The Dreamer's Pen

There was a time in my life when I worked behind a fragrance and cosmetics counter at a large department store. The lights were soft but flattering, the glass counters sparkled, and I was surrounded by bottles—tiny, elegant sculptures filled with emotion. That’s what perfume is, really: emotion in liquid form.

Back then, I didn’t realize how deeply scent would root itself in my soul. I fell in love with fragrance not because it made people prettier or more polished, but because it revealed something unseen. I began to notice how some perfumes seemed to float effortlessly off certain people, blending with their skin like a second soul. Others clung too loudly, wearing the person instead. That’s when I learned: a fragrance can add to you, or take away from you.

I’m a musky person. Musky in the old-school, animalistic sense. I love those deep, feral, intimate fragrances that sit close to the skin but hold power. The ones that smell like shadow, heat, memory. On the right person, musks are magnetic—like a heartbeat in scent form.

Some people chase sweet, sugary fragrances, those saccharine confections that smell like cake batter and candy. And while they have their place, they don’t work for everyone. There’s a massive trend right now toward gourmand perfumes, but many of these scents clash with body chemistry, becoming too sharp or cloying. Fragrance isn’t one-size-fits-all. What smells enchanting on your friend might turn sour on you.

I’ve learned that body chemistry is everything. Your skin’s pH, your oils, your temperature, your emotions, even alter how a perfume behaves. I can’t tell you how many people wore Juicy Couture because it was popular, not realizing it didn’t suit their skin or their spirit. You can’t force chemistry, in perfume or in life. Some scents simply don’t belong to you.

But the ones that do? They are pure alchemy.

Fragrances I’ve Loved, and Why

Let me tell you about some of the scents that have stayed with me—scents that felt like wearing poetry on my skin.

Moonlight Path by Bath & Body Works is a soft veil of lavender, violet, and musk. It’s gentle, calming, almost melancholy. It smells like freshly washed sheets in a moonlit room, a dream you’re trying to remember. This scent was safety to me once. It whispered rather than screamed.

Dior Hypnotic Poison is entirely different. She’s dark, rich, and heady. She doesn’t enter a room, she drapes herself across it. This is almond, jasmine, vanilla, licorice, and musk all tangled up in something dangerously delicious. It’s the kind of scent that makes people lean in closer without knowing why. I wore it when I wanted to feel unapologetically feminine and deeply magnetic.

And then there’s Organza by Givenchy. This one is lush, golden, and radiant. It smells like elegance warmed by skin—white florals, nutmeg, amber, and vanilla. It feels like candlelight on satin, like confidence with a soft smile.

Lately, I’ve been reaching for Egyptian Goddess by Auric Blends—a roll-on oil that somehow manages to smell like skin that’s been kissed by sunlight and secrets. It’s creamy, musky, a little sweet, and incredibly intimate. The kind of scent people smell when they hug you, and then keep thinking about for days.

Musky & Animalic: My Scent Soulmates

When I say I love musky scents, I don’t mean those “clean laundry” synthetic musks. I mean real, sensual, almost primal musks. Historically, musk came from the glands of the musk deer, though now it’s replicated synthetically, and was used to deepen and anchor perfume. It’s what gives a fragrance longevity and intimacy. Musk is warmth, body, breath. It’s the scent of skin after dancing, after dreaming, after sex.

Some musks even included civet (once extracted from the glands of civet cats), and while we’ve thankfully moved to cruelty-free alternatives, those ingredients created legendary fragrances like Chanel No. 5, Shalimar, and Musc Ravageur. These scents don’t perform, they seduce, they evolve, they haunt.

Oriental Perfumes: Opulence and Depth

If musks are my skin’s native tongue, oriental fragrances are the poetry I write in. These perfumes are rich, spicy, warm, and resinous. They often include notes of amber, vanilla, spices, incense, and exotic woods. They feel ancient, sacred, powerful.

These are the scents worn by women who’ve known sorrow and survived it. Who move through the world with mystery and intensity. Think Shalimar, Opium by YSL, or Tom Ford’s Black Orchid. They tell stories without speaking. They make an entrance, and a lasting impression.

How to Wear Fragrance: A Ritual, Not a Routine

Fragrance is not just a finishing touch. It’s an act of self-expression. A ritual of sensuality.

Apply it not just to your neck or wrists, but behind your knees, inside your elbows, across your décolleté, and even lightly along your hair or clothing. These are your body’s warm zones, places where scent can bloom and mingle with your unique pheromones.

I like to apply perfume on freshly moisturized skin, especially with unscented lotion or a matching body oil. It locks in the scent and helps it last longer. Then I’ll layer, maybe a little behind the ears, maybe a touch on the back of the neck. Perfume should rise, unfurl, linger.

And the truth is, you should wear perfume for yourself first. Not to attract. Not to impress. But because it stirs something inside of you. Because it makes you feel more alive, more whole, more you.

Perfume is intimacy without words. It’s the only accessory people remember with their eyes closed.

So find what smells like home on your skin. Explore what draws you in, what makes you feel powerful, romantic, grounded, or ethereal. Whether it’s musky and animalistic, resinous and spiced, or soft and powdery, your scent is your signature.

And in a world where so much feels performative, there’s something quietly rebellious about wearing something that feels entirely, uniquely, you.

Because in the end, the most unforgettable fragrance is the one that doesn’t overpower, but enhances. The one that becomes a memory. The one that feels like soul.