Picture it: Paris, 1978 - A charming little restaurant, a quiet dinner before you give up your inhibitions to a Bacchanalian feast of overpriced booze, lines of obligatory coke, blaring disco music and the promise of a reckless, wild night.
You relax at your table - across from you, she sits, her hair piled high, dressed in select pieces from Saint Laurent's "Broadway Collection." She glances at you slyly. Her powdery perfume - heliotrope, rose and a hint of salvia - already arousing more than your interest. She sips her absinthe, wedge of bitter orange carelessly tossed aside, as you run your finger around the edge of your glass of whiskey. She reaches over, her delicate hand caresses your cheek. You smell the sweet tobacco from the cigarette she smoked just moments ago. The pompously aristocratic woman and her fils de gendarme husband gaze at you scornfully from the next table, sipping their ever-so-proper cardamom tea.
You sit there, smirk on your face, reviling both in the thoughts of the illicit orgy ahead, and enjoying the gross disdain of you from Mme Charrier et son mari.
She gets up as you pull the chair out for her. She leans in to you, gently kissing your earlobe sighing with pleasure as she inhales the sensuality of your fragrance. The scent of musky male skin, enrobed in rich amber, warm myrrh, cedar and a touch of vanilla.
