Me and niche perfumery are not usually on speaking terms. The smells of old leather suitcases and fermented armpits, supposedly designed to bloom into pheromonal clouds of seduction, make me nauseous. No, thank you.

Oud, that trendy beast, gets side-eye from me on principle. The Arabian oils, the incense-laden colognes that promise opulence and deliver migraines? Pass. Occasionally I’ll tolerate something by Tom Ford or Penhaligon’s, but I’ve learned not to trust too easily.

This verbose prelude is my declaration of love for one particular fragrance.

We met by chance. I was eighteen, dating a local boy from the royal family who took me to Sharjah to buy “traditional” presents for my entire family back in Europe. Along with clichés like hookahs, pashminas, and camel-themed souvenirs in all variations (if you think Vegemite is bad, try camel milk), I picked up this cologne.

And that’s how our decade-long love affair began.

For years I gifted it to the men in my life. Boyfriends, my grandfather, uncles. When the boyfriends turned into clients and the men in my family began to die, I started wearing it myself.

It smells like sex and sanctuary. Like damp soil and power. When I wear it, I pretty much want to fuck myself. I want to take my time undressing, even when I’m alone.

People say it gives me the aura of someone who summons demons. I disagree. I think it smells like the forest I grew up in. Fir trees, dark moss, clean pine, a breath of earth after rain. Nothing demonic. Just nature in its rawest silk.

Criminally underpriced. Deeply misunderstood. But I’ve never needed my perfumes to be understood. I’m sharing it here in case you need inspiration for someone special this Valentine’s Day. Wear it if you dare.