Cuckold Porn (ROUND 2)
SCENT OF THE DAY: Interlude Man, by Amouage
Interlude Man is, at root, a smoky bakhour leather fragrance. It was easy early in my journey to miss the leather beneath all the smoke and greenery and pizzaz. But that is what this scent is—indeed, a leather nearly as rugged and oily as something like Cuioum (but tilted more green in a Bandit direction). In another house’s hands, this scent might have resolved into something broadly familiar: incense, balsams, dark woods, leather, and a dignified sweetness. What prevents it from becoming generic is the deliberate sabotage of that familiarity: a chaos of herbs and spices—pimento berry, turmeric, allspice, and above all oregano (various things that made me not see the leather at first. It seems like all of these are cast into a flame. The smoke that results is not smooth and orderly but jagged, green, and volatile. The result is a fragrance that feels less like a devotional burning of incense than a ceremony with teeth, where the air is thick with ritual and menace at once.
The opening behaves like aromatic disorder made intentional. Citrus is present, but not as clean lemon or lime; it reads more as overripe orange pushed through hot spice, briefly luminous before the herbal smoke closes in. Oregano acts as the signature disruption. Bitter-green, slightly medicinal, and unmistakably specific--the oregano sets the theme and keeps the composition from collapsing into the anonymous category of resinous Arabic smokiness. Even as it recedes from center stage, it remains faintly in the weave, guiding the scent’s direction and maintaining its identity. At times that oregano can take on an odd, almost raspberry-like sweetness (something like what I get in Ombre Leather and Yuscan Leather and even Terroni). I get that uncanny berry sweetness (a sweetness that in my early days churned my stomach) I guess from the oregano refracting through the sweet resinous base. Even thgouhg this is masculine, the sweetness—a solid connection with Interlude Woman (albeit not explicitly kiwi candy as it is there)—makes this much easier for a typical woamn to wear than the dry Epic Man—a scent I now realize I do prefer.
Beneath the turbulence lies the fragrance’s true platform: a creamy-sweet and yet nearly diesel-smelling leather—this a function of labdanum, opoponax, and a faux oud. This baseline persists through much of the wear. Rather than reading as sugary, it behaves like balsamic sweetness—thick, textured, and slightly animal. The sweet support the smoke the way velvet supports a ceremonial robe. This is what gives Interlude what Ramsay calls its “opium den” atmosphere: burning sandalwood, dried rosemary and thyme, and resinous frankincense wafting as if they were incense in a liturgical rite meant not to soothe but to summon. The smoke is layered rather than linear, shifting between ember-glow and charred bitterness, between sanctuary and sabotage.
As the top spices and aromatics soften, the darker architecture becomes increasingly legible. A dark amber and hazy campfire impression grows; frankincense turns more resinous than churchlike; myrrh feels sweet and balsamic rather than explicitly religious. The smoky herbs gradually give way to smoky woods—bark, sticks, pencil-shavings dryness—like something being waved through the air to clear spirits, or perhaps to welcome them. Through this phase, the perfume’s real identity reveals itself with increasing clarity: this is a leather scent as much as an incense scent, a leather-incense hybrid where the hide is never truly hidden, only masked by spectacle.
About an hour in, the leather can surface with startling realism—smoky, creamy, and strangely industrial, like diesel leather stained with fuel. This is not a polite suede. It is hard-wearing, lived-in, and almost mechanical in its grit. It pairs naturally with patchouli’s dark roughness. Indeed, those sensitive to patchouli migth see this as predominantly a patchouli leather. Together leather and patchouli create a dominant masculine profile, not in the sense of polish or “gentlemanliness,” but in the sense of force and indifference: the aura of someone who does not care to be palatable. A subtle headshop haze appears around the edges—suggestive of stale smoke and resin—adding an illicit undertone that further distances the frankincense and myrrh from easy religious associations.
In the deep drydown, the smoke thins and the composition relaxes into a warmer residue. A vanilla-caramel woodiness remains, with the creamy balsamic base continuing long after the most aggressive incense has burned down. The earlier raspberry-tinged sweetness within the smoke becomes easier to contextualize here, as if the fragrance had been carrying the seed of its late warmth from the beginning. Even in this softer phase, the scent retains a peculiar persistence in perception: it resists becoming mere background, remaining present in a way that some heavy fragrances do not.
Interlude Man ultimately reads as controlled disorder: a classical resin-incense body made unforgettable by the deliberate insertion of aromatic chaos. Its notoriety is not only a matter of volume, but of character—oregano’s green bite acting as a signature that both polarizes and differentiates. The fragrance is not designed to be universally agreeable. It is designed to be singular, a virtuosic performance of smoke, resin, spice, and leather that feels like a ritual carried out with intent—half exorcism, half invitation. I will always have this in my collection. But I have too many bottles. HMU if you want to buy one.
Cuckold Porn
Blacks, all of us really, just eat up—gobbling the shit like moonpie creampies (and perhaps it will stay like this, albeit relegated to much smaller circles, even when the “progressive” machinery, ever hungry for fresh liturgy, pivots to the next pet victim, the next protected group, whose purported powerlessness is undermined by the very fact that Disney takes up the cause, bankrolls the mythology, in tearjerkers of solidarity like Trans Panther or Mexican Panther or Undocumented Panther)—the alluring sensationalism of watching white bodies queued in campus parks to bow down and kiss the black combat boots of black-fatigued black men, one with a bullhorn proclaiming this a “pivotal moment of reckoning”—an atonement pageantry that, given the parade of effeminate white men pressing their lips down on the black leather to the amplified moans of “Ooh yeah” (more than one voice uncannily Jar Jar Binks-adjacent), cannot help but call to mind (especially when the tongues come out) cuckold porn scenarios involving white husbands, destroyed but dutiful, proving with a family-practitioner “Aah” that they swallowed every drop of “nigger creampie” out of their own white wives.
This the Lord’s work right here, man. Yeah it is. This the Lord’s work. Look at this one. You one of them good ones, huh? You never call no cops on a black man, right? You swear to me. Don’t look at all them. You swearing to them or to me? Okay then. Well, look me in the eye.
Ya’ll see her? She get it. She understand what that nasty skin done did. Feelin that guilt all the way down—way down, huh? Bet not tell your white man how far down, right? Matter a fact, I want you to tell him. You tell him for me?
Good. Good. So you tryna make it right, huh? Go ahead and lay that weight down then, that guilt—right at these feet right here. Now that’s real. Campus aint just talk no more!
So many white people standing around. See, they all talk. But she—. And look, now this white man. All of them—yes, bring them kids. Don’t be shy. The whole family—the whole bloodline asking for forgiveness. “The children of your oppressors,” Isaiah tells us, “will come bowing before you; all who despise you will bow down at your feet.”
See all these white people standing around? They all theory. They look the part. But they steady yappin, no action. But she—. I mean, a nigga gotta get this shit up on YouTube now. And look—white bitch done broke the seal! Got the white man comin through now. Yeah Mr. White Man. I got my eye on you. Don’t be scared. Ooh yes, now. Bring them kids, yes. The whole bloodline in this bitch. They want it. They want forgiveness. “The children of your oppressors,” Isaiah tells us, “will come bowing before you; all who despise you will bow down at your feet.”
So Mr. White Man, what you all about? How you leadin? Oh now he stutterin. You got a black man waitin now, boy—a black man. How bout you just tell me what the sign say. Hold the bitch up, boy! To me—to me! This aint no Price is Right. To me! I will work to repair the damage of my whiteness? Aight, then. Let’s see if this professor-lookin muhv really bout it. Well, we gon—. Oh. Okay. Yeah. There you go. Don’t be shy. Get low. Tch. Shiiit. Lower than that, boy. Yeah. Get real low. Press that face where it need to be.
Got a crowd now! Aint no college teach this. This—this right here people, look at him—worth more than any piece of paper. This real education right here—black education. Give these white people a hand. I love me some sorry-ass white folk. Let that sink in.
And look at them. They keep coming! My brothers and sisters—yeah, y’all. Why ya’ll hidin. You supposed to laugh. This that walk of shame now. So who next? Everyone watchin but who movin? That’s the whole story right there. Most yall white folk want spectacle. We aint doin the jig today, folks. Nah, your turn now. We want that mouth jig.
Oh yeah, Mr. White Man Number Two. Come get you some. Oh yeah. Keep them kisses comin. I like them pecks but switch the shit up too. It feel good don’t it? Oh yeah. It feels real good. Don’t be afraid to use that tongue. Just don’t get to musculine with it now. See people! Tongue mean commitment. Prophets always liked that tongue.
Look! Look! See it? That’s that boot juice. I like it. But Mr. White Man, you know I’m gonna need a shine. Polish the shit. Yeah, there you go. Make it shine. Now have your little girl—. That your daughter right? Step up here, Baby. What your sign say, Sweetheart? Hold it up. No, Mama—she can do it all by herself. She a big girl. What it say? I will never call reparations ‘looting’? No you won’t, Baby Girl.
And ya’ll see this? Look at this. Ain’t gotta tell the little bitch nothin. She just know. How she just know ya’ll? Yeah, get on in there, Sweetheart. Get on down right next to Daddy. Check his work now. He get all the spots? Tell me, Sweetie. You tell me. It good? Give it one little kiss for me, Baby Girl. Show me it good. Show and prove. Yeah, that what this about.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)
