jasperdezoet

Full disclosure: I have the dark blue liquid version, not the vintage purple one

Some guy on some website once wrote that no sane woman would willingly wear this. Luckily for me, I’ve done time in a mental hospital, so I’m actually uniquely qualified to wear this.

Sung Pour Homme is simple. I definitely get the comparisons to Irish Spring: it is bright, crisp, and clean. It has that standard aftershave smell. This is the ultimate fresh out of the shower scent. Wearing this will make you feel clean and put together.

While the aldehydes make the scent a little sharp, I was pleasantly surprised by how timeless Sung feels. Sometimes, aldehydes can make a perfume too screechy. Thankfully, this is not the case with Sung.

Overall, it’s an easy reach and it’s easy to wear. I’m a little disappointed I don’t get that smoky scent, but that’s life. I like to think of this as a “go-getter” scent, because it’s invigorating and exudes confidence. I will keep my bottle - and when I run out, I will make sure to test out the purple juice version!

Growing up, I went to a combined middle and high school in a small town. We had a very nice, soft-spoken, well-dressed older man who would sometimes substitute teach. Great guy, but he wore a very strong cologne that could fill a room. To me, his cologne smelled soapy and fresh, but it also smelled like boiled root vegetables and cabbage with peppercorns. (My mom used to make my brother and I eat this with corned beef and soda bread for dinner every Saint Patrick’s Day).

Trying out Quorum, this brings back memories of that cologne, though I wouldn’t say it’s an exact match. It reminds me of the Patrick cologne, which I personally do not find pleasant either.

I can see the vision though: I can pick up the signature soapy, aftershave scent that is often marketed to distinguished gentlemen and businessmen. After maybe half an hour, I even understand where everyone is coming from with the ashtray smell. I like how it adds some edge.

The problem is, my skin and clothes bring out the cumin notes too much. While I love hummus and well-seasoned beans, the note in Quorum too distracting for me to realistically wear. If I could take out that note but leave in that stale ashtray scent, I would easily rate this much higher.

I can see this working very nicely and even being a little bit “punk rock” if Quorum plays nice with someone else’s skin chemistry (although perhaps you can argue the unpleasantly pungent parsnip and body odor smell makes Quorum “punk rock” already).

If the average perfume marketed to women is supposed to say “I don’t chase, I attract,” then Black Orchid says “not only will I chase YOU down in the subway if you look at me weird, I WILL make it a terrifying experience for you.” Like icons such as Paloma Picasso and Portrait of a Lady, I jokingly refer to Black Orchid as a “girlboss territory marker”. Except I’m never joking.

Black Orchid is polarizing for a reason. If you wear it out, everyone around you will have very strong opinions about how you smell. With the black truffle, black orchid, black plum, dark chocolate, ylang-ylang, and patchouli, expect this perfume to be rich, strong, and magnetic like incense in an ornate Russian Orthodox Church or a chocolate lava cake in a gourmet restaurant. It’s also undeniably witchy and, perhaps because of the patchouli, a little gross. It’s how I picture the smell of a hallucinogenic brew a movie protagonist would have to drink to get visions of the afterlife.

In conclusion, Black Orchid is 50% sexy, 50% disgusting. Amen.

There comes a time in every fragrance-loving goth’s life where they aspire to smell like a vampire. Alas, even the greatest of minds are not immune to good marketing, and I must consign that my decision to spend seven (7) entire American dollars on a sample (not including shipping and tax) would be scathingly described by the kids of today as “taking the L.”

When a perfume enthusiast is fated with a sample that is especially heinous, they are met with a grace decision: they must choose to give the sample away or throw it out.

It must be noted that either out of immense bravery or egregious myopia, I had tested my sample of Transilvania on my bare flesh. After a rather fruitless 30 minutes of scrubbing the cherry cough syrup ripe wombat zoo enclosure juice off my hand, I deliberated that I could not allow any of my comrades to succumb to the same fate that I had.

Into the trash it went. Bye Felicia, and take Karen with you.

Sit down everyone, I’m going to tell you about my high school days.

When I was taking 10th grade biology class, we had a unit where we were expected to get into groups. Each group was then allotted one (1) dead fetal pig that we would collectively dissect. I’m not sure if this fucked-up team-building exercise is exclusive to American public schools or if fragheads worldwide can relate and shudder, but I digress…

Anywho, the pigs fetuses came sealed in plastic and marinated in formaldehyde. It’s hard to put the smell of formaldehyde into words, other than it’s what I would call an “emetic wonder” of scents. It’s like if full-strength rubbing alcohol were mixed with every ripe body fluid possible and then left out in the hot sun in a jar for a few months.

What does all this have to do with Vanilla Sex? Dear reader, it has EVERYTHING to do with Vanilla Sex.

Vanilla Sex is essentially what would happen if you siphoned out all that dead fetal pig juice and then dumped some vanilla extract into it.

I do not know what kind of sex Mr. Ford is having, but clearly he must be stopped at all costs.

If Vanilla Sex weren’t so gosh darn costly, I would have at least recommended that every parent with young children keep a bottle on hand in case of an emergency. If little Timmy has swallowed a tide pod and Poison Control Center says he needs to cough it back up, this could save his life.