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  Is He, You Know Perfume Oil

  Fellas, is it gay to have a skeletal system? Short answer: YES! Because the human wrist was undeniably made to flap and go “enh.”

   

  There are many theories about the historical origin of the so-called “limp wrist” gesture, which has bedeviled arbiters of masculine presentation since at least the ancient Roman times. So when we defiantly flop our phalanges, we’re reclaiming a time-honored tradition! And letting our skeletons do what they do most naturally: camp it up.

   

  Did you know the human wrist is made up of eight small bones, plus the forearm’s radius and ulna? Factor in the four small ones that comprise that lightly extended pinkie finger, and the number of bones required to execute this delicate maneuver add up to FOURTEEN. No wonder we’re always so tired.

  So defy nature if you truly must, but never forget: when bones are all that’s left of you, the wrists will be extra floppy. And we think that’s worth celebrating while you’re still alive!
  
  Sweet 13-year aged patchouli, peru balsam, white oakmoss, French lavender, spikenard, bourbon vanilla, and sugar cane.

  Art by Drew Rausch

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  Eostre of the Dawn Perfume Oil

  There was a woman sitting on the grass, under a tree, with a paper tablecloth spread in front of her, and a variety of Tupperware dishes on the cloth.

  She was—not fat, no, far from fat: what she was, a word that Shadow had never had cause to use until now, was curvaceous. Her hair was so fair that it was white, the kind of platinum-blonde tresses that should have belonged to a long-dead movie starlet, her lips were painted crimson, and she looked to be somewhere between twenty-five and fifty.

  As they reached her she was selecting from a plate of deviled eggs. She looked up as Wednesday approached her, put down the egg she had chosen, and wiped her hand. “Hello, you old fraud,” she said, but she smiled as she said it, and Wednesday bowed low, took her hand, and raised it to his lips.

  He said, “You look divine.”

  “How the hell else should I look?” she demanded, sweetly. “Anyway, you’re a liar. New Orleans was such a mistake—I put on, what, thirty pounds there? I swear. I knew I had to leave when I started to waddle. The tops of my thighs rub together when I walk now, can you believe that?” This last was addressed to Shadow. He had no idea what to say in reply, and felt a hot flush suffuse his face. The woman laughed delightedly. “He’s blushing! Wednesday, my sweet, you brought me a blusher. How perfectly wonderful of you. What’s he called?”

  “This is Shadow,” said Wednesday. He seemed to be enjoying Shadow’s discomfort. “Shadow, say hello to Easter.”

   

  Jasmine and honeysuckle, sweet milk and female skin.

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  Norman Perfume Oil

  Hoodie cotton and milk-splashed denim with a hint of pine needles and ectoplasm.

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  Vintage Frankenstein Blow Mold Perfume Oil

  A shell of milky plastic surrounding a puff of mint chocolate chip-scented air, illuminated from within by 40 watts of glowing amber.

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