The Tip (ROUND 9)
Scent of the Day: Santal Sultan (Parfum), by Ensar Oud
Fate Man vibes, definitely: 50 percent Fate Man, 10 percent Reckless Leather, and the rest just top-tier materials and an artisanal feel of authenticity. And that is not so positive as it sounds. For these two, especially Reckless Leather, were some of my favorite fragrances. Now it is hard for me to go back to them. After Santal Sultan—and a whole host of other artisanals—it is almost as hard for me to go back as it is for the house mom to go back, after a gushy gang rape, to vanilla sex: no choking or dehumanizing spit; no making the child watch the screaming stretch of triple penetrations, watch close enough to catch residual juices not just of the men but of the mother herself. For now the ambro super-ambers in them really stand out to me. Reckless Leather is still one of my favorite aromas. But its AmbreExtreme synthetics read as absolutely ridiculous after smelling artisanals in general.
Aside from the higher-quality ingredients, what makes this especially unique is that the curry and ghee vibes—the main connection to both Fate Man and Reckless Leather for me—come with a minty side: a mint that reads like the breath deodorizers you chew after your Indian meal, the fennel mix. Compared to Santal Royale, which is musky red in vibes and much creamier, this is sunny yellow and with purple-green herbaceous streaks. An herbal sandalwood fragrance—that is what this sucker is. Rosemary is the most prominent herb. That brings Thanksgiving to my mind.
Making the whole feel sort of like stretching in the dawn outside on the deck, an organic sun salutation of tremendous relieve (unless, of course, three men are waiting in ambush until after your husband leaves), the opening impression is of cutting underripe fresh pineapple. That impression only corroborates that festive feel: if not for some retro side dish like a sweet potato casserole with crushed pineapple folded in) or something tropical to add to the cranberry sauce in the hunt for something way less midwestern vanilla (careful what we wish for), then at least to drape on top of the holiday swine.
Good sandalwood is ureic, urinal—bittery uric acid. I like that, which is why I also love civet. Civet, I deeply feel, was the missing ingredient here. That would have made this be better what it is supposed to be: a sunny, bright sandalwood to start the day in the morning chill. The cedarwood adds such a crisp and refreshing pencil-shaving edge to the creaminess of the sandalwood. People complain about how reliant this fragrance is on cedar. I think it plays an important role. That said, if there was anything to pull back in order to make room for civet, it would be this, in my view. If I had my way, though, I would just add more civet and leave the cedar ramped up like it is. The cedar, which makes this fragrance energetic and clean, really makes this stand out from Santal Royale—its meditative twilight sibling.
But yes, we get that urinous aspect here with the sandalwood alone. It is definitely more prominent than in Fate Man. As for the comparison with Fate Man, whose better craftsmanship and blending cannot make up for the lower ingredient quality, Santal Sultan is more centering and comforting in its unabashed naturalism. That speaks to the quality of the sandalwood, because Fate Man uses a whole bunch of cozy labdanum, but even with that, its coziness cannot touch Santal Sultan. That said, I think Fate Man is the superior scent. Santal Sultan, however, falls short in this regard to Santal Royale, which is even more centering and calming.
Santal Sultan is like buttery Indian spices and sandalwood, although the degree to which my nose finds this buttery has gone down in comparison with my experiences, in particular, with Santal Royale: a deeper, creamier, more brooding nighttime version.
*Let's workshop this poem about two men debating what constitutes going too far during a candlelight session with an offering--a bartered-boundary sacrifice by a junky mother--to the god of fentanyl.
The Tip
Two men, blunted, stand over a thrice-curbside coffee table— gang glyphs gouged into its sticky body like cell-block graffiti; a takeout carton, Tasty Hunan, wedged under the short leg. Jeans and boxers puddled over baby-blue Nikes on gray carpet crunchy with cigar guts, busted vapes, and that lime teether (its vibrancy stomped by the ashy deadfall of indifference)— apocrine musks of streetball perinea plume over stale Glade. Their dispute, its casual air (as if merely “Would you rather fight a horse-sized duck or . . . ?”), contradicts more than just the candlelit mood of Bobby Brown’s “Roni” on the boombox.
The younger man, fuck-buddy plug for those fentanyl lozenges (lethal keys to the snow-bunny heart of the pimpstress-mother, now sedate in its broken pulse against the under-toilet linoleum)— he works himself with spit, the siren-choked section eight of trash turned trashier by the guileless gurgles of innocence, the coos. He has his reservations. “Cuz—you talkin bout killin this bitch!” “Tch. How you figure, nigga? Bitch suckin like she hungry. Mmh! Got that mahfuckin instinct. Just like mom dukes—bet that shit.” The younger man, shaking his head, keeps stroking at half-mast— on-deck circle, practice pumps. “I’m talkin size. Shit too tight!”
As would a parent while wiping the creases of thigh chub before dusting tomorrow in talcum, each wife-beatered man cups a foot (“tenderoni” like the lyrics)—sandpaper thumbs, match strikers, delicate with the squab’s pliant arches. The no-penetration rule, which Mom had repeated (“Please”) to the one she knew (“Please”) as she shut the bathroom door to the twisted cost of getting herself straight, today’s tagalong, bandana blue, reads as mere suggestion: “Trust, Cuz.” An irrelevant factoid—planted in juvie health class (girls are born with all their eggs)—syringes conviction, still met with knotted brows, into his bowlegged stance, fresh from a bid.
“On God, Cuz. Shit born ready to stretch. Shit be crazy. Feel me?” “Nigga, this—. Nah, I’m good on that.” “Aint even hearin me! Tch. Lil nigga—for real. How you think they gon have babies?!” “She aint ready to have no baby! The fuck?” “Shit born ready! Midget bitches—. Tch. Shit’ll stretch, Cuz. Just can’t hit deep.” After a teabag into the suckling reflex, milk violence engorging his baby leg, he snatches the other heel with a g-thang glare— swiveling its rashy butt, skippy squeaks, to the missionary ledge. “Just the tip. See? Tell me bitch aint good: cooin for that chocolate! Lil ho like mom dukes and shit! Bet she take two pipe nigga! Bet!"
