Valentino Uomo Intense Valentino

“Do you know that this is a men's fragrance? I’d be happy to show you the women's perfumes. Have you heard about the new V…”
(“What I really know right now is that my bias against employees of a certain perfume chain is unfortunately justified,” she would have liked to respond or give a sermon about how unprofessional and counterproductive it can be to forbid non-men from buying products that are marketed towards men. Instead, however, she lets out a polite) “Yes, thank you. I would like to test what has changed in the new version here aside from the bottle.”

The bottle is still nice to look at, still reminiscent of the studs on “Rockstud” bags and shoes, exclusive, stylish - and now with a cap and a collar of studs that reminds one of BDSM games, which it didn’t need. For a moment, she wonders if Valentino Garavani “the one and only” secretly laughed about it when he ever got to see the design.

Tfft tfft. One spray on the wrist, one on paper. Just in case this “Uomo” is no longer himself, she doesn’t want to regret her boldness.
More than Tfft tfft is not needed for the little time travel.
It’s October 2020 and Tshajbukoshka receives a call. Would she like to come? Signor Il Herzensbrecher’s best friend has exhibited all her works at home and made a small vernissage out of it, for an exclusive circle, a maximum of five people are allowed to admire them today. Tshajbukoshka calculates: Malena and her boyfriend as well as her best friend, then there’s Signor - and she would be the fifth person. She wouldn’t miss this opportunity! Never before had she packed the most expensive bottle of Primitivo from the shelf into her bag so quickly, packed by “the other one,” Mario, Valentino, and touched up her lipstick. She hears him before she sees him and is as excited as a 14-year-old in 2010 before a Justin Bieber concert. That voice, deep, mature, louder than a vacuum cleaner with a V8 engine and bursting with self-confidence. In her mind’s eye, she sees him gesticulating, throwing things around, and occasionally adjusting his hair with a (not well enough disguised for the attentive eyes of Tshajbukoshka) head movement to the back. His presence is almost palpable, one could almost think the bass of his voice makes the ground vibrate, especially when he rolls the ‘R’ extensively. The charm of the Italian remake of James Dean is not easily escaped, not even when one has to listen intently as he, of course, in Italian, muses about the herbs on his balcony.
“Signorina, I smoked today,” he admits quite sheepishly while looking at her with furrowed brows, making a pout and holding out his cheek to her. She doesn’t smell anything from it. He smells just like he looks: delectable, mysterious, special, forbiddenly good. Oh mio Dio.
“A little bit drunk, though, so I’ll drive today.” - “Really? Sei meravigliosa! I thought you would be angry.” (- How could I be angry? I probably wouldn’t even be angry if I woke up in the morning and you told me you just stole half my lung and liver.) She laughs. The evening is excellent, the exhibited artworks impressive - and yet, Tshajbukoshka will only remember him in a few months after this day, how he looked, what he said and did - the Italian treat who lets himself be carried into his own car while completely drunk, only to then protest loudly because he still has to hold the driver’s door open for his Signorina and apologize to his car for not driving himself. Buckled up in the back seat, he performs his interpretations of Andrea Bocelli, Il Volo, and Random with a fervor that could suggest ten opera singers.
At some point, it becomes quiet. The singing has stopped. Tshajbukoshka opens her window and adjusts the rearview mirror to see him peacefully sleeping with her stuffed animal in his arms, his curls on his forehead. (“Süüüß!”)
Once home, she manages to wake him just enough for him to move from her support to the bed. In full gear. The smell of his leather jacket lingers there until the next morning, even though Tshajbukoshka struggles to get him out of it (and his shoes). So that’s why people in horror movies never choose kidnapping victims who are a head taller and more than thirty kilos heavier than themselves.
An exhausted Tshajbukoshka throws herself onto the bed after a wonderful evening.
“How do you actually know it’s love?”
- “When it smells like home at his temple, then you don’t know it, you feel it.”
This Valentino, he’s just it.
A sentence that fits Tshajbukoshka, Signor Il Herzensbrecher, and Valentino alike: “I’m a year older a year later, but aside from the outside, I haven’t changed, at least that’s how I feel - and those who know me know and gladly confirm it.”

Comment from my friend: “You always smell so delicious, I would become a cannibal for you.”
Another friend: “Are you sure you’re not a lesbian? Somehow it emphasizes your masculine side.”
Her boyfriend: “Can I have some too? I like it, I hope it suits me.”