Tickle Theory Skepticism (ROUND 1)
scent of the day: Musk Sultani, by Ensar Oud
Here we have another insane musk release like of Wolves except that, as we see int eh dry down, it gives equal if not more starrign roel to the oud. Real musk is the most seductive thing imaginable, how it envelops you in this fuzzy-animal aura that draws other in and you as well—not in the meditative way of sandalwood but in a one-way sex way: ménage à moi. It literally will make people swoon. I hate hype and BS but that shit is absolutely true. It is even perfect for self love. Some days I think I want to give musk a higher place than oud. But then I remember that on different days I need different things. Some days I want to radiate a texture of impossible to describe fuzzy allure. Those are musk days. Other days I want to smell like varnished mahogany or horse stable or moldy cheese. Those are oud days.
Musk Sultani is a smoky Cambodian oud take on Private Blend. It do not own private blend but I own the supersaiyan evolved form of it: Of Wolves and Men. The Of Wolves and Men version I have is Kamboche—the Kambuche refering to the name that Cambodia had in the late seventies. Since both frags give a starring place to the musk and cambodian oud, and since both give us a fruit-sandalwood-rose melange, they are extremely redundant for everyone but the top-tier connoseuirs.
That said, there are some things that make it different. There are differences even in regards to their shared notes.
Take Cambodian oud, for example. Both give a bitter kinamic cambodian oud a lead role. Sultani used a melange, however, of Chenla, Ko Kon, and Pusat—the top-shelf Cambodian ouds. Wolves, on the other hand, used an Oriscent blend that centers the Pusat (which gives an extremely red vibe) and, although likely the same three varieties, comes here in denser concentration for a more medicinal effect—a medicinal effect that goes in a dark-red-cherry direction because of the addition of Vietnamese oud (an effect that Sultani does not have).
As for the fruits, Sultani goes citrus whereas Wolves goes blackberry. And as for the rose, Sultani contains a wide variety (bourbon, turkish, Japanese perhaps)—many boosting the citrus brightness. As for the sandalwood, it seems to play a bigger role in Sultani than in Wolves even though its buttery side is more emphasized in Wolves and its green and dry in Sultani. As for the musk, both use Kashmiri-tibertan-tonkin trifecta of Private Blend but Wolves adds in Mongolian (perhaps my favorite musk) for more of a chocolately cream effect.
The cumin and schisuan of Sultani is the most overt way this scent stands out. And then more refined noses will notice that Sultani has more diverse animalics. Wolves is moreso centered on Musk. It reads as more elegant: a furry musk, more serious than jokey, soaking cherry tobacco in an apothecary. Sultani brings castoreum (a bit played out in Ensar’s repertoire) and lemon-piss civet too. Musk sultani—merging the cumin-pepper spice of Siber Extreme and yet the Musk-Khabib-style fresh-brightness of Musc Millesimime—reads more feral: a furry musk, bright and energetic, blooming from sun-cured beaver leather.
It really is unbelievable that some of us can have access to this. These aromas are life redeeming.
*Let’s workshop this poem about how the high-pressure physical response to violation can eclipse vanilla intimacy in such hurts-so-good fashion that it multiplies the trauma into something unnameable.
Tickle Theory Skepticism
Her unwanted arousal soon became wanted enough for her command (“Get it! Ugh. Get that fuckin pussy!”) to leak through the panties he stuffed down her throat— what would have been, even with the retching, at least some mercy. For this let her be loud but not quotable. It freed her from having to muzzle herself into whispers and yet still—the end product all guttural groan, gagged gibberish inadmissible to the judgment of loved ones— blocked her ears to anything beyond neck-bulging rage, snarling orchestration hindsight would readily neuter into “No!” even with all the unsavory marks against her:
like how in her need to articulate the nastier nightmare, one she begged the command to summon, the cervical origin of “balls to the wall” struck her for the first time; or like how the ancient law “Hips don’t lie” would read the rapacious testimony of her gyrations. But no, the man stole back even this dangled grace of psychic deniability— not, however, by taking the panties out to let her speak. Ass-fouled fingers lodged them deeper, barring the excuse “People’ll say anything to stay alive,” and he cut straight to flaunting his decryption of her spiritual communique frothing beneath the torn garment of all that blubbering:
“Mmm. Knew you was a mahfuckin nasty bitch! Huh?” To see herself shift like this—right to bald grind work— after strokes too few and flaccid for the alibi of orgasm, shift so far out from the first of many pardon-windows (as if this mother of two were less a spectator, screaming just to hearten the home stretch, than a coach, screaming from the first bungled drill)—how could that not square her trauma into a bucking fury of self-disgust unnameable even if there had been no struggle to get in the mood, let alone juice out so many rounds of ceiling-fan PSI, no matter how much her own pill-hard husband tried?
