4ajbukoshka

“Dimmi perché quando penso, penso solo a te?!
Dimmi perché quando vedo, vedo solo te!
Dimmi perché quando credo, credo solo in te - GRANDE AMORE!
Dimmi che mai...
che non mi lascerai mai!”
(Say to me, why when I think, do I only think of you?!
Say to me, why when I see, do I only see you!
Say to me, why when I believe, do I only believe in you - great LOVE!
Say to me that...
that you will never leave me!
Il Volo - Grande Amore. Translation by 4ajbukoshka, whose Italian is not perfect, but she doesn’t care because she is incredibly and unhappily in love.)

Where was I?
I am in love. Yes. For a very long time. With the sailor. With the sailor of the right sailor.
And this is about his best friend.
The two grew up together, they don’t look particularly similar on the outside, but they act like brothers when it matters.
They share a lot: hobbies, memories, even their favorite food (lasagna).
But not the girlfriend, neither is a clone of the other, no, I wouldn’t use that word here, as it has a negative connotation for me and sounds like a failed attempt.

So this wannabe bad boy named Cabana... he is overly attractive, almost as much as his best friend, MY FRIEND, the most attractive man ever... but somehow I don’t perceive him that way, because... oooooh... he is actually cuddly and sweet.
But he only admits that when I throw myself into his arms feeling sad and abandoned.
Sad and abandoned because the sailor is gone.
A sheep in wolf's clothing, then.
(At this point, let me say: no, my friend hasn’t left me. A man stole my favorite perfume - and that is much worse.)

Am I the only one who thinks of a cigar when looking at the bottle?
A cigar?! Yuck. No. Cigars are only cool in movies because you can’t smell them and the wearers sit there in elegant coats, sometimes with hats, and then... speak Italian.
But this one isn’t that bad.
So let’s start with the bottle: it’s okay. My feminine hands find it a bit large, but for men it’s probably much more handy, or, as they say: ergonomic. I like that it is matte and you can still see how much content it has left.

As for longevity, I can say: on the pillow it lasts fantastically. As if the sailor (wearer) had just laid on it a few hours ago and left me. And that, even though he has been gone since yesterday.
On my skin, I still perceive vanilla and amber in the evening (white moss? No idea how that smells, if I knew, I could say something about it), but I must admit that I reapplied during the day.
The sailor’s best friend, who pretends to be a bad boy and acts like a cigar, lasts maybe four hours on my skin, maybe a little more.

I’ve mentioned it in another comment, but I’m happy to repeat myself:
As with all LaRives, in my opinion, it’s better to pinch your nose for the first few seconds, at least until the slightly sharp alcohol smell has faded.
It’s worth it.
For me, these are two similar but still different scents, the sailor and his best friend.
I like them both, I adore the sailor, worship him, melt away, I cling to him like flies to... whatever flies cling to.
With his best friend, I have a brother-sister relationship. He comforts me during heartbreak. He gives me strength when I want to feel less small and shy. I may look sweet in the little dress, but I have teeth on my hair, because he stands behind me, even if he doesn’t stand out to everyone else.
In his own way, he makes me happy. And not poor.
Cabana is a silly name. I prefer to call him Andrea (which is a male name in Italian, but I intentionally chose it to be ambiguous) - and I thank him here for the friendship and comfort.

I am known in my circle of friends for some "quirks".
For example, I like to wear men's clothing and perfumes.
Just recently, a young man, that cheeky rascal, stole my dearly beloved sailor from the perfume cabinet (it's more of a shelf, there's not much in there) (now I remember why I'm not someone who displays perfumes openly or even as decorative objects; it's not about proper storage, haha, no, I do it preventively so that people stop helping themselves to my treasures).
His comment: "I’ll use it and we both benefit. You can smell it on me, and I don’t have to think about men when I'm with you. That's weird."
What does the sailor have to do with Eau de Lacoste L.12.12 pour Elle Natural?

It's an endless story...
We are in the year 2018. It's summer, and I've spent the whole day with my nose in books and in front of the screen. In the evening, we want to hang out and grill in the park with a few friends.
However, I can't make it home beforehand. So, the dear fellow sufferer... um... study partner (he's actually not that nice, but I don't know that at this point) offers to prepare something to eat at his place (he lives almost next to the library) and let me freshen up.
Said and done.
I make my favorite salad, glass noodle salad, today vegan.
After that, I disappear into the bathroom. Good thing I always have everything I need in my bag within a bag: at least two different lipsticks, deodorant cream, and a perfume or at least samples of something hopefully good-smelling.
I run my fingers through my curls and apply two spritzes of this summer crocodile that I just discovered recently.
I don't particularly like to wear "my" scent at temperatures around 30 degrees, too great is the fear that it could turn into a stinky woman on the bus and I can't get rid of it, but rather the love and the many positive associations I have with it. So, in my very small, quickly dissipating scent cloud, I leave the bathroom and emerge as a summer-fresh crocodile lover.
A few hours later, I can hardly smell it anymore. I sniff hard at my wrists and perceive something soft, slightly sweet. Probably the amber.
Okay, the summer crocodile is weakening a bit here, but maybe my nose is just distracted by all the food, the garlic, and later by the campfire.
I smell good as always, a friend confirms, whose head eventually ends up in my lap.
The summer crocodile is a good seasonal worker. I've been using it for about a month now and am still super satisfied with it.
The next day comes the rude awakening.
I leave the house in a hurry, running late again... no time for anything, neither for combing my hair nor for perfume.
But whatever. I have fingers and my summer crocodile in the bag within the bag. I thought.
Wasn't it there just yesterday?!
No matter. No time to think about such things now.

Hours later in the library.
Why does this guy smell like coconut? Did he secretly use his girlfriend's shower gel? Does he even have a girlfriend? It didn't look like it in his bathroom, and I didn't ask. I just wasn't interested.
Somehow, this smell seems familiar to me, yet somehow not.
My dear study partner talks and talks, but not a word about a girlfriend.
Me: "Hey, what shower gel do you use?"
He: "Oh, you ask questions. If I knew. Some one from duschdas, but I'm not sure."
I furrow my brow: "You smell so different today. Please don't take this the wrong way, but do you have a girlfriend?"
He starts laughing dirty, that devil: "Aaaaaha. I was wondering when you would catch on. Aren't you missing something?"
I, at that point busy with studying and 99 problems, am completely clueless: "No idea, but I'm hungry, so don't provoke me, or I'll be attractiiive."
He shrugs: "You left a small bottle on my sink. The color told me it was okay to use it too."
It dawns on me: "You used MY PERFUME? Are you SERIOUS?!"
"Yeah - I even sprayed some more before you came. But you didn't even notice."
I, completely unembarrassed, bring my nose closer to his neck. Wow. Okay. I remember it differently. Where there was coconut before, now there's something floral, herbal, yes, maybe woody, reminiscent of vanilla, but not my favorite vanilla, rather like vanilla pods or something more synthetic.
On me, the scent smells different. Sweeter, softer. But on me, I also initially don't smell coconut, but rather somewhat indefinable citrus fruits.
Iiiinteresting, so it works the other way around too. And surprisingly, this guy smells good too.
I thought before that the summer crocodile was for my age group. The guy, now not half as nice in my favor, is over ten years older than me. And I now consider him an a...hole, as he just used my perfume without asking and didn't bring it back to me.
But I only remember that later. After all, I came here to study.

A few days later, I bring up my summer crocodile with him.
He says I've managed without it for so long, I don't actually miss it at all, and there must be better perfumes for women, what kind of women's perfume is it if a man can wear it. Tzzz... Not just an a...hole, no, also a macho and someone who has no clue, on top of that. Aaaargh.
[Insert swear words in Russian here]
He even got compliments from women for it. And the bottle is only half full anyway. If at all.
I roll my eyes: "You know what? I don't want to smell like you anyway, stink! Keep it as a thank you for your help with studying and leave me in peace."

I am now on the hunt for a better summer crocodile.
Maybe the light pink one.
To be continued.
But I hope the series of men who steal or beg for my perfumes doesn't produce another season.

A rascal thinks evil at the title!
My former mother-in-law-to-be - I still keep in touch with her - is a wonderful, warm-hearted person and I am still grateful to her for "taking" the fragrance from me.
Otherwise, I would probably have never discovered Cuir Béluga *sigh* *swoon*.

So, let's start at the beginning.
I am 16 years young, I have earned a bit more money for the first time than the usual 5-10€ for walking the neighbor's dog - enough to splurge on a new perfume.
But not a Playboy or Bruno Banani or some other cheap watered-down something that someone leaves behind because they don't like it, no, for this special day, it should be something special. I deserve that.
My bike takes me to the drugstore of my trust.
There I stand in front of the shelf and don't know where to start. There are colorful bottles, some even have plush keychains attached. What the...
“If a perfume needs a free keychain to advertise itself, that can’t be a good sign.”
That’s my logic. To this day.
Overwhelmed by colorful candies, the glitter, pomp, and frills, I stand there and discover it, this stylish, slim rectangular bottle.
The Lacoste crocodile looks at me and reminds me of the sneakers I couldn’t afford (and didn’t want, because maybe my feet would still grow and then it would really be a shame about the shoes, I had apparently been successfully brainwashed).
The crocodile doesn’t scream, it doesn’t glitter, it scores points with me through subtle restraint. Exactly my thing. Angular, but slightly rounded on the inside.
It passes the first test on paper.
It doesn’t smell harsh, not like grandma - like all those number fives and whatever else they are called, that so many drown themselves in because they want to be addressed about their ge... uh... their perfume.
So it can go on my skin. And on my neck and in my hair.
Mhhmmm... pleasant! Smooth! Well-groomed. And exactly within my budget.
I walk a few rounds through the store and still like the scent around me. Bought.
The one cent that is left, I throw into the donation box along with the remaining small change that is still in my wallet. The embarrassing 4You wallet that my brother no longer needed or wanted. If only I had bought a fancy wallet. Never mind. I have something much better. With that, I go home.
The next years, the crocodile accompanies me - from there everywhere, at any time of day, for (almost) every occasion. For the disco, it’s too tame, too sweet.
But it’s practical to mainly use one perfume. Then you never have to sniff the scarves, because you know that only this one scent can still be on them. And it actually does. On the clothes, I can smell the base even after one/two days or until washing, when it’s no longer even detectable on the skin.
The crocodile is my faithful companion. When I have showered, I feel like I have showered in squares with it. Clean.
My friends stick their noses into my neckerchiefs and scarves when we greet each other. Because I smell so pleasant.
Not a single person has anything to criticize about me or the crocodile.
Until... that one comment should destroy everything.
“You smell like my mother. Stop it.” - words you don’t want to hear from your boyfriend.
“He has no idea. I don’t use fabric softener, but maybe it’s the laundry detergent. Or the hair mousse he smells. Honestly, did I even put on perfume today? I think I forgot it anyway.”
A few days later, I stand in the bathroom of said mother. Next to Christina Aguilera, it stands. The crocodile.
That’s the end. I can almost hear my heart breaking a little.
The next days and weeks, I go through the world without perfume. Disillusioned.
I smell her mother. She smells great, like security. She radiates warmth and is all about harmony. A wonderful woman who cooks great food.
Her bottle is nearing its end.
I think. At home, I still have a turtle and a crocodile, both with very similarly scented contents.
Should I give her the turtle?
No. Too cheap. That could be seen as an insult, because I myself found the turtle slightly repulsive and therefore hadn’t touched it for a long time and later brought home the crocodile again when it was on sale.
For whatever reason, I keep the boxes of the perfumes, even though I don’t sell them anyway.
Here, luckily, because it makes the gift somehow more special.
The “mother-in-law” is surprised.
For what occasion and with what has she deserved this gift?
No, it doesn’t always need an occasion to want to bring someone a little joy. After all, she always does that.
At every one of my (announced) visits, she has coincidentally cooked something that she knows I like to eat.
She never makes a big fuss about anything.
Like the crocodile.
The crocodile suits her much better than me, the little drama queen.
I wonder how we, the crocodile and I, could endure each other for so long and I wholeheartedly wish it to her, this kind-hearted, warm woman who would never harm a fly.
Like the crocodile.

If "Taste of Kiss" were an outfit, it would look like this for me:
Hanging in my closet is my beloved pink tulle dress with ruffles. The top layer of tulle has integrated dots in the fabric and a subtle print that mainly consists of flowers.
I usually wear it only in summer because of the bandeau neckline, and even then, I feel like I wear it far too rarely, as I see myself standing in front of it and facing a big problem:
How do I combine this piece without looking like a wannabe fairy princess?
For this reason, I usually opt for fishnet tights and somewhat sturdier boots, and in the evening, I swing the (faux-*) leather jacket over my arm.
(*As a wannabe vegetarian and world improver, I just don't see the need for real leather.)

Color-wise, "Taste of Kiss" would match my outfit very well.
The bottle is appropriately square, with the lower pink part seamlessly transitioning into black.
As a fan of square bottles (I prefer them to be rectangular), I like the design, which is kept simple and straightforward. The box looks cheap, but who cares, it's best to just toss it directly into the recycling.
As with all LaRives, in my opinion, it's better to pinch your nose for the first few seconds, at least until the slightly sharp smell of alcohol fades away.
It's worth it because underneath lies a little treasure.
The strawberry note does remind me of a chemical gummy fruit aroma mixed into cream (which is why it doesn't burn your nose), but synthetic isn't always bad for me; moreover, the fruits harmonize wonderfully with the sweets that are also in "Taste of Kiss."
"Taste of Kiss" - the taste of a kiss. Hmmm... The lady in the pink tulle dress, boots, and leather jacket must have smoked, but that must have been yesterday, as you can only faintly smell it on her jacket.
And even though, as a militant non-smoker, I really don't like smoke, I would probably kiss her anyway, the rock-chic fairy princess.
She did everything right, especially considering that you can find her for 6-7€ at your local drugstore.
Longevity is decent; I can smell the scent on my skin for several hours (but I would have to check the time and pay close attention).
The sillage is also good; at first, you notice a small cloud around you, but the scent quickly becomes intimate, which I personally prefer much more.
With large scent clouds around people, I am often reminded of an Obscurus - anyone who has seen "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them" knows that this creature is not a good thing - because, in my humble opinion, you wear a perfume for yourself and should ideally keep it as close to yourself as possible.
After all, you can't please everyone, and certainly not everyone's nose.
Just like "Taste of Kiss" is definitely not something everyone would enjoy smelling.
I do. I especially love gourmands, and it can't be sweet enough for me, but the strength of "Taste of Kiss" lies in the fact that it doesn't overdo it, but rather scores with subtle restraint and reduced sweetness.
Whether I would wear "Taste of Kiss" in summer, as opposed to the described outfit, remains to be seen. But as the saying goes? The attempt makes wise.

All in all, an 8 out of 10.

My third comment is therefore going to be a matter of the heart.
Everyone knows what Jean Paul Gaultier's definition of masculinity smells like, so I won’t try to break down the pyramid in my amateurish way.
No. My heart bleeds after reading the comments here, many of which say you can smell the “penetrating petrochemicals” (Ashton) of the “asshole brother” with the beautiful sister (Dutchi) mainly in the “village disco” (MartinGE).
So. You can argue about tastes. However, as can be seen very nicely here: It leads to nothing.
Some hate it, others love it. Some, on the other hand, have a kind of love-hate relationship.
I belong to the latter group.
What I hate about the scent:
The wearers who think there is no tomorrow and therefore must empty their full bottle today - the one with a capacity of 200ml.
The wearers who wear the scent in the hope of dropping some panties, regardless of whether it suits them or not.
What I love about the scent:
It!
The cinnamon note that accompanies me with it all day long. Its development, just everything!
(My comment refers to the 2016 version, which won’t run out quickly since I use it sparingly and additionally have a dupe at home.)

The first time I must have encountered it was as a child, because when I smelled it on a man around 25 a few years ago and was blown away, I also had to think of a somewhat older relative.
Well. I smelled this perfume on a man, bald, with a well-groomed short beard, strong, broad-shouldered, with freckles and blue-gray eyes.
He, the man, would have never caught my attention if I hadn’t noticed this scent in the crowd.
I came very close to him, accidentally bumped into him or was pushed in his direction. Nevertheless, the man remained very polite, gesturing with a hand movement that my stammered apology was actually unnecessary. This man, who smelled so unashamedly good, did not have a distinctly masculine or rough voice; he looked like he was over thirty at just twenty-five, but his voice still sounds (yes: we are still friends today) as if you were facing a boy.
The contrast is for me what also characterizes the perfume that the man wore: “Le Mâle” is strong - spicy - and soft - gentle and creamy - at the same time, sweet, but also fresh; it is different from a not to be underestimated part of its wearers, not flashy, even though it has a very high self-confidence.
“I am ready, for it is time for our pact over eternity.” (Falco - no, not a Parfumo user, THE Falco, for me just as much a genius as the one to whom “Le Mâle” is owed)
For me, a life without “Le Mâle” is possible, but not desirable. I do not want to be without it, and I will not let anyone ruin my joy in it.

I love the sailor, not necessarily how he looks (there we are again with the flashy), and I would never have bought or even tested it if I had been made aware of it through advertising, but I love, appreciate, and adore it - so much that I not only use it at home as a pillow and room scent, but also wear it myself, much to the delight of my friends. In doing so, I use one, at most two sprays. That’s enough to get me through the day.
The sailor may stand for masculinity, but in times of emancipation and blurred gender boundaries, I take the liberty of claiming this treasure for myself.