather at all, they are pebble leather: I suppose they may end up being comfortable, though I must say they did end up being somewhat painful by mid day: I did like the look. I wore them with the now common "short shorts" (I have always worn short shorts: My legs look like toothpicks in bermuda shorts, so I am happy to see more fitted, shorter versions actually for sale ready made) -Not to be outdone, these new "short shorts" were made od a kind of dirty blush pink brushed cotton: With them, I wore a thick brown distressed leather belt, and a long sleeve flowered liberty printed shirt by Cacharel, and brown aviators. I liked the look: I do well with that "German Tourist" vibe. I had a strange "perfume moment" whilst fitting myself out in this get up: "What perfume could ever go with this?" Finally, I opted for Molinard's "Patchouli," which seemed to mesh seamlessly with the "German Tourist" theme. It was the first time my legs came out for the season: They are, for intents and purposes, snow white. I love riding on this razor edge of "so wrong." I find it is the only one where I feel comfortable. I don't ever strive for the "-it's right" suffix. I'm very happy to be a walking illustration of "wrong," that defies hinting at "right," yet somehow, is alluring.......

Ha Ha: I can just see it. My involvement with American Apparel starts and stops with their underwear. Typically, I only wear "HOM" underwear. These are the only boxer briefs that fit my anatomy properly. I have tried everything: The most catastrophic was "2X-ist." These were SUCH a joke: I don't know who these fit, but I do know they don't fit me: Even in the longer boxer brief style, things just wouldn't stay put, invariably...ehm...falling out....that I found by mid day the first time I wore the first pair, I had to take them off and go commando. American Apparel, interestingly, is the ONLY line of underwear for men that has been intelligent enough to offer "nude" in their colour line up: I tend to wear my jeans quite aggressively, and I am very fond of white, be it optic white white or the more creamy "winter white." It has been said of me, by a gay friend: (Mike, you will laugh--It took me ages to "get this,"--these types of references are so often lost on me-- that I am a "DIOR BOTTOM." During the height of the "J'ADORE DIOR" craze, when I actually worked for Dior, Someone in the studio ran up a T-shirt made just for me: Bright cobalt blue with vibrant primary yellow flocked block print letters proclaiming this: DIOR BOTTOM Unfortunately, I wore it twice before I "got it." Even then, this "getting it" only came about when someone "explained it to me," LOL) At any rate, making a steady diet of "Dior Bottoms," (I still chuckle) which by nature are very rakishly fit in the crotch and bum, I find that *ONLY* nude coloured underwear function when bottoms are white, which, for me, so often, they are. Previously, I had been tea-staining white "HOM" boxer briefs to achieve a seamless look. We learn with age how to balance our silhouettes: Systematically, I wear light bottoms, and dark blazers and jackets: Never the opposite, as the opposite has for effect that I end up looking "top heavy," like Frankenstein. Even though American Apparel men's boxer briefs don't really fit, at least the way "HOM" do, being able to buy them ready made in nude is an huge advantage. I don't understand why all mens underwear ranges don't offer nude: This is a mainstay in women's ranges: Why not mens? I consulted once with the Swiss company HANRO. I told them: Very simply, if you want to conquer the market, launch "nude" in your colour range for men. They, being Swiss, had a problem with this idea, pointing out immediately that men would be disinclined to buy "Pink Underwear" as they put it. Concerning German Tourists, I love the way they look: Their whole plethora of style effects suits me: Being overly tall, overly thin, bone white, heavily bearded and long haired, it's just a natural fit. What I personally truly detest, is the "Italian Tourist" look. In fact, I don't much fancy anything Italian: I find Italian men so overly contrived, an effect that, in my opinion, is never attractive on men. The "French Tourist Look," for me, is hysterical. Red jeans. Ralph Lauren everything. Gaudy sunglasses, red-framed spectacles, and the sweater tied around the shoulders. So predictable. The only negative thing I would say about German Tourists concerns not how they look, but how they smell, as they always seem to have that distinct "Eau de Cologne" aura wafting about them on an underpinning of cold tobacco and....unfresh. Wolfgang Joop's hot pink nuclear bomb strength men's scent--JOOP!--so reminiscent of the early 90's for me--when, at the dawn of the "New Age," everything had to be pink, makes perfect sense when considered from an exclusively german point of view: The fact that it has become somewhat iconic in europe, and has outlived the beautifully balanced and cunningly named "What About Adam?" -a scent which, by my estimation, had so many more palatable qualities, is also note worthy: In the early 90's, I actually went through three bottles of this new, hot pink, and utterly explosive fragrance, loving every minute i wore it, but then, in those days, I also had, and wore, the requisite "all somehow pink" wardrobe to match, alternating with the unforgettable "Femininite du Bois," with its genius "Perfume pen," that would allow you to draw and write fluently on lover's bodies, and, oh: How well I remember doing this......

I have yet again found myself bed bound for the last two days: Yesterday, I was overcome with fever and cramps all day, and all of last night. Thank God for Tylenol with Codeine. As I have been confined to my bed, forcing liquids, tossing and turning, I have been engaged in reading Charles Higham's "the Duchess of Windsor," a book I had read in its first issue back in the day which has recently been re-released augmented as is advertised on the cover "with all the latest revelations." I never did get to see the film W.E., to my great disappointment: Most of my movie-going mates put their noses up at this as it was produced and directed by Madonna, which detail, for them, made it immediately invalid. I don't quite understand this reasoning. After all: Say what you will about her, but Madonna, an ugly nothing girl born in some nothing place issued from a nothing family grew up and conquered the world: How many of us can claim as much? Though I've never been a fan of her music, I do have a certain amount of respect for her. Wallis Windsor seems to be the perfect subject for whom Madonna may just have an understanding more intricate than any of us may imagine. With regard to the book, which I recommend, as I read it, I wonder: Could Wallis Warfield-Spencer-Simpson-Windsor have fancied "Adieu Sagesse" by Jean Patou? As I write, I have some of this on my left wrist: Inhaling it, there seems to be a certain kind of culture present in its entirety in this complex composition, which someone on BN says reminds them of "Suntan Lotion," betraying what our modern day lives have left to offer of the vestiges of that specific culture. To me, there are held captive in this scent all of the elements that made the Duchess of Windsor a legend who, to this day, retains our attention: From The Brothels of Shanghai, all the way to the Chateau de Conde outside of Paris. The fact that both Edward and Wallis Windsor were both staunch bisexuals, fans of orgies and drugs, and lived what arguably could be one of the most fascinating love stories of the XXe Century has me wondering from the beginning pages of this book, what perfumes did Wallis Warfield-Spencer-Simpson-Windsor wear? (Fleurine, Rubegon: You find images effortlessly: Any chance you could find information as esoteric as this with equal ease?) My guess, after much thought: "Adieu Sagesse." There is so much in this scent that squares with her life: From the chinoiserie we all later witnessed in "Opium," to the strange sweat-soaked musk that lingers deep within its base. The name: "Farewell to Good Behaviour," (Adieu does not merely mean goodbye: it means "Goodbye forever" while "Sagesse" means far more than just "wisdom." In the instance of the perfume, it implies the attachment to the constraints of morality) seems tailored to fit snugly into her life story as she lived it: For here we have a woman who never let "Good Behaviour" stand in the way of her endpoint designs. Appropriately, the eighties re-launch of the scent was colour coded in the now forgotten "Wallis Blue," a shade invented by Jean Patou to match the Duchess's eyes, as she was a loyal client of this house of couture, along with that of Mainbocher and Schiaparelli. Could we have here an hint of some kind? Inhaling it as I am, I can just see how a lithesome jolie-laide with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes with a taste for cut-throat adventure very neatly pin-tucked into an impeccable coiffure would wear this scent with an aplomb few today could imagine, as, from our muddled, modern viewpoint, this scent seems almost demure, when, in fact, in its day, it went very specifically against the grain, as all of Henri Almeras's comps did: For, by the standards of 1925, the year of its advent, it had a sensuality that was very distinctly....hidden. The scents of the 20's often have such a brazen sex appeal that it seems to me that a Lady such as Wallis would have disdained them: She had no need for sex in a bottle. What she needed was a bottle to disguise her sex. Isn't it interesting how it is we, the wearers, who imprint the sexuality on the scent, as it is quite obvious that no bottled concoction, no matter how brilliantly orchestrated, could impart sexuality onto us?

WELCOME MIMI GARDENIA

Well, Well, Well: Yes: I suppose it would make sense that she would wear Guerlain. However, I for one have an hard time imagining the mixing of l'Heure Bleue, a scent I love, with Mitsouko, a scent I truly detest. I would immediately have done a wrist test on this, but unfortunately, there isn't a drop of Mitsouko in the house: I don't know what it is, but I find this fragrance downright repulsive. I'm half convinced there's something in it to which I must be allergic, as when I get even the slightest whiff of it, it burns my nostrils, and, were I not immediately to turn away or plug them, I go off into a sneezing fit. Jodie Foster wears this. As a result, I had a very embarrassing "Jodie Foster" moment because of it: To this day when I think about it, I am mortified. l'Heure Bleue, on the other hand, I can absolutely see: Not only did Wallis Windsor make a signature of the colour blue, but the character of the scent echos many aspects of her personality as we have come to know it. Example: As it would seem with l'Heure Bleue, she was according to all and sundry "sparkling" of wit and manners, yet possessive of an iron will and an intrepid spirit: Doesn't that sound like l'Heure Bleue? The inverted heart stoppered flacon of both, with its Ionic column bottle, also harkens the odd mix of chinoiserie mixed in with neo-grec Second Empire and Louis XVI styling that was an hallmark of her taste in interiors. I can't speak to Mitsouko, as the very moment i smell it I must run, but to l'Heure Bleue I say: "My, my, what unusually deep emotions you have." I adore l'Heure Bleue. Strangely, though, I find it somewhat unwearable today. I can conceive of it used as drawer sachets or to scent candles, but not as a perfume. From my own male point of view, I'm afraid I would find any woman wearing l'Heure Bleue just a wee bit too saccharine for my taste. In the context of the timeframe, I can absolutely see it. Is Mitsouko, though, not somewhat on an anti-thesis to it, all grey green chypre/ambregris and creamy peach? One wonders how the two could possibly perform together. (Or: Perhaps she wore l'Heure Bleue to seduce men, and Mitsouko to seduce women?) There are perfect marriages in the Guerlain family (Jicky + Mouchoir de Monsieur, Chamade + Vol de Nuit, Shalimar + Habit Rouge) this one, though, I have an hard time imagining, as it seems to me that the marriage would not be an happy one, and the two of them would fight. Mimi, having read many of your reviews, I know you at least own both: What do you think of this pairing?