My Quiet Addiction

If only I can match the guy to the scent.
If only I can match the guy to the scent.

The copy and print center, where my business cards were waiting for me, was on the left.

My body veered right.

Where is it where is it? I sweep the air, following my nose. Someone is giving off the right combination of pheromones, sweat, and Ralph Lauren Polo, original. My nose leads me to the checkout line and I stand there, even though I’m not purchasing anything. I’m taking in that woodsy, grassy, linen-y play on my olfactories, quietly consumed by the smell of one of these men standing in line before me. My scent trance is broken when one of the men, purchasing an all-in-one printer, steps out of the line to let me forward. A gentleman. Of course, he’d be a gentleman. “I’m not buying anything right now, I’m just, uh, waiting,” and I immediately bolt towards where I was supposed to be.

My name is Von. And I am a cologne addict.

I’ve already determined the psychological singularity. My first official boyfriend was very scent conscious. His cologne preferences were a blend of Dad-to-son hand downs – Brut, Old Spice, Drakkar Noir – and modern (for the early 90s) Davidoff Cool Water, Hugo Boss, and CK One. Since him, I found myself drawn to scents, and the men wearing such scents.

As a girlfriend trying to win cool points, I’d pick out a cologne I deemed signature for the man I was dating. I have a knack for matching scent to personality, and the amount of compliments Lucky Dude received wearing my scent vouched for my keen nose.

Some guys insisted on an ol’ reliable scent, of which I discarded and exchanged for what worked for me. See, most guys assume a scent one girl likes is the scent all girls will like. Very untrue. Your pheromones adapt to the mate you’re pursuing, it’s science, so if you’re gonna reel her in, it’s gotta be the scent that makes her subliminally hot and bothered over you. Take the printer guy from earlier: he was easily in his late 60s, pale, wearing Bermuda shorts. Visually un-stunning but chemically ha cha-cha-cha-cha-cha!

I’m absolutely honored when my male friends ask for scent advice. A friend is heading to Atlantic City: “Alright, brah, is this a girlfriend zone or a bro zone? Bro zone, huh? And any of your bros bringing their ladyfolk? Nah? Alright. You need to get a suit, tailored, I’m gonna send you some tie ideas, and while you’re picking those up, get you some Polo Red if you’re trying to keep it classy, or Paco Rabanne, if you’re just trying to fuck all weekend. Bet? Alright, brah, have fun and don’t forget to wrap that shit up!”

Since I’m currently sans male companion, I supplement my cologne addiction with a yearly subscription to GQ magazine. I get extra excited when the issue is particularly weighty, because that means it’s full of cologne samples.

Mmmmmmmahhhhhhhhhhhhhh I snort those things like white lines off a stripper’s ass!

The cologne doing it for me right now…


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