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  Aizen-Myoo Perfume Oil

  A bright, bittersweet scent honoring the Japanese Deity of Love and Passion. Aizen-Myoo is one of the vidyarajas, the Shingon’s Radiant Kings of Wisdom. Though Aizen-Myoo possesses the lust, grace and passion of both genders, he most often appears to his followers as male. His face is screwed into a fearsome demonic mask, but this is only the wrathful, fierce countenance he places over himself to guide and empower his children. Aizen-Myoo is the patron of prostitutes, of joyous, unbridled sexuality and of all forms of erotic love and is worshipped by all those in the sex industry, musicians, and – oddly – landlords.

  Yuzu, kaki, and mikan with cherry blossom and black tea.

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  A Snug Corner Perfume Oil

  S. Sullivan

  A daytime snooze in an inconvenient location: freshly baked bread, culinary herbs, and cinnamon-steamed apples.

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  Champagne and Delirium Perfume Oil

  A strange ecstasy: champagne-soaked apples, gilded gold roses, and lemon peel.

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  Tiresias, The Androgyne Perfume Oil

  Upon the next stage, a spotlight is focused on a mammoth bronze sculpture of two snakes entwined. Their bodies are wrapped around each other in an intimate embrace, and their tongues touch suggestively. The deep, somber boom of a standing bass leads into a twelve-string guitar’s plaintive moan, and as the music swells, a stunning, statuesque woman steps out from behind the statue, her fierce and regal face in profile. The spotlight dims to a deep amber-red, and shines a dark, sanguine light onto her, tinting her long, wild hair the color of blood. She sings:

  Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless.
  Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless.
  Little white flowers will never awaken you,
  Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you.
  Angels have no thought of ever returning you.
  Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?
  Gloomy Sunday.

  She turns, and abruptly faces left. Her features are coarser, more masculine, and you notice the rough, dusky shadow of an evening beard on the singer’s face. On this side, the hair is cropped short, and as s/he sighs and begins the next verse, you hear the voice deepen to a weathered, sorrowful baritone.

  Gloomy is Sunday; with shadows I spend it all.
  My heart and I have decided to end it all.
  Soon there’ll be candles and prayers that are sad, I know.
  Death is no dream, for in death I’m caressing you.
  With the last breath of my soul I’ll be blessing you.
  Gloomy Sunday.

  The singer turns to face the audience, and your senses reel. On the left side, the features are sharp, but feminine. You can see the curve of her breast, the soft fullness of her hips, the arch of her fine brow. On the right, it is the body of an Adonis, muscular and commanding. You see that a thick seam runs down the center of the body, stitched roughly.

  Though the vision is disconcerting, the warmth and passion in the singer’s voice swells inside your heart, and you are spellbound. Enraptured, you realize that though the gender is opposed on either side, one soul binds the whole.

  Dark, moody, and bittersweet: black currant, patchouli, tobacco, cinnamon leaf, caramel, muguet, and red sandalwood.

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