Lately, The Neighbor has smelled like a roaring bouquet of hot gay men on the prowl.
I mean, normally the man smells delicious, like strawberry fields of manliness (and yes, that’s a real thing), but these days he’s upped the ante.
He’s pillaged a forgotten shaving bag chocked full of cologne samples from Nordy’s (remember our big shopping trip? If not, just search for “I dress him up, I dressed him down”).
There’s Giorgio Armani, Polo Ponies 1-4, Polo Sport, CK1, and a couple more I can’t remember.
Each night he comes over and makes me guess which one he’s wearing. So far I’m 1 and about 10 (did I say that right?),
He’s lucky to be as furry as he is; scents cling to his luscious pelt as easily as my fragrances slip off my razored, hairless body — it’s why I perfume my hair now instead of wasting it on my skin.
He’s been completely surprised at my moaning, humping response to this new accessory of his. “How come I never knew you loved cologne before?!” he said the first night he smelled divine and I was burying my face into his neck and purring.
“I told you,” I said into his warm skin, “you just never listen to me!” He swatted me playfully and I closed my eyes, carried away on a cloud of sex, freshly cut grass, and muscles.
And today, TN learned that I’m not the only one who’s a fan:
I love being right.