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  Bonfire Toffee Perfume Oil

  Our spin on a traditional Guy Fawkes Night treat: treacle toffee soaked in rich, dark bourbon.

  Out of Stock
• 

  JK Men Are Very Good LOL Perfume Oil

  What a piece of worke is a man! how Noble in
  Reason? how infinite in faculty? in forme and mouing
  how expresse and admirable? in Action, how like an Angel?
  in apprehension, how like a God?
  The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet,
  to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me-
  nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

  Due to the way Facebook’s hate-speech algorithms work, casual observations such as “Men are trash” or “Men are scum” end up being treated with the same gravity as words meant to attack and harass marginalized communities.Vanity Fair has covered exactly how this came to pass, and why they won’t be changing them anytime soon.

  As a small business that has always drawn inspiration from the historical, the erotic, the political, the esoteric, we have frequently run afoul of Facebook’s policies. Iironic, isn’t it, considering the horrifying abuses that still pass muster by the site’s standards – which larger companies, foreign countries, and yes, certain MEN seem to effortlessly circumvent?

  And we’re not alone: our nightlife friends The Nobodies’ event page for their upcoming showcase of drag king talent, playfully entitled “Men Are Trash,” was deleted almost immediately, eliciting a warning from the website.

  Their solution was to create a new event entitled “JK MEN ARE VERY GOOD LOL.” But this too ended up being deleted, and as a consequence of back-to-back “hate speech” violations, the group’s entire Facebook presence was removed.

  So… what is a man, exactly? And what is it possible to say about him? We really, honestly couldn’t tell you. Would Hamlet’s comment “Man delights not me” end up getting deleted? Will our posts promoting this scent?

  At least we’ll all be in great company in Facebook jail.

  Pipe tobacco, leather, mid-century aftershave, a belt of bourbon and a grassy smear of mud from a fairway divot.

  Proceeds from this scent will be donated to NYC’s Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual & Transgender Community Center.

  Follow The Nobodies on YouTube

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• 

  Jazz Funeral Perfume Oil

  Considered a great honor, this is one of the most distinguished aspects of New Orleans culture. Its roots lie in the customs of the Dahomeans and Yoruba people, and is a celebration of both the person’s life and the beauty and solemnity of their death. The procession is lead by the Grand Marshal, resplendent in his black tuxedo, white gloves and black hat in hand; almost a vision of the great Baron Samedi himself. The music begins with solemn, tolling dirges, moves into hymns of sorrow, loss and redemption. When the burial site is reached, a two-note preparatory riff is sounded, and the drummers start the second-line beat, heralding the switch in music to joyous, upbeat songs, dancing, and the unfurling of richly decorated umbrellas by the ‘second line’ friends, family, loved ones and stray celebrants. Strutting, bouncing, and festive dance accompanies the upbeat ragtime music that sends the departed soul onto its next journey.

  Didn’t he ramble
  … he rambled
  Rambled all around
  … in and out of town
  Didn’t he ramble
  … didn’t he ramble
  He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

  His feet was in the market place
  his head was in the street
  Lady pass him by, said
  look at the market meat
  He grabbed her pocket book
  and said I wish you well
  She pulled out a forty-five
  said I’m head of personnel.

  Didn’t he ramble
  … he rambled
  Rambled all around
  … in and out of town
  Didn’t he ramble
  … didn’t he ramble
  He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

  He slipped into the cat house
  made love to the stable
  Madam caught him cold
  said I’ll pay you when I be able
  Six months had passed
  and she stood all she could stand
  She said buddy when I’m through with you
  Ole groundhog gonna be shakin yo’ hand.

  Didn’t he ramble
  … he rambled
  Rambled all around
  … in and out of town
  Didn’t he ramble
  … didn’t he ramble
  He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

  I said he rambled
  lord
  … ’till the butcher shot him down.

  Bittersweet bay rum, bourbon, and a host of funeral flowers with a touch of graveyard dirt, magnolia and Spanish Moss.

  Select Options This product has multiple variants. The options may be chosen on the product page
• 

  Wulric, The Wolfman Perfume Oil

  A lively tune is being played nearby; it is syncopated, a disjointed song, but perky and upbeat. As you turn to the next stage, you see the broad back and shaggy hair of the next performer. He is seated on a stool in front of a battered upright piano. Wire pokes out from holes in the back of the decrepit beechwood, and broken pinblocks are scattered on the floor. A bowl of glistening viscera has been plopped on a small end table next to the pianist. You can see that the ivory keys of the piano are smeared with blood. He pounds and tinkles the keys merrily, and laughs to himself. The man turns to the audience, and his unkempt russet hair, feral yellow eyes, wild balbo, and chin curtain beard betray his lycanthropic nature. He smiles widely, innocently, and waves his red-stained, black-clawed paw in a genial welcome. He bellows cheerfully, “Hi there! Make yourself comfortable! Don’t you look absolutely necrolishious! HA! HAHA! I just made that word up!” He laughs again, turns, and resumes playing the piano. The rambling tune picks up pace, and he plays with a showman’s flourish. The song slows as he chats with the audience from over his shoulder. “You know, my ex-girlfriend was a real handful, but really… I’ve never known a woman that was as tender as she was. She was all gushy, and well… to be honest, she just fell to pieces for me. Eventually, things ran their course… three courses, really… and, as they say, nothing lasts forever. But I’ll always have a piece of her, here… close to my heart.” He chuckles, and pats the chest of his patchwork overcoat.

  In the distance, possibly from Meskhenet’s stage, you hear one of the phantom musicians give Wulric a gratuitous rim shot.

  Friendly, charming, and cuddly, but possessing one hell of a mean streak: cocoa absolute, French vanilla, birch tar, lavender, bourbon vetiver, wild musk, cardamom husk, clary sage, and cistus.

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