Sex and the sillage - Page 5  

DAMN IT!!!!!!!

I just spent an hour putting up a thought provoking post & the F&%$ing thing froze and i lost it:

CONTENT:
1. Rube, you rock. "YOU'RE SIMPLY ELEGANT." write about wing noughts and we shall all sit reading, perfectly enthralled. I will sweeten the pot. You will be thrilled. PM me if you have time on Frag: Same to all of you.
2. Let's all say a prayer in unison that Grant&CO can get this fixed once and for all, and perhaps it may then work. I heard, though I'm sure it's a rumour, that it was "our friends" over there on Frag who may be behind this non stop crashing. I will publicly declare the following: Frag, you're beautiful, but your "Journalists" should all learn to write properly in English. We would all appreciate that, I'm sure. It is important that standards of language be maintained.
3. Stay tuned on SEX & THE SILLAGE for more juicy details when BN gets up and running, hopefully hack-proof once and for all: WE ARE BASENOTERS. WE DECLARE ALLEGIANCE.
4. Be that as it may, who knows what will go on? I do......but i'll never tell.... Stay tuned........
(as defined by fleurine)
XOXO, Gossip Girl.

Miracle of Miracles: BN works. Let's enjoy the ten minutes while we can. In answer to your question, Fleurine, I have two Habanita EDP (Version Nouvelle) 1.5oz bottles on their way to me as I write. I had seen the add video. I probably could have done without the "Evenement." I had to order them. If I like it better, I will scream, as I have at least 50 bottles of the old version in the cave: No joke. I spray it all over my bed, all over myself, all over everything: I have one in my office, and a bottle negligently perched just about anywhere I may happen to linger in my house. As it happens, the bottles without their vulgar gold caps look as if they were designed specifically to compliment my decor: If I could just turn the "pacotille" gold into brushed pewter I would be content. About the perfume: I have two 15ml flacons, and one gigantic 4 oz "Edition Speciale." Initially I found the parfum and the eau de toilette identical in all ways. Habanita is a "Blinding" fragrance: It is so explosive, that it does indeed become difficult to discern differences in concentration. I would say, after using the small screw-cap purse flacon I have filled with it while traveling that it may be a bit dryer, perhaps slightly smokier, and a tiny touch of it does essentially the same thing a single spray of the original EDT does, except that it lasts longer. It's interesting. I don't ever imagine actually wearing Habanita out, I just don't ever want to be without it: It is a bit like this magical "pen" Shiseido made in the days of the original "Femininite du Bois": It never left me. It was a tool. Those of you who remember the early 90's might recall that it was unthinkable to be seen without some sort of amulet hanging low from the neck: This was the "New Age," and everyone wore some sort of something this way, men and women. I designed and made a leather "housse" in which to hold this pen: you guessed it, aubergine leather, complete with tassle. I would sit and inhale it on the metro. I would draw on lover's bodies with it. I would draw on myself with it. It never left me. Habanita is a bit like that. It's comforting, and intensely erotic, with none of the Shalimar nicety. Habanita means business. It's aggressive, assertive, and shamelessly sex positive: The add video portrays this quality perfectly. It loudly announces rough, no holes barred sex to Shalimar's suggestion of tender, delicate love making. Spraying yourself all over with Habanita is a bit like having an orgasm: The very essence of the word "Thrilling." There's a dangerous quality to it, as well. I wouldn't call it "Filthy," (a word I reserve for BAV) but it most definitely "announces the colour" as the French would say. Note how almost every woman chosen to embody it is a seething brunette. Par excellence, this is a brunette fragrance. It would be sickening on a blonde. Perhaps this is why I reckon I would not actually wear it, the way, for instance, I wear Jicky and BAV, both of which are distinctly mousey dark blonde scents, and I'm a mousey dark blonde guy. (The original colour code for BAV, as mentioned above, was taupe.) It will be interesting to see what the new version gives. I will have my two bottles in hand in a matter of days. I'm very intrigued as to how they will compare. It is suggested in the intellectual data concerning Habanita that it's 600 ingredients are intact, but in different doses. We must all admit that the bottle's redesign is beautiful. I've a great amount of faith in Molinard. After all: this house is the pride of Grasse, so it stands to reason that all of its components would be Grassois. Most perfumers nowadays can not afford ingredients from Grasse, as they are among the finest and most expensive available in the world. Every single "blind buy" I have made from Molinard has provided a scintillating surprise. There is no discussion here: These are fine, impeccably crafted scents, they're just slightly "ringard," as evidenced by the goings on at the....ehm.....HABANITA HOTEL. Fleurine, Dearest, I will become cross and illustrate a tremendous amount of anger if you continue to refer to me as "Mlle. GG." "Gossip Girl" had me in hysterics for reasons to intricate to recount here. "Mlle. GG" makes me want to throw a punch into my laptop's screen, so, please, do keep that in mind......

There is a longer, more involved version of the Habanita advert somewhere: It's either on Frag, which has a "New" and an "Old" habanita page, which you recognize via the image of the bottle, or on Molinard's website, which you....ahem....accessagainonfrag by clicking on the upper left. I was so captivated by this short "movie," which the long version is, that It made me buy the scent, keeping in mind I'm sitting on a stock of at least 50 bottles of the original and 5 ounces of extract, this does indeed equal: Good advertising. The French you know. That was the joke about French tele; still is: The commercials are better than the actual programmes, save for ARTE, which is actually German. In the extended version, there is more sexual tension. I, personally, did not ever get the sex worker theme. What I get is: Good Morning Surprise, and oh, just how good, I could wax on, you know I could. The interesting thing, for me, is how the model pulls off knee high boots with a mini and no tights without looking like she hadn't a clue as to how to dress herself: I am very critical of these details, as this is my business. By my standard, a short skirt should never ever be worn with black knee high boots, or over the knee boots, or any boots, unless they are "nude," without tights, and by tights I imply noticeable hosiery: Not nude hose. You see how we all see things differently? My first thought: GASP! bare legs with boots! Horror! but then, ah yes, but then, for some reason, even though the boots are black, clearly cheap, and so is everything else she wears, including the fake Bottega bag, as a complete picture, she looks devastatingly chic. This is rare, that I should admit any woman in bare legs and dark boots would look attractive. It's no wonder I am single. Being attached to me comes with a very long rule book about what looks appropriate and what doesn't, and, to me, unless she actually is a street walking two penny harlot, a woman should never, ever, under any circumstances, wear boots with a short skirt and bare legs: It borders on the impossible. Here, though, there is a kind of insideous perversion that blooms for me: There she is. Wearing all the wrong things. But there's just something about her that makes the semi-impardonable faux pas of her ensemble work beautifully: By this I mean, as an outfit, it's effective, even though it's impossible. That, readers, is what we call "Je ne sais quoi." Granted, she's also HOT. You all know how we men can't resist hair like that. Has anyone ever noticed that when men cheat on their wives, then divorce them, they are afterward seen dating a younger woman with longer hair? Miss Habanita is pure sex appeal, just like the fragrance that she represents. She's confident. She's aggressive, and, most importantly, you know she wants it, and she knows she wants it, and everyone is OK with that: The "wanting it" here is real. That, I think, is the secret to this video. There is a French print ad for the new Habanita I have seen recently that shows the face of the same model, with her mouth wide open, and a cloud of thick, swirly smoke emerging from it. This, of course, would only work in a French magazine, but oh, how I wish they would just spend the 80K and put it in American ELLE. Overnight, a cult fragrance would be born. If you do as Fleurine instructs, and watch the somewhat embarrassing "Evenement" video underneath the original, you get a glimpse of this ad in the background. We do know that Habanita was created as a tobacco enhancer, and not a perfume: This is not a legend. It was contracted by Reynolds Tobacco, who rejected it, claiming it made their cigarettes taste too much like cigars: The fine people at Molinard, who still contract out comps to scent unrelated products (this is a very lucrative business, mobilized now by Givaudan-Roare) were left with a compound they laboured over: Incidentally, while it might be excessive for a perfume, 600 ingredients is not a large number for a compound destined for cigarettes: I have a photocopy of the formula that is used to flavour Camel cigarettes and there are at least 800 components to it: Because these compounds are composed of essentially the same ingredients as perfumes, Molinard first launched Habanita as a smoker's accessory: I have seen the French print ad from 1925 instructing the smoker to swipe one line across the cigarette to enhance it. This having failed, they then launched it as a perfume. It was created in 1921: I am not entirely sure it was a perfume before 1927. In answer to your question, "ringard" is french "argot," (slang) for.....provincial and not at all chic: Unsophisticated, lacking finesse: A complicated word that is used very frequently. (the feminine: "Ringarde.") From the Parisian point of view, just about anything that is provincial, (which means simply: Not from Paris, as "Province" is the rest of France in its entirety) skews dangerously close to "ringard,' merely because....It is not Parisian. This "Evenement" video is unfortunate because it is, well, frankly ringard: "Habanita Hotel." That would not be a Parisian idea. The goings on there in: Wouldn't happen in Paris. Molinard is inherently "ringard" simply because it is Grassois. Now, obviously, this is exclusively a Parisian point of view, which means nothing to us. Je me demande ce que Reminiscent en pense. At any rate, Parisian or not, none of us give a fig: Guerlain is Parisian and witness the crap they're pumping out, and the prices! For linen water! (This coming from one addicted to their perfumes. Readers, don't ever ask me to make sense or to understand english spelling.) Continuing on the explanation page, "Sainte Nitouche" denotes one who is, often falsely, a prude: We see quite a lot of this in French women, all carre Hermes and pearls, knee length skirt, duffle coat, pre-phoebe celine flats, invisible make up, no-nonsense bobbed hair, navy pull over and a pinched air: Strip it all off: Beneath they're wearing slutty intimates, and they swallow. I've seen it enough times to know. The discussion of skin tone and colouring is a perfectly valid one: We should all know, and follow it. Commerce has erased it. Editorial in magazines has erased it. Who is paying for the magazine to exist? Answer: the beauty industry. This is the last bit of information they would like the consumer to believe. "J'adore Dior" suits every single type of woman. End of story. Dior paid up to $250K US for a single four colour add page: You better believe they require this mentioned in the fragrance editorial: That's the game. You buy the add page, the magazine staff uses your intellectual data in the editorial pages, and promotes it: It's all just a numbers game. Jicky EdT lasts 4.5 minutes. Cuir Beluga Edt lasts 4.5 days: Guess why? Guerlain doesn't want to make Jicky any more: It just costs them money. There is no profit in it: It's audience is dying: That's why the classics all now come bottled and boxed essentially the same, save for certain iconic flacons, still in production: I foresee the day when they will begin putting all of them, save for Shalimar, in the quadrilobe. Eventually, most all of them will be discontinued: 20 year olds think they smell fusty and old. 20 year olds are the future: How else do you explain offensive hideousness like "Insolence"? All those nineteen year old Japanese girls are going "Ahhhhh!!!!! Kawaii!!!!!" Give them a bottle of L'Heure Bleue and they wince. This is not as complicated a picture as it looks: If it doesn't make money, it's toast. Simple as that. The emerging wealth generation requires novelty, and a steady stream of it: Gone are the days when, like me, one wore the same fragrance for 30+ years religiously, and with pride. I don't have 55 liters of Jicky in my cave because I detest wine. I have it because It is my scent, and no other scent will ever replace it, no matter what: I have only taken to a resolve to own every last drop of vintage BAV to alternate in the winter, to then re-discover Jicky with joy in the spring, thus avoiding olfactory fatigue, which is a very real phenomenon. For that which concerns "Habanita," I just want my world to smell like this. I want my bed to smell like this. When you enter my home, I would like everything in it to smell like this. Before all else, "Habanita" is for me a "Parfum d'Ambiance." Perhaps one day I shall meet, fall in love, and marry some seething brunette, like Rubegon did: How many people now might predict how she will smell with unquestionable certitude? I'm an Aries. There is no questioning our rule. On the other hand, a big old empty house may just keep being doused in Habanita, and a lonely, solitary man may die in it. If nothing else, "Habanita" will do well to masque the stench of old, rotting, forgotten flesh. I do make my choices strategically......

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It's interesting to note that the Ladies saw walk of shame in the Habanita video: I have since watched it thrice and I still don't see it: This woman just looks like she's on a mission to me. Interesting also that it is foot noted: "New York, 7:40am." I must laugh at this as I am sure it was filmed somewhere in "La Defence," the hideous suburb of Paris with "gratte-ciels" (literal translation of "sky scrapers." As it turns out, there is no longer version: I may have been slightly altered the first time I saw it. None the less, masterfully done. Now about this facial hair: I shaved again this morning. The only reason I did it was because it has become glaringly obvious that the "glabre*" MDM gets about ten times more game than the hirsute one: I can just tell. Everyone says: "You look so much younger!" Alternately, they marvel at my skin, which, exposed this way looks like wax. Myself, all I see is a girl in the mirror, which bothers me and may explain my temper tantrum over being called "Mlle. GG" by the feisty Fleurine. I see an ugly lesbian girl that needs a different shade of lipstick: My mouth looks so big, and so red, that when I smile, I find I look like the Joker. It's all very disquieting. One of my friends made this comment: "You always sell yourself short, which is surprising considering how confident you are in all other ways." We all know an unkempt beard is disgusting, but, Ladies, what do we truly think about kissing hair face? My point of view has always been that, since men have beards, we should wear them: I don't get why we must need shave them off since clearly we're meant to have them. Seen from the feminine side, you might all respond by insisting you have under arm and leg hair, so why, then, must you shave it off? (Obviously I have no answer to that other than you must.) Furthermore, beards make very effective perfume-holders: I can spray my beard brush with perfume then brush it, and enjoy the scent in a specific way that is different than having it on the skin. I did mention above that we would have to compare notes about this. I must also assert scarping a razor against my face feels absolutely barbaric to me, although this second time I had no blood incident. I'm not sure what to do. My hair also all of the sudden looks ridiculously long: What a price to pay to go to a party! (It was worth it, though!) Let's weigh in:

Cons: When I look in the mirror, I see an ugly girl.
-I look too white and smooth, like I'm made of candle wax. I can't tan, and I won't wear bronzer or anything on my face except sunscreen. Tinted ones just look like make up and get all over my shirt collars.
-Now, on top of a huge nose, I have this gigantic mouth: My lips look HUGE and they are so red that today I was reduced to trying to powder them (failed miserably): That's how weird it feels.
-I now look like.....ehm....I should be in the band KISS. All I need is a big black star over my eye and I'm a dead ringer for paul stanley. If I'm to be "glabre," then I can't possibly have hair this long.

Pros: I'm getting relentless game everywhere I go.

I answered your questions above. Indulge me, please: I know I'm being self absorbed.

*"glabre" means: "without beard." (word for everything. No spelling problems.)

Good advice, Lillybelle: Thank you. After having slept on my malaise, your point of view seems very coheesive. I'm sure i won't be buying every last drop of correct vintage BAV, as I only buy sealed in box, which explains why I didn't pounce on the one Rube now triumphantly holds in his hot hand. Dr. Perfumistico, you should not entertain for an instant that those girls are not singing about "Vol de Nuit." Had you noticed that their dance moves involve a brief pinching of the nose at one point, and a gesture of holding something square to their nostrils? This very same gesture reminds me so much of my mother: My mother had a system. It went this way: One never left the house unequipped with a perfume atomizer, ever. I still have the pretty gold Mauboussin one she used for as many years as I can remember, and an handkerchief. Your author has adopted this system, along with so many others, by maternal force and maintains it to this day. When walking about town, or being driven around the countryside, invariably, patches of unpleasant odours are crossed: This is specifically noticeable in Britain: Worse than in France, for some unknown reason. At this point, the gesture is quickly enacted with cunning precision. Snap: The handkerchief comes out. Crackle: It is sprayed with perfume. Pop: The damp handkerchief is applied to the nostrils. The gesture these girls make reminds me of my mother falling backward in the car, going "Euhhhhhhhhhhh" with a fragrant hanky pressed to her nose: A scene I witnessed about one million times. By all means, Dr. Perfumistico, you should believe. After all: These girls are waxing on in....Japanese.....or Korean.....or.....whatever it is. This is not a fashion commentary blog, nor will it become one, but I may offer an explanation as to why this particular clip appears under the Habanita one: They're all wearing the wrong shoes in every single wardrobe change: Pumps with bare legs and swing minis?

Long hair and a full beard have been a signature for me for many years: I'm really fond of the bizarre colour of my hair, even as it turns grey: When I pumped almost two aerosol spray tins of silver hair paint into my mass of ringlets for that party, I was so enthralled with having silver hair i kept it in as long as I could: It was so much more flattering without the beard because, being silver, there wasn't so much contrast to my waxy white face: I had even used this "eyebrow powder" from a line called "Alexandra" (I think) that comes in a lovely pewter compact in "Silver" to soften my brows; as soon as it was done I was thrilled but then wondered how to handle my suddenly black eyebrows, which normally look sort of like natural sable green, like my beard. I did keep it in for as long as i could manage and loved it: Looked smashing with lavender tinted aviator sunglasses and a crisp white shirt. I think that now that it is gone, and making a habit of using that is out of the question as it can't be good for your hair or your lungs as it explodes like powder out of the tin and forcibly you breathe in quite a few microscopic clouds of what must be metal, I'm just stuck with this strange Paul Stanley/Ziggy Stardust appearance that is baffling to me. At any rate: The decision is made. I'm growing it back: There's no way I'm going to be dragging a cutting blade across my face and neck: It's just too grindhouse horror flick for me. I much prefer brushing it and caring for it than eliminating it. One person *only* sort of "got it" and said flat out they preferred me in the beard, framing it in a context as follows: (She said "Your eyes are so strikingly pale that you need something to divert the attention from them. Without the beard you look a bit too cherubic for your height." -Too "cherubic" for my height! There's someone who speaks my language! I stared into the mirror and it made sense: It's not as much my mouth or my skin as I thought: It's my eyes! I *do* need "something" down there to divert attention from them, unless of course I am suddenly cast in a hollywood production as a vampire, which would be like when in 1995 Time magazine wanted me to pose for their annual "Christianity Today" cover shot as the Saviour during the Passion, in head shot, crown of thorns and all: Something I could never do. Of all the "You look like......" comments I get, the name that I hear most often, before Kean Etro started using this one model who looks like he would be my very hot twin brother, I get "The guy in the Etro Adds" or else the name in the blank is "Jesus," which, thankfully, I consider a supreme compliment. As far as looking like a Hippie, Ann Demeuelemeester is about as "granola" as I get clothing wise, which skews *very* Hassidic/Greek Orthodox Monk on me, and I'm perfectly fine with that. So the decision is made: Zhat waz eezee. But, Damn! I *cant wait* until I go silver! My hair is so ashy already that all the white hairs I have now blend seamlessly and just give a slightly "frosted" look, which I look forward to watching develop, having now seen the whole picture. (I love silver/white hair on any one, especially when it is pre-mature: There's nothing sexier than a beautiful head of thick, snow white or silver hair, as long as it's not that frizzy steel wool type: Even then, when properly controlled, it could be interesting. The thing about silver/gray/white hair is: It's uncommon, and uncommon is *always* good, at least in my book) At any rate: No more shaving for me. One week's worth of stubble will get me out of the German Lesbian Danger Zone. I ordered a bottle of "Chergui" (Serge Lutens) as a blind buy, along with my two new bottles of Habanita (version nouvelle.) I just keep hearing about this scent, and it seems like something I'd like. The only serge lutens that I might actually wear at this point is "Ambre Sultan," and for that I must really be in the mood. Since my first edition 1993 bell jar of "Iris Silver Mix" will soon sit along with the collection of our own Rubegon, and a better home for it I can not imagine, I had room for one more lutens scent. Pray God I'm not screaming "HOLY GRAIL" when it comes and ordering every bottle of it I can find. Finally I have settled in to a steady diet of, in descending order of temperature/season, starting with summer: Jicky from EDT to P, MdM, BAV, and G Gentleman, which mixes with everything, and is even delicious on its own: It is *SUCH* a perfect belly button spray! Have all of you been trying this? Spraying that one scent you fear might be "just a bit much" on your lower abdomen? It's such a delight, and such an interesting way of layering. I recommend all of you try it immediately if you haven't already: Save your most daring scents to wear this way, along with your usual: Fleurine, try "Ombre Rose" with a belly button full of "Back to Black." Lillybelle: How about neck wrist and decolletage with one of your "sweeties" and a nice lower tummy of "Toujours Moi," "Tabu, or BAV: You'll all see what I mean when you try it: Spray pubes to navel. Then put on the pants. Believe. (Dr. Perfumistico: Could this be an unexpected use for your collection of "Hari-juku Lovers"?)

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Continuing on the note of the blind buy, I just swiped 2 30ml sprays of the Max Factor version of "Toujours Moi," originally by the very fine house of Corday, created in 1921, bumped over to max factor in the late 70's, 80's and 90's, now made by Dana and available at Target. After some research, it seems the Max Factor version is/was as good as the original, or quite close. Everything I read about this scent, like "Chergui," seems to indicate that I will love it, and I'm sure it will mix well with BAV: Comparisons are made consistently in most reviews I have read. I love the romantic advert from the mid 70's with the sweeping oil-painted back drop which seems to be painted by Bourgeureau or someone who knew their way about a sable brush and linseed oil: "The French Call These Thoughts Fantasy." I never knew "Toujours Moi" in France: It became an American staple and in so doing disappeared in the European Markets. I love the name, the most obvious translation being "Always Me," with less obvious ones being "Still Me," and "Forever Me." Whatever this family is: "Tobacco Leather Floriental"? This seems to be where I am heading. I find them so riveting: Beguiling in todays market where things are so stifled with obviousness.
I've somewhat come to the conclusion that Modern Perfumery is exactly like Modern Art for me: That is--not my taste. Tabu also has been calling after me: I LOVE the intellectual data with the violinist who steels a kiss by force, harkening Fragonard's loin-tingling painting "Le Verrou." I believe that through the analysis of these scents I have come to understand a bit about my internal workings concerning the romantic conquest: I'm a rough rider. The idea expressed in both the Tabu image as well as "Le Verrou" are semi-pornographic for me. The scents that they translates are all dark, musky, deep, incensey, and whisper of a kind of hidden danger. It seems as though I am finally impacting my addiction to Jicky: Not that I will ever stop wearing it, but toying around with these scents will merely allow my back stock of Jicky to last longer, as I refuse to buy anymore after witnessing wasser's shameless carnage: I have so many 500ml bee bottles of Parfum de Toilette currently aging that in 10 years time, with any luck, they may just smell a bit like the original. In case this hadn't been clear, the PdT concentration of Jicky *is* the closest to what Jicky is really meant to be: The Jean Nate strength wasser-water available today just a vague sketch of it, with the modern parfum a more tenacious sketch of the wasserized limp and rubbery promise of the EDT, which at this point might just as well be discontinued and put out of its misery.
This, then, defines my own take on Sex & the Sillage: The sexiest, most erotic scents, for me, are these epic, fin-de-siecle style musk-laden tobacco civet florals. The *only* "Men's Cologne" (save for MdM, which I just consider to be an altered Jicky) that I can tolerate is G-Gentleman. I even tried "Versailles Pour Homme," with great hope, and could not begin to imagine smelling like that, just as I could never imagine wearing Patou Pour Homme/PPH Prive: Too heavy. I need romance, lots of kissing, and a very poignant lilt of melancholia in my rape scene: To wit, my description of G-Gentleman where in the impeccably clothed and scented Gentleman in question first elegantly escorts you to Angelina in rue de Rivoli, or some other fine tea room, then rapes you once you are drunk on kisses and hot chocolate. I find "Habit Rouge" to be very much this type of scent but *only* for men with chestnut/black hair and olive/brown eyes. My definition of the "Mousey Dark Blonde*" scent (hazel, blue, grey eyes) automatically includes these woody, tobacco and musk elements along with certain kinds of florals. All in the mix are MDB*'s except Habanita: As much as I adore it, it would make only a pocket square spray for me as eventually, on my skin, which is thin, some of the basenotes "rot," as they just sit there unabsorbed and oxidize, bringing on the fusty aftertaste, where as on a brunette, just as with "Habit Rouge," these components sink into the lower epidermis, then bloom. Just like I wish I could get Brunello Cucinelli clothes to fit me, an impossibility, I wish I could get "Habit Rouge" to fit me: I have been through at least three to five "travel flacons" (the old square 7.5oz ones) over the years trying: All day long it hovers about me and eventually smells putrid. Isn't it surprising how thought provoking this journey is? Indeed, it is about as expensive as bi-weekly visits with a world class shrink, but, somehow, you end up in the same place: Not quite right, but feeling better.

Presenting a true "OMG" moment in real time: The box containing Chergui and.........yes: The New Habanita is now sitting next to me unopened: Here goes. (How annoying are these boxes, may i ask? and why so much tape? Rube will attest: Only Engineers pack proper boxes. Thankfully for Engineers, you can't get those at $12.00US an hour, so we have to suffer through this.)

BOX: Breathtaking.
BOTTLE: STUNNINGLY ORIGINAL. Still signed "FRISE CREATION LALIQUE." Absolutely beautiful. Looks and feels to be made of fine XVIIIe wedgwood basalt. Spray, mercifully, black satin powdercoat finish. No hint of gold. "Molinard" in lavender/putty, matte, "Hababnita" in lipstick red satin.

FIRST SPRAY, left wrist: fine. oh waaaaaaayyyyyyyy smokier. dryer. for two seconds very classic Hab, then something else. Very woody. getting powdery. tobacco hits, but seems more like white tabacco flowers. Now spices kick in, and a kind of russian incense: More Zagorsk, less Avignon. Now rotting roses in a house where the Maitresse wears BAL. Getting softer by the minute. Now slightly urinal. Very different from classic Hab: Less intoxicating. Has a more "Shalimar" type feather weight to it. Actually smelling almost exactly like Shalimar now. That was ten minutes. Stay Tuned.

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It's sort of like....in blunt terms.....Shalimar Saw Dust. Of course, the wood being sawn is top drawer.....

I have a funny "JAR" story. Is "jarling" a JAR scent?

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There is one slight problem with the New Habanita. It takes awhile to reveal itself. It is now three hours later. I did cheat and re-apply as it was drying down to something so faint i could barely make it out. Longevity is truly compromised here, which is interesting considering Molinard has called this an EdP, and billed it as longer lasting: It isn't at all. In fact, it's quite short lived: It does not take it very long to turn to its "Shalimar Saw Dust" facet, perhaps 30 minutes, which seems to be the main event. By the one hour mark this softness is so subtle that one would require a good wetting to get anything at all out of this upon first application: Used as I am to Classic Hab, in its EdT form, it just asks for light dusting. The spraying mechanism on the new one is very much like those on the classic one, with the exception of its colour, thankfully, as one can only be fond of fake 24K gold for so long, so my first application of this was a shy one: I did not drench my wrist at all. As it appears, with the new version, one mightn't hesitate. My thoughts over the course of the last hours have run thus:
Confound it! I would happily wear this every day! Ah! Yes. Here is an Habanita I might actually wear!
-THEN-
This is so bland! I would have to reapply this the way I do with any Geurlain!

Interestingly, this new Habanita a -very Guerlain.- I wonder if Water has smelled it? It's very, very obviously a finely wrought comp. It smells terribly expensive and refined. I thought it might be what Penhaligon's ought to have put in those "Sartoial" bottles, instead of the alien martian scubber cologne that's in there, as it smells so very much like London and those claustophobic talilor shops on Saville Row: I've been to some, and they smell just like this: Wood, cigar smoke, and dust: In a very pleasant way, mind. Four hours in and there's a distinct fustiness to it, which would be my skin acting up, as classic Hab does the same thing: The new Habanita is still as brunette as the original: Thankfully, I most likely will not be ordering 35 bottles any time soon, especially given that I just found yet another twelve classic vapos in their boxes all wrapped in cellophane this morning amongst some refuse in the kitchen, to add to the 50 I already have. My prediction is this: If you love Habanita, and you can actually wear it through the day without it turning to rot before it's done (this is what happens on me) then you might love the new version as an "Habanita Light." The effort to make this modern is clear, because, while it retains the lilt of a *very* expensive perfume, it has lost the "Grandma" effect, and now smells much, much younger, as well as most noticeably softer in every facet, and, well, Modern. Male Habanita wearers will be delighted with it as it has become so unquestionably unisex that nobody would ever cast a doubt on the gender specificity of it were a man to bust it out as a signature. What is missing is that bizarre thrill that is in the original that requires a certain amount of fearlessness to actually wear: While "the Mother" would never be overlooked or unnoticed, "the Daughter" is more discrete and could very easily enter a party without the entire crowd in attendance wondering if someone lit up. At any rate: The bottle itself is worth it. It's so beautiful. This "basalt" finish is so impeccably done: It is not frosted at all. It's s finish, but it's a lovely one, not as if they dipped the bottle in plastic. The bottle can't actually be basalt or bisque as neither are hermetic, but the finish does such a good job emulating it that the very finest antique basalt is conjured, not just "basalt." The fragrance seems to become very vetiveresque toward the final stages, and so here is where I must stop discussing it: Mine is not the appropriate skin type for it, so I can not speak to the final stages: It's been on for almost 5 hours and, while I can still smell it distinctly, it just smells of roots, soil and mossy undergrowth, Vol de Nuit style, precisely the way the original does. Aside from observations above, all in all, it is *quieter* but it retains every bit of its allure....as a perfume: As a bedspray/parfum d'ambiance, it isn't nearly as effective; oh! Thank Heavens..........

Continuing our HABANITATHON, I have now, after scrubbing the detestable Chergui off my right wrist (Why would anyone want to smell like this? Licorice? WTF?) applied the mother to the right, and the re-applied the daughter to the left. I say I may have to declare that I actually prefer the offspring! Mama is grittier and has a more volatile, explosive temper: baby girl is a lolita and sucks her lollypop suggestively while making gaga eyes at you and saying nothing. The "Air de Famille" is undeniable, though: This truly *is* Habanita reborn as a modern girl, the one who *doesn't* have an opium and cigarette habit to cover up whilst slinking through Paris at 4:45am in her Patou frock and Weil furs, like mama once did, she's just a nymphomaniac, exactly like we love them, who charges in to surprise you for some morning glory when you should be on your way to work, and walks all over you in her boots, which, she makes very clear, are made for walking, never letting you forget that's just what they do if you don't behave and become submissive when she shows up unexpectedly in the lobby of your penthouse, pushes you into the lift, then devours and swallows you up whole before it ever reaches the 55th floor: We love this kind of girl. Gladly, we call in unwell to stay and have a cuddle in bed with her, even though we lost it around floor 46. It's official: I'm a fan. I may even wear it. (I once wore Habanita Parfum to IKEA of all places. It was surreal to be examining $4.99 sets of shot glasses that were dead on Wienerwerkstaat while seemingly seething in a boiling pot of smoking incense: Sometimes, one must step out of ones world entirely: Mine is so heavily perfumed that I've only to put my hand to a cheque for the banker to notice how good it smells: Everything that comes from my house smells....like my house: My office, the same. I have been burning "Back to Black" candles in the lobby and in the consulting rooms: Walking in in the morning, it smells like an Opium den. Coming home to my house in the evening, or after a trip, I sometimes feel that it smells like some hippie's 1965 tricked out tye-dyed Volkswagon Eurovan. I know that everything about me is steeped in perfume: I've been told enough times. When I wore Habanita to IKEA, I was so *aware* of my cloud of fragrance as I went from the "pity they're only 400 thread count because they're pretty" sheet department to the "All those glasses for $10.99! Wow!" glassware department, all the way down to the: "Can I buy these frozen meatballs in bulk?" Sweetish Market. The main difference is this: Mama is sweeter, and has a loud voice. Baby is slightly boyish and borders on being a tomgirl and speaks in a low, raspy whisper that has an ambiguous quality to it. Baby also can't decide if she wants to be a Guerlain, or a Nina Ricci when she grows up: For the moment, she is neither but is on par with both, both in vintage form, naturally: She knows she's superiour to both at this point in the game, even though she's provincial, wears Georges Rech, Max Mara on a good day and gets her boots at Aldo, her purse on Canal Street: None of it matters because she's just so fine, and, yes, she knows it. The glaring difference makes itself clear in a wrist to wrist test: Mama is much sweeter and actually smokes, baby girl is dry, only sweet for about two seconds and is just inherently, mysteriously, smoky. Bottle, Intellectual Data and Video pomo should win an award: The fragrance is far too good to win any award currently given: This girl is modern and sultry and shameless but comes from such a good family that her presence on award lists is an impossibility due to hereditary magnificence. Interesting comment, Fleurine: Molinard may be "ringard," but as far as the actual juices go, it makes Guerlain look worse than DKNY. There is no "nose" at Molinard: there never has been. It's a family owned company, and the fragrances are a joint effort of a team of noses, most of whom are related. The fact that the Molinard's own a good portion of the legendary flower fields of Grasse bodes terrifically well for them. The fact that they don't care much for publicity or 4 million dollar production film promos bodes well for us, as $19.00US gets us 3,7 ounces of what would be considered the most elusive, exclusive, and "special order only" comp at Guerlain, which would cost four figures without any difficult stretch of the imagination, not smell nearly as good, nor last as long, and, since redsox took over, would just be some confused hodgepodge of vanilla and what have you. Another interesting thing about Molinard: All their bottles are dated, regardless of which comp you own. At first, I was confused: Now, I'm getting it. I could wear this. I would have to reapply once at the four hour mark: Big deal. When I wear guerlain, I have to reapply hourly.

NOT TO FORGET:
MUSC
PATCHOULI
LES ORIANTAUX PATCHOULI-VANILLE
LES ORIANTAUX VANILLE
LES FLEURS LAVANDE
-I have all of these and they are all wonderful, especially when layered: I have recourse to them when I'm feeling abstract and not particularly interested in attracting any amount of attention: They get worn quite a bit to nurseries and antique shops, rock concerts and dive bars. "Musc" in particular is a strange breed: Nothing at all like KOM. It borders on smelling like plastic but acts as a terrific base when you're feeling groovy and want to destabelize one of your signature comps. All others are great on their own, or mixed. None are "soliflores," all are compositions, and it's clear they are. They come in big thick, heavy crystal bottles that feel expensive, spray to the last drop and look great side by side in the dressing room. $30.00 +/- a pop: Automatic investment return guaranteed, if only as tools. As stated above, they layer superbly, and wear alone with grace, except for "musc," which, personally, is a bit too much "fur" for my taste and requires a bit of a waxing......

I never got "Les Oriantaux Ambre" because I have "Ambre Sultan," and by my estimation amber could not possibly get any better than this: I've gone through one full bell jar and the newer elongated flacon I have is still over 3/4 full and that habit started in 1993, at its launch. I love ambre but I make such an economic use of it: Rarely do I search to sweeten things. If anything, I like to add a little salt: Thus, the "musc" i have, and the "patchouli" get sprayed quite a bit and the patchouli even gets worn on its own when I feel like annoying people, and happen to look the part. (It happens, especially when I'm not downtown) I've never smelled Nirmala. My mother liked "Molinard de Molinard," but only used the bath oil: I still have about five empty bottles from her usage of this as I had gleaned they were lalique and insisted she give them to me when she had used the contents one fine day when I found a 30ml signed lalique heart shaped ground glass stoppered empty bottle of "Farouche" in the bin. It's funny to think of how many women of my mothers generation just tossed these works of art in the rubbish when the perfume was used up. On the other hand it's also funny to see empty perfume bottles in their boxes spilling out of every available storage space in my house: Those Jicky "Sea Anemone" stoppered EDT bottle that were used throughout my lifetime, I must have hundreds, in all sizes, some in the black and white boxes, others in the gold and black boxes: Today, I realized three of them are full, so I am sitting on three bottles of *true vintage* Jicky EdT and didn't even know it! In answer to your question, Lillybelle, the new Habanita doesn't turn to rot when refreshed at the 4-5 hour mark with another spray. This second "layer," it seems, never turns to rot: I've been sitting here with my nose plastered to my left wrist inhaling: It's so nice. I *know* you would like it, and so will Fleurine: There's just nothing here not to like, provided you enjoy a soft, cuddly, warm fragrance, which I crave, running freezing cold as I do: Last winter I came to consider BAL a "Warming Lotion" as the EDC, which I use all over in the winter, would warm me right up in the morning and a shot of the PdT mid day would do the same: I'm predicting I will be using a bit of the new Hab this winter along with my BAV, as it, too, is a kind of warming balm. The more I sniff this, the more I have come to intuit the intentions of the noses that worked on it: They wanted something very organic. This smells like it could conceivably be someone's own musk: Smells a bit like hair, the way BAV can: The effect is creamy smooth skin. It's almost evocative of a baby, or a delicious squeaky clean puppy. It lacks that distinct "perfumey" quality the original has, that we both sometimes love. It's also got a (black) peppery note that is new. In answer to your question, May Rose and Grasse Jasmine are two of the most expensive ingredients in the world: Both come from Grasse, so, yes: If anyone had the best jasmine in the world, it would be Molinard. I was playing on Frag and if you go onto the original "Charlie" page, (Revlon) you can watch some hilarious video clips from the 70's: Lauren Hutten running around in a tuxedo, etc: From 1983, a gem: A Charlie ad featuring Sharon Stone with huge permed hair, and the "Charlie" song re-imagined, re-wrote, and sung by an as of yet unknown Cyndi Lauper! There are two "Charlie" video adds from the 80's that are so funny to watch, especially when one lived through the late 70's & very early 80's, and remembers how all of that Discotheque and hair Gel drama felt: Thrilling. Yes. Sorry laughers: It was absolutely thrilling and a damn good time was had by all. In 1980, I had a white leather jumpsuit! Can you imagine? The fact that the trouser legs were too short only worked in my favour then because I liked that look in those days, all the better to show off my red shoes, and the sleeves too short were fine, since we always pushed the sleeves above our elbows on our coloured leather, then flipped the collars up! If you look at this video, you will smile because you will remember how things were then, when people actually got all dressed up to go just about anywhere, and even men wore make up, especially eyeliner, which was obligatory, along with all that hair gel: Then, "the Japanese Invasion" happened in Paris, and everything went black. I don't know how it felt in America in those days but before the flood of melancholy, everything looked like the Charlie Disco scene in France--wearing black was out of the question--unless you were going to a funeral, and then all of the sudden: BAM! Yohji Yammamoto hit, Rei Kawakubo, Takeo Kikushi: A flood of Japanese designers drowned out the very idea of colour, and of course London had already succumbed to melancholia: Overnight, we were all in mourning, listening to "Seventeen Seconds" and powdering our faces, brushing in dark circles with eye shadow, hanging out in Pere Lachaise.....talking about Death......

Ah, yes: I did love the fast lane. I love speed: Or, should I say, I loved speed. I don't much any more: Now it makes me nervous driving like a maniac. I suppose the fearlessness of youth is a pre-requisite to admittance to these lanes, but, oh, how I remember them, and those pre-black out days when I was mad for aqua, and white, and wore pink socks, had a lemon yellow belt....There was a song one band played I always knew as "Yazoo." I've learned that in the US this same band was only ever known as "Yaz," which I found amusing, like the first time I heard Nena sing 99 Luftbalons in english: I had no idea there ever was an english version. Things were different then according to which country you were in: Everything was different. Even paper formats were different. This song, which I'm sure all of you know, was called "Goodbye Seventies," and a swift goodbye it was, as the 80's hit in Paris with such a thud that it seemed as though one fine day we awoke on an alien planet: Music was different. Clothes were different: What is interesting to note is the very swift death of the seventies, vis a vis the slow burn death of the 80's, which turned into what Liz Tiberis called "The Era of Elegance," but I call "the Era of Nothingness." The 90's never kept their promises. It seemed the decade was cold and tired by 1995. The "New Age" we all looked forward to never really happened, and left me with a re-done orientalist apartment all in raspberry and a wardrobe where everything was some shade of aubergine, pink or brown: My raspberry apartment turned "Fig," and my wardrobe just evolved. Nothing was the same when Romeo Gigli went bankrupt: Here was the fashion guru of the Age to Come who went out of business before it ever actually arrived. Such a tragedy. I still treasure and wear regularly absolutely every single item I own that bears the name: Even his ties are sacred to me. For me, I suppose Gigli was a no-brainer as the inventor of sleeves that were meant to cover your hands: Finally, sleeves were long enough, and pants fit just right as they were meant to be ankle length, and you wore suede booties with them and a velvet cap to complete the look. For me, there was never a designer I connected with on such an intimate level. My JAR story runs thus: I never knew JAR was Joel Rosenthal, who was, I guess, a friend of my mother's, as I vaguely remember him, and his name, from years and years ago. I didn't really know him, as he was just another of my mother's posse and often made appearances at her parties. I knew he was a jeweler, but that's all I knew. Several years back, I was in Bergdorf Goodman, the main building: I remember feeling odd going in because I was on my way from Essex House to the lowest depths of the East Village, and I looked pretty aggressive: I had on a really scary looking black Martin Margiela biker jacket with giant silver zippers, black leather gloves, "Skin head" type bleach-stained jeans, and knee-high lace up biker boots with mirror aviator sunglasses: This might not sound scary now, but with my long hair and full beard, it was then: At that time, no men in NYC looked like that: When I went through those spinning doors, I remember their was a palpable tumult: I could tell everyone in there was looking at me and seemed somehow frightened, or shocked, or I don't know what. I imagined they were going to phone security guards and that I would be ushered out. All I wanted to do was smell perfume. Noticing how everyone was visibly shaken by my appearance, I kept my mirrored aviators on: They were the "Evening" type, that basically just shield the eyes from view. So I land in the perfume department: Same tumult. Everyone agitated, whispers, raised eyebrows. I honestly could not understand what was going on. This was the Early Evening when two names would take shape: the first, Joel Rosenthal. A gentleman approached me, which was an HUGE relief because it meant that at least someone would talk to me, even if it was to detain me while the police arrived to haul me off. You all know I have a somewhat florid imagination. "Would you care to experience the new fragrance from "JAR,"" he said, handing me a mouillette. "Ah! Yes! This is delicious! very fine indeed!" (I used my most suave tones: I wanted to make it clear that I was not going to rob the store, as in my head, this is what i imagined everyone was thinking) "Very fine! Lovely! What did you say the name was?" "JAR." "Hmmm. Interesting. what others do you have?" (I was desperate--at this point there was such an hush and the entire department seemed at a stand still, so I was *very* pleased to be in deep discussion with anyone.) The gentleman led me over to a kind of enclave, and began explaining all of the different scents. Mind, I had never, ever heard of "JAR," so I asked: "What does it mean, "JAR," somewhat of an odd name for such beautiful things, no?" That's when epiphany #1 happened. He said: "Joel Rosenthal of Paris." I said: "You mean Joel Rosenthal, the jeweler, of Paris?" and he said: "Yes." Then I said: "You won't believe, but....I'm already wearing "JAR!" "Really? Which one?" he asked. "These." I said, unzipping by jacket and yanking down my turtle neck to reveal two greek crosses I wear around my neck on shoe strings: I'm wearing one in my pic on my BN profile page. They are part of a sort of "kit" my mother had: They made earrings, a broach, and a single necklace, all in detachable parts: I have all the bits except the necklace, which my sister has, since the crosses framed a central piece, also removable, which can be worn as a broach as well: The man's mouth dropped open. Literally, his mouth was wide open. We use this phrase, and we hear it, but to see it, is quite amusing: He stood there dumbfounded, and almost bowed to me, speechless. Finally he said: "May I touch them?" (As if they were some holy relic) I said: "Of course" Then he said: "I've only ever seen them in the book."
In retrospect, that day, I should have been drunk, or stoned, or something: I was cold sober. "What book?" I asked. Then he looked at me suspiciously and asked: "How did you come about owning these?" (I thought that was a bit invasive, and my heart began pounding, as I truly believed that at any minute I would be escorted out in handcuffs) "They were my mother's. What book?" I think at this point I began sweating, and I never sweat. Then he showed me this MASSIVE book, and, sure as you're born, there they were, reproduced life size, clear as a bell. I asked him: "Is the necklace in there?" and he said: "I didn't know there was a necklace" at which point I began recounting the set of details outlined above. THEN, while I was in the middle of this, a blushing young lady approached me and said "Hi!" and began giggling and looking about bashfully. "Hello." I said. She then continued: "I....I have to tell you. I'm such a fan!" (Still, I had no idea what was going on) "Why, thank you!" (I imagined she recognized my jacket, and that she was talking about Martin Margiela.) But then things got decidedly weird. "Could I.......by any chance......have an autograph?" She asked, turning beet red. The Gentleman from "JAR" was standing there holding this 50 pound book throughout the whole interaction, looking distinctly annoyed. I laughed and said: "Of course! But I'm afraid you might be disappointed!" Then she said: "Aren't you Cisco Adler?" At that point, I just lost my composure and threw my head back in hysterics. I could not stop laughing. I remember saying: "My Dear. Not only am I not Cisco Adler, but I've never even heard of Cisco Adler!" This, I probably shouldn't have said, as I was promptly dropped like refuse as soon as I announced that bit of news, which itself caused a ripple effect across the selling floor: SA's picked up phones immediately, and I heard one of them say "I don't think it's him," then something to the effect of "I'm not sure." (or something) So in the same twenty minutes I learned that this jeweler friend of my mother's was quite a big deal, detail which had escaped me entirely, and there was someone "important" called Cisco Adler. Now, this moment occurred when the latter was having his now expired fifteen minutes of fame, as he was then dating the very charming Misha Barton, who at that time worked for Josh Schwartz, a friend of mine, who was then enjoying his first (and very well deserved) major success with a teen-centric soap opera on prime time US television: I just had no idea. When I wrapped things up with the "JAR" S.A., and left, met my gaggle of friends in this *very* divey pool hall near Saint Marc's Place, and the next day returned home, the first thing I did when I got into the office was ask my assistant: "Who is Cisco Adler?" She, of course, knew all about him: I think he was in a band. I can't remember. Promptly, pictures were produced and shown to me, and, who knew? You know, these are the moments when a Martin Margiela leather jacket pays for itself: I look absolutely "Built" in it. As it happened, that evening, I was a dead ringer for Cisco Adler, who, unknown to me, was the heart throb du jour: Thus the tumult when I walked into BG. I wondered why that particular trip I kept getting everything I wanted: A table at that place in the West Village where at the time, Sunday Brunch was out of the question without three weeks advance reservations: My friends all marveled when i just asked and got one. Making the story relevant to this thread, Josh Schwartz also happens to be the creator of.............

GOSSIP GIRL

That's why I thought the reference was so funny! Here's another coincidence: I finally finished that very long bio of the Duchess of Windsor. Typically, I don't read such things, but it was worth it to find out both were raging bisexuals, that the Duke of Windsor had some *very* shocking habits, so shocking I daren't mention them here, save for the one about his "Nanny Baby" relationship with Wallis, where in throughout their lives together he would wear diapers and she would scold him: That's the tamest one: You can imagine the rest.....No sooner have I developed a bit more insight than I'd ever imagined I'd have into the famous King Edward, than into my office today walked an unexpected gift! An ENORMOUS ground glass stoppered bottle of CREED's "Windsor," which was created in 1936 and presented to the Duke when he was leaving England for Exile: A perfume composed, in homage to him, of an ingredient from every single country of the Commonwealth! ---A fascinating perfume it is, too: Sort of like "the Grand Tour" in a bottle, where the wearer embarks in England, and ends his journey in Canada, visiting all of these exotic places over the course of the strangest, most varied evolution of a scent I have ever witnessed. I have never been too fond of CREED: Their whole "piece" just doesn't interest me, and those bottles are merely professional perfumer's decanters that can be bought in bulk in France for a pittance, and come in every size imaginable. This "Windsor" scent, though, is *quite* the experience: As Rube says, "It's a Commitment." Interestingly, I rather like it.

- - - Updated - - -

Dead Silence. Crickets. Crickets. Crickets. I must admit: I am slightly disappointed that nobody came forth to enlighten us about their favourite scents for the boudoir: We all already knew what mine were. I was hoping some new suggestions would be offered up for discussion/dissection by actual users: After all, this is a delicate question! The idea came about because I am currently dreaming, if you all recall, and in the dream, I conduct this discussion: The nature of the discussion surely spurred on by the.....ehm.....SITUATION The Dream inside the Dream allowed some pretty candid glimpses into certain goings on in the real world, which, as dreams go, is, I suppose, a quality of sorts: But it was only for lack of input! Where are the secret holders? Are they all behaving like the two of you ^^^^^^ up there with your: "I'm just mad for.....................and I've just scored a massive dose of it online" and don't wish to share their secrets? Well: That would be a bit like my posting, mmmmmm, something a bit like this, perhaps: "I'm just back from............and......... ......was there and......... .. .............hooked up with.........von....and then.............. stormed out! It will be all over the press! I wore........... .. .............with............. and a spritz of...............on my abdomen." Where's the pleasure in that? Fleurine, you should most definitely have your gown shortened because those waltzing shoes will look heavy with it anyway, and, being on a cruise, guaranteed they will be off and that, as said by the Queen of Hearts, in next to no time. Heavy closed shoes, even if they are nude satin, never look right with soft hems anyway, do they? Why not a plunging hem, where in the front is noticeably shorter than the back? This way you won't be tripping on it, or forced to hold it up. Imagine that sentence with the red bits gone: How long would that reformulation hold your attention? And even if it did, would you not just come away puzzled? I'm still puzzled as to why no lip smacking hooligan has not manifested to tell us all how many licks it takes to get the centre of a tootsie pop, and why, or no shameless hussy hasn't spilled on new and unusual ways we might all adopt to finally be empowered to wear Vivienne Westwood's "Boudoir," or poor Lee McQueen's "Kingdom," God keep him. (Just two scents off the top of my head that literally seethe in sex appeal, yet require a certain dexterity of application) In answer to your question Fleurine, the next party is

Following Ingami's magnificent post above, I present the following:

Summer in Western Europe is not something I miss: I am light sensitive, so the nineteen hour days of June and July, with their stiffling heat, are not at all viewed as a positive for me: Last Summer I nearly threw a pair of "Steve McQueen" folding Persol sunglasses into a canal I was so sick of still having them on my nose at 22h30. However, when I was young, and raging about Paris, finally liberated and on my own, the days of mid to late June would mean one thing: Late Night Walks Through The Park. I remember thrilling to the long, long shadows of glinting sun and shade that would turn a fire-orange before dying out and giving in to the mauve of the night. When I came to understand that I was old enough to have sex as often as I could get it, and as of yet unaware of the horrors of pubic lice and other STD's, a more active Lothario there was not in all of Paris: I remember dating five, sometimes six girls at a time, selfishly juggling them in order that I be looked after every night of the week. Saturdays were a particularly coveted slot: There was one girl, Therese, who was eleven years older than I: I was in my twenties, she was in her thirties, and this detail alone made just the idea of her so intensely erotic that I recall plotting endlessly to see her: She was more difficult to, ehm, pin down than many of my other conquests, who, to my amazement, seemed to queue up, and were for intents and purposes, at my beck and call: When with the others, in my head, I would often imagine I was with Therese. She was very skilled in the various arts of love, including some very deviant ones. Not only was she shameless, -always an attribute- she came equipped with a convertible fiat, or Simca, or Renault, or something: I can't say. This car allowed for all manner of daring exploits, the most memorable of which occurred sometime in June in the mid Eighties: She would collect me at my apartment, and off we would sail into the night, bound for wild "Dancings" in the Bastille, and other destinations. Saturdays with Therese were especially important because the shennanigans could potentially include a bit of nookie in the car, parked in a discrete area, except that, in June, the requisite shade of night never seemed to want to come. Once, we spent an entire afternoon together and, among other places, we visited the Guerlain Boutique on the corner of rue de Castiglione and avenue du Faubourg Saint Honore, the very one where I bought my first bottle of Jicky. During that visit, I purchased a 500ml "oblique" Jicky EdT flacon with the "Frosted Vulva" stopper. Later, we ended up, in all places, in the Bois de Boulogne. Now, this will sound innocent enough to some, and to others, boxes will be checked. Because her convertable was a nuisance to close up, we had to leave it open: Attempting to open the boot of the car, she broke the key, rendering it, and the car, perfectly useless, and the two of us stranded in the deepest, darkest depths of the Bois at about 19h45. Because we were young, we just laughed this off, and dove straight in on foot into the tree lined pathways of the wood, with me carrying my navy blue Guerlain shopping bag. We had not been walking for twenty minutes that the urge to consume one another overtook us, so we parked ourselves in an elevated, deeply forested enclave, and in dancing shards of blinding light and soothing shade, we had at it: Noticing how we seemed to have found the perfect spot, it wasn't long before most of our clothes were off, making a kind of bed in the grass, leaves and dust, and upon it, we were spread, each invading the other with bestial enthusiasm: We were locked in a very solid and efficatious 69 position when, coming up for air, I saw a pair of black boots standing not too far from us. My heart jumped into my throat: Hers was otherwise engaged. I looked up and, expecting with dread a gendarme, I instead saw a very handsome man, with his pants down, and his right hand being the best friend of his nether regions. When our eyes met, I was mortified, and scared. I think I must have gone a bit of a rubbery one, as we were still staring at each other when Therese took a breather, propped herself up on one arm, and saw the man. I was expecting her to begin screaming. Instead, non-plussed, she reached into her purse, snatched her packet of "Bastos" out of it, and offered it up open to the man, who edged closer, reaching out at length to grasp the packet, extracting two cigarettes, lighting them both in his mouth at the same time with one of those American Military lighters, then, after handing her back the packet, handed her a lit cigarette, upon which she took a long, hard drag, and, something I had never seen her do, exhaled it through her nostrils. At that stage, black boots became knees encased in blue jeans mere inches from my face, and the handsome stranger's right hand had only the cigarette to look after. At first, I was in a slight state of shock: Considering the proximity of a set of luxuriously hairy butt cheeks so close to my face, and the novelty of a wordless interlude with a random unknown, I was very happy to be handed the cigarette by Therese whose mouth had something else on its mind. The man was very different than I: Very dark, and covered in hair, even, as I later saw, up the small of his superbly sculpted back. When finally I gave in to the desire to embrace the situation, as Therese clearly had no qualms about it, His shirt was off, his jeans peeled all the way down to his ankles, and I repositioned myself so that he and I might take turns on Therese, which delight lasted quite some time. After numerous twistings and turnings, and all manner of "shared experiences," including a three-mouth French Kiss that was so hot I still think about it sometimes when I need a tiny boost, it came to pass that I was laying flat on my back, while Therese crouched over my face, and the man straddled my out stretched body: By this time his jeans had come off. Both we men had left on but our shoes, while Therese was naked as the day she was born. There came a point where I was surprised to feel wet globules spattered all over my chest: Warm, thick, viscous ones that drenched it in a very copious but sudden, completely unexpected "Secretion Magnifique." This had for effect that I, too, erupted in an equally impressive orgasm, and found myself quite drenched and dripping. Therese was not done with him, and I remember seeing his member leave her mouth with a long, thick, line of saliva, which, pulling directly across the length of my exposed chest, fell upon it, as if it weren't already sufficiently covered in bodily fluids: My own, the man's, and now Therese's. The man backed off, and Therese fell backwards, with my head square between her legs, to finger herself, and, before the both of us, emitted a wetting, liquid ejaculate all over my face and hair. She then fell flat on her back, and reached for her packet of Bastos, while I lay there splattered, liquids quickly dripping into both of my eyes: As Therese smoked silently gazing up into the stars, I fumbled for my jeans, half blinded, to extract my mouchoir. Trying to sop myself up had the latter soaking and full of liquid before I even was able to get past my nipples, so, watching the man nervously looking around, stepping back into his jeans, and furtively buttoning up his shirt, I reached for my Guerlain bag, grabed the black and white box it contained, and, having torn though it to free the bottle, manhandled the "vulva" stopper off, to then pour the contents of it all over my chest and lower abdomen, using the mouchoir, now wringing wet, to try to get myself to such a state that I was not dripping wet and viscous, and could at least pull my polo shirt on without its becoming soaked and, mostly, sticky. The man scurried off without saying a word. Therese got herself up and began laughing, simultaneously emitting smoke while watching me as I sponge bathed in Jicky EdT.
She never said one word about it, and neither did I, though she gave me some pretty probing looks as I struggled to get myself cleaned up and dressed. Therese, I remember, wore "Poison." She just kept giggling while she smoked, and I did my best to smile along with her, even though I was secretly somewhat shook up, this being my first "threesome." Later, we walked, holding hands, all the way to the edge of the park, her leaving the convertable car behind, and me about 250ml of Jicky, as well as the contents of some very pent up blue balls. This affair, don't you think, gives whole new meaning to the names "le Mouchoir de Monsieur," "le Parfum de Therese," and.....Poison.

Dig in to the "SLUTTY ROLODEX," people. It's time.
-Clothing and or Fragrance, definitely optional.

Who's up next? on

SEX AND THE SILLAGE

- - - Updated - - -

Well, so much for my: "I'll never buy another bottle of perfume again" vow. I am at this point intrigued to see if I can possibly "wear through" my stock of vintage juices. These, principally, are the following. Unlike Fleurine, who is desultory in her perfume involvement, I am a signature man: Here is my Rainbow of Olfactory delights, the ones in which I have so much bulk on hand, it approaches the *truly* embarrassing. "Hoarders" might devote an episode to me and this collection, as, to actually see it, the mind id boggled: My list, from "High Summer" to "Dead of Winter."

000. Eau du Coq
00. Puig Aqua Lavanda
0. Monsieur de Givenchy Edt
1. Jicky Edt
2. Jicky Edp
3. Jicky p
4. Mouchoir de Monsieur Edt
5. Bal a Versailles Edc
6. Bal a Versailles Pdt
7. Bal a Versailles P
8. Habanita Edt (mostly to bed)

Those are the "Wearers." Here are the "Sublimators:"

1. Givenchy Gentleman Soap
2. Givenchy Gentleman Deodorant
3. Givenchy Gentleman After Shave
4. Givenchy Gentleman Edt
5. Molinard "Patchouli"
6. Molinard "Patchouli-Vanille"
7. Molinard "Vanille"
8. Molinard "Lavender"
9. Molinard "Musc"
10: Serge Lutens "Ambre Sultan"

Here are the "Pocket square and handkerchief sprays:"

1. Comme des Garcons Series 3 RED "Carnation"
2. Penhaligon's "English Fern"
3. Comme des Garcons Series 2 INCENSE "Avignon" (only in Church, Winter)
4. Comme des Garcons Series 2 INCENSE "Zagorsk" (only in Church, Spring-Summer-Fall)

Now, considering all of the above, which all get used, here are the "Stock Pilers," which, every one being sealed in box, and some as old as 1930's, never get worn.

1. Eau de Joy
2. Joy
3. Jean Patou "Moment Supreme" Parfum-Cologne
4. Jean Patou "Moment Supreme" Parfum
5. Jean Patou "Amour Amour" Parfum
6. Jean Patou "Ma Collection" (Whole Series) Edt
7. Jean Patou "Ma Collection" (Whole Series) P
8. Jean Patou "Patou Pour Homme Prive"

Here are the "Class Dorks," Misfits that lead an unloved, confused existence:

Serge Lutens, many, many bell jars and tall rectangular bottles.
Killian: Entire collection
Caron: En Avion EdP
Caron: En Avion P
Caron: Tabac Blond P
Caron: Pour un Homme Edt
Worth: Je Reviens Edc
Worth: Je Reviens P
Worth: Je Reviens Bath Oil
Worth: Je Reviens Soap

Now, considering all of the above, don't you all think that I simply *must* have OPIUM? Strong with Inga's seething post above, I just procured 30ml of vintage perfume, 80ml of vintage perfumed bath oil, and 120ml of vintage Edt in a stoppered splash. My mother, who mostly wore Nina Ricci scents, had a very sudden, quite drastic "Opium Epiphany." She was *always* very much a YSL girl in the clothing department, and made a bit of a signature, much discussed by everyone, of wearing his black "smokings" with very aggressive strappy ultra high heels and strategically placed jewelry to black tie events at a time when this was unheard of: The most hilarious story involves her removing her flowy pant bottoms and throwing them in the face of the doorman at some private Gentleman's Club that would not allow her in for such an event, attending it instead in just the smoking jacket, which became an outrageously short dress in the transformation, sheer black hose, and her *always* ridiculously high and remarkable shoes. Recently I read somewhere that Nan Kempner had done this as well at the Tavern on the Green in NYC in the late 60's, except I'm sure she didn't throw her pants in the doorman's face, because, according to my Father, that's what my mother did, leaving the poor man standing there with his head covered in them. The shoes and the bag, as well as everything else, would always be ultra feminine: I even remember her wearing YSL pants suits with white shirt like blouses and neck ties: Again, the shoes would always border on ridiculous: Bizarre colours, platforms, lucite heeled jewel-encrusted "air-walkers," all of this was very much her thing, and it came to light one fine day when she had freshly returned from some cruise, that she would thenceforth smell like Opium. I remember that I thought this was quite simply the most outrageously and extravagantly gorgeous scent I had ever smelled: Interestingly, within months of changing from "Ricci-ades" to Opium, she left my father, and no one ever saw another bottle of Nina Ricci anything in her purse again, after years and years and years of her gold filigree "opera flacons," a Mauboussin gold refillable purse atomizer appeared, and it would be refilled by her with Opium parfum. I have this beautiful gold object on my dressing table: It had been a very long time since I had uncapped it: It's amazing to witness just how well made a purse vapo can be when designed by a fine jeweler in gold: Just opening it is a pageant, and the sound it makes as it unscrews to reveal a tiny finger pump is so smooth and on point. The very second the cap was off, my entire dressing room smelled like I had dropped an enormous decanter of opium on the floor, and it had exploded everywhere: These molecules were clearly dying to get out of that tiny little gold cap. Again: My thought was precisely the same. "This is the most delicious scent I have ever smelled in my life." I don't know how, why, if ever, or with what frequency I will make use of this Opium I have just purchased, but I feel that i should have it on hand: I imagine it might make a good belly button blast. I will await Inga's instructions for usage of the perfumed bath oil......

Naturally, Fleurine draws it out: What term was it employed by our National Hero, our Supreme, sweet-smelling Gentleman in Residence, now noticeably absent, for reasons we all understand and do not question, yes, what precisely was that term? was it....pr....mmmmm. I'm not sure: It did begin with a P. Now, as many of you may have gleaned through my "bio" page on frag, I am a Fashion Historian, among other things more mundane. It seems to me the picture above could portray one of two events: Either the end of Monsieur Saint Laurent's famous "Chinoiserie" Haute Couture Collection, (Fall 1976?) conveniently timed to precede the launch of Opium, or the actual Opium Launch Party: It could be either though I would guess it is the former: The Opium Launch Party took place in NYC on an enormous Yacht if I recall: The Paris one was much less elaborate. I am not old enough to have attended either, but my mother would have attended the Haute Couture Showing: There are archival pictures, some in books on the History of fashion, which show my mother at various ages, some pre-dating my birth, in the audience, paying noticeably focussed attention: She had a fondness for Monsieur Saint Laurent. The "Hotesse des Salons," --Baronne de Ludinghuisen--was someone I knew well as I would often times come to collect my mother in this salon: It was somewhat ugly, actually: All forest green flocked wallpaper and victorian potted palms with garish gold statues in all of the corners: You walked up a flight of wide stairs, and when you were not a client, you had to wait in a vestibule. To the left of this was "La Boutique" that sold jewelry, perfumes, gloves, shoes and the like: Very make-shift. To the right, the steps up to "Le Grand Salon" where the shows were conducted during show times, and sometimes bridal fittings. The "regular" fitting rooms were upstairs. This "upstairs" was accessed by a kind of swirling stair case that gently curved around the desk where Baronne de Ludinghuisen would sit sometimes. She had all manner of pet animals. She had a pig, several monkeys, and some kind of large feral cat with spots. She would bring these to work with her: My favourite was the pig, which was some kind of runt, or miniature pig, as it was not enormous and fat the way pigs often are, because it was so sweet and affectionate and acted more like a dog, only rather than making the usual dog sounds, it would oink and snort, but it was lovely and very playful; much inclined to jump into your lap and sniff your ears. The House of Yves Saint Laurent, now a foundation/museum, was *always* a rather exotic place: No other house had such garish decor. Once, while I was sitting in the vestibule quietly reading, Lou Lou de la Falaise, who was then Monsieur Sain Laurent's Studio "Seconde," came rushing through the street level paned glass doors, and without a word galloped up the first, wide set of stairs, passed me, then proceeded to rush up the gently curved stair well behind the desk, then, looking very "Faye Dunaway," in a "midi" length flouncy wool skirt and boots with thick heels, she tripped on the hem of it, and fell: Behind her, her purse came barraling down the stairs, spilling bits the whole way: I remember: Malborough Cigarettes, pens, lipsticks, compacts, documents, all manner of things: Naturally I got up and helped her collect all of these things: She was gracious but didn't say much. Years and years and years later--she has since died--I was at a party, and she was there. The party was in a non-French speaking country, so all the French in attendance sort of stuck together, giving me an in: I asked her if she remembered the time when, wearing that long rust coloured tweed skirt, she tripped and fell on the stairs. She threw her head back laughing and said: "Ah! Mon Cheri! Si vous saviez combien de fois cela m'est arrive!" (Oh! My Dear! If only you knew how many times that happened to me!") I loved this response. The other houses were somewhat scary for me. I was never scared at Monsieur Saint Laurent's because the Baronne made it fun: She was a kind of "Auntie Mame" for everyone, including my mother, and her animals always added a strange but fascinating touch: You'd be sitting there reading "Paris Match" and a cheetah would walk by, stopping to sniff you. (I didn't much like the cheetah--or leopard--or whatever it was. (It had spots) I hate cats of any kind. I loved the pig. I'm tring desperately to remember it's name, as the Baronne always called it "Chouchoute" (though this was not it's name). The most terrifying house was that of Monsieur Jean Louis Scherrer, which was on Avenue Montaigne. They were very....sort of "Holier than thou" there, and not very welcoming to a 17 year old scruffy kid in floods, looking and feeling awkward. Dior was a whole different story, as it was enormous: Smaller by far than it is now, but big enough that one might not feel conspicuous and out of place: Rather than the soaring mini-department store-slash-luxury-mind-fuck it is now, the Haute Couture was completely separate, at #30, not on the corner: It was the building next to it, and it was all done in dove grey Louis XVI style, as was the boutique on the corner, which had enfilades of matching "swag" type Nap III chandeliers: They're long gone now. All of that world is long gone, now. long, long gone, and it will never return. In those days, Haute Couture was not remotely as expensive as it is now: There was far more competition, with at least 25 major houses up and running, and the ladies who came and went were not arab princesses: They were just ladies. I used to love going to the House of Givenchy as well, because my mother would always come down the stairs with Monsieur Hubert himself: Ever the Gentleman, he himself would carry her boxes, which were white. I was most fascinated by him: I knew him for perhaps 5 years before my mother actually introduced him to me--and that was how--as recounted I think in my review of G-Gentleman, I got my first bottle: He himself gave it to me. At the time, I thought it smelled like dirt, and kept it only because i loved the black and white box that reminded me of African clothes as pictured in National Geographic. Monsieur de Givenchy was so tall. Taller than I, even when, finally, I grew up. He was lovely, too, and spoke in a velvet voice: Not effeminate like Monsieur Saint Laurent, who was never seen, but heard screaming and causing general mayhem from above: The voice of Monsieur Saint Laurent sounded a bit like that of an old lady. My mother *hated* Chanel, and so we never went there, ever: The only time we ever went to Nina Ricci, across the street from Dior, was to buy perfume and intimates: The Gentleman who was the Sovereign there was called "Monsieur Pipart"--a slight, skinny fellow with white hair--who giggled. He would come down the, again, spiral staircase, and, giggling, embrace my mother, whisk her away, leaving me in a shop full of bras and panties and giant lalique flacons, petrified to touch anything: Nina Ricci had a kind of very unsubtle "No Men Allowed" vibe--being all bows, angels and pastels. When I walk by these addresses now, as, many are still there, though most are gone, having shuttered their haute couture divisions, I remember that, in those days, the whole "scene" was not nearly as "exclusive" as it is now: Then, normal women had normal clothes made for themselves--unlike now--where the two remaining Grandes Maisons, Dior and Chanel, could scarcely boast of that. I have given the Opium matter some thought: The fuss and fury Monsieur Saint Laurent caused while orchestrating "Opium" is legendary: It required two noses, as the first whom was contracted was fired, then another was brought on to finish the project. I wonder if there was something strange, something faintly narcotic, in those bottles? I wonder, because, when my mother did her about face and went from smelling all soft, delicate and flowery to smelling like a slave market in China, other changes happened along with this one: Not only had she also suddenly cut her hair, but she changed its colour as well: She had *always* worn Lucille Ball fire red hair, and it was long, though she often wore it up in elaborate coiffures and had a closet full of wigs and falls, all perfectly colour matched: A whole armoire full, with wig heads, and all these different styles. When she returned from this "Croisiere," suddenly smelling of Opium, she sported a kind of "bob." Not only had she had her hair drastically re-designed, but it now was a pale, strawberry blonde, and it kept getting blonder: By the Eighties she was platinum, and had a kind of "Rat Mouille" look, with gelled spikes and points. For the rest of her life she wore short hair, and never again, not once, did anyone see her in a wig or fall: Instead, she took to head scarfs and bands which she wore as "bandeaux" with hair protruding in the front and back: Hats and gloves, too, disappeared. Most often, she wore nothing but her natural hair, unaumented by anything, except level 10 peroxide and gel. This was a drastic change. Then, not to be outdone, she left my father, after twenty-two years of marriage. My father never remarried, but she did: Thrice. What was in there? It was as if Mother left for a cruise, a very typical thing she did, and then, two weeks later, came back a different person. The slogan for Opium, in case any of you have unclarity concerning it, was: "Pour celles qui s'adonnent a Yves Saint Laurent." This means, very literally, "For those (women) who give themselves over to Yves Saint Laurent," (or "give themselves up.") So: Was this the drug? The entire universe of Yves Saint Laurent was always very bohemian and free-wheeling: He was the first "Great" couturier to *really* make a success of ready to wear, with "Rive Gauche," which name speaks volumes, and was always known publicly to be shy and retiring, while it was a fact that he was a kind of secret "Aventurier." (The opposite of John Galliano, who seems to be known publicly as depicted by his carefully constructed image, now shattered by pills and alcohol, but whom, in reality, was very quiet and nervous and sickly shy, once the ferocious barrier he constructed around himself was traversed.) Maybe there was something "in there." If there was, I wonder what? Now, Fleurine....about that, ahem, Lunch.....