I do not wear make up much. And I don’t really like men’s cologne.
But I admit, when Polo came out with Black, it smelled like sex in a bottle to me. Good sex, too. And I like Sephora, the cosmetic emporium. It's like a trip to an alien planet, with cool theme music.
When I found Polo Black, I promptly bought the dear husband some and forced him to don it for my pleasure. (He’s a good sport.) He doesn’t like cologne, but he likes me. And I like Polo Black, or did, for a while. In nice, controlled doses.
Now it was nice, don’t get me wrong, but it was still lacking something…I don’t know what…something I couldn’t put my finger on. Then, an old business associate started wearing it. Heavily. At that point the scent kind of lost it’s charm. So it was dead to me. Cut out of the will and everything.
Advance a few months. Sephora sends me a catalog. This is funny, because all I get from them is skin care products. But I like all the pretty colors of the make up and such even though I wouldn’t know what the hell to do with any of it. I open it preparing to be dazed and confused by the glorious technicolor and all the ways I can make myself beautiful. Instead, my attention is instanty grabbed by this darkly masculine scent, all potent and earthy with the barest hint of spice and promise.
All thought, and I am dead serious, ALL THOUGHT short circuits. Something primal and wild and lusty comes screaming up from deep inside of me. I locate the source of this delicious scent: it’s a men’s cologne sample. Vintage by John Varvatos.
I tear it from the catalog, which I throw to the floor, and rip open the sample. And holy freaking Gods, it is nothing short of the scent of PURE MAN. All man, like they bottled the best parts of Mars and sent it out to all unsuspecting women to mess with them.
You and I both know that Mars has had a contingent of scientists laboring in a secret lab somewhere trying to come up with “The scent that will drive women wild and make them yours”, and Gods be Damned, they finally got it right. Screw Spanish Fly, Vintage is the new rufi, never fails pick up line, and self-assured hot male fantasy guy all rolled into one. What human female could resist? Certainly not my middle aged self.
Immediately I get a hot flash that burns up my spine. Hello Handsome, I NEED to get my hands on you. They must have Batman’s pheromones in there or something. I don’t know, but I know I must secure some. Because if I don’t, I’m sure I’m going to die. Reader, do not even TRY to tell me you haven’t ridden that razor’s edge of desperation before.
I promptly go out and score a bottle of this magic potion, and tell the dh, ditch the Polo Black, baby, ‘cause mama’s got a brand new bag, and it’s called Vintage. (Per the write up it contains: Top notes of rhubarb, quince, absinthe and spicy notes; a heart of lavender, cinnamon leave, jasmine, orris and fir balsam and a dry down of patchouli, oak moss, tonka bean, tobacco and suede accents. I LOVE the scent of Oak Moss, it has a very masculine, heady aroma.)
Ever my affable companion, he indulges me and wears the stuff. In fact, the whole thing amuses him, perhaps because it is so out of character for his stoic, hard core, tom boy wife. We’re out on a Saturday afternoon shopping and I swear he’s turning women’s heads. I am close to a swoon. It really is this visceral, uncontrollable thing. Incredible.
If Vintage had a song, it would be Magic Man by Heart. Ladies, you know what this is all about. It’s the bottle version of the come hither stare of a sexually confident and powerful male: the slow knowing hint of smile, the steady, hot look in the eyes - kind of possessive, kind of predatory, kind of irresistible and full of erotic promise. You look away, because if you don’t you’ll melt, but you look back a moment later because that’s the sign of consent, and whether or not you should consent is immaterial because you do and you know can’t stop yourself, nor could any ten armies.
Ages ago I joked about the copulatory glance and what in the hell was that anyway other than a load of propaganda? (Even though having experienced it as we all have, I knew very well how toe curling and heart racing and absolutely terrifying it can be when done correctly and with conviction.) Well guess what? It’s now been aresolized for faster, wider and even more effective application. My sisters of Venus, we are doomed.
Seriously, dear Reader, it does hit some wanton, primal cord. I am no pushover, but hell’s bells, you catch the scent and it tells your inner female in no uncertain terms: “I am Mars hear me roar, see me beat my broad and strong and well muscled chest, and watch me do those manly things you Venus types just love. By the way, I have a really nice cave with clean soft furs, and can swing my club all night long.”
We’re talking about the phenomena later, and I tell him again, “I don’t know, the only thing I can tell you is that this is pure man. It’s like they describe heroes smelling like in the romance novels. You smell it and it cuts right to the damn chase.”
So, my dh kind of gives this snort/laugh, and says “No, this is not what a man smells like. Not really. This is what a women wishes a man smelled like. It’s like “women’s man’s smell. ‘Cause if it was what a man REALLY smelled like then it would smell like beer, stale pizza, and farts.”
Ah Mars, and you wonder you are at odds so much of the time with Venus? Perhaps the beer, stale pizza and farts? Dont' worry, it's nothing a little splash of Vintage won’t cure.
John Varvatos, you are either the strongest aly ever to support the Sisters of Venus, or the most devious super villian ever spawned by the Sons of Mars. Either way, I salute you, sir!