Friday, November 27, 2015
In a Series of
Familiar Internet Postings
Handsome Young Man
to Fellow Perfumistas
The last seven months have been the first time I've not had Angel since I was introduced to it years ago. My partner became transfixed with it after I told him to smell it in the store; he found it revolting, then fascinating, then wanted some, over the course of several months. He said it smelled like the butt crack of a rich guy with good taste. I sprayed a bunch on from the tester and he said it smelled good on me, and that we had to get some.
Wait, what? Was I dreaming?
After six years of marinating myself in Angel against the wishes of everyone else in my life, I have found a man that actually *requests* that I wear it? Previous boyfriends were forced to tolerate it while quietly wishing I wore either nothing or some modern ISO-E thing so they could better project their drab fantasies of faceless, conformist liberal hipster blandness onto me without distraction. Angel was practically a third person in the relationship, and I insisted on wearing it out of artistic allegiance to it but also out of contempt for the expected dilution of personality in the homosexual hipster dating scene. When I took a seven-month break from it, it was something of a depressed resignation to conformity.
After the happy event I wasted no time in getting another bottle. My Angel situation is perhaps too symbolically perfect to be believable. I clung to my Angel in the face of adversity like Samuel Richardson's Pamela clings to her virtue. Like Pamela, I was rewarded in the end with a man who loves me for it.