The first time I smelled you, you hadn’t even been sprayed yet — what is it about you that is so strong that it makes you hang in the air for hours?
The second time I was ready. At first, on the blotter, you were nice. (And then five minutes later, I threw you out because you were boring as hell, and I was getting nauseous.)
The third time I was brave; I sprayed you on my wrist and prepared myself to spend the whole day with you. After the first few minutes I was done. I was right — you really are boring, aren’t you?
So I waited for you to fade.
But after about a half hour, your top notes started to drift off and I could smell your heart: a sharp floral was distinctly coming through. Pervasive vanilla. The musk and vetiver held strong to keep them in check. And yes, you were still overwhelming, and yes, I still felt a little sick… but I could see why people love you.
You keep it interesting. You shove a cold floral into a warm musk and you don’t apologize for it. Your masculine edge fades (fades, but does not disappear) and after the first hour I’m in love.
Of course, though, the first hour is hell. It is the height of generic perfumes and overtakes everything; even with just one spritz you are so strong eating is out of the question. But after that hour… once you begin to dry, I fall in love with you again. Eventually, at the very end, you take on almost soapy, clean qualities, and it’s as if you’re washing away all the confusion you display as you open.
(Let it be said, though, that while I think you are actually quite pretty and interesting, I wouldn’t buy a whole bottle of you to wear. You’re just not my type, darling, and you don’t last very long — I would expect more than five hours from a perfume with an opening as strong as yours!)