Cologne Crimes: Hug-Distance Only, You Scented Muppet!

Alright, John, let’s run through your big night at Langtrees, because last time you turned up smelling like a bloody chemical spill with shoes.

You’ve done the booking. You’ve ironed the “going-out” shirt that’s seen more funerals than dates. You look in the mirror and go, “Yeah, not bad,” then you grab the cologne and commit olfactory war crimes. One spray for luck. Another for confidence. A third because you hate birds. By the time you hit the Uber you smell like a pine tree made love to a taxi air freshener and the baby learned karate. The driver winds his window down so hard it nearly comes off. You goose…

Reception greets you. You try to play it cool, but your aftershave is already halfway up the stairwell calling for backup. Back doors open. Somewhere on the second floor, a smoke alarm clears its throat.

You meet a few of the lovely ladies there, and trust me they knew you were approaching. And believe me wherever you were in the lounge, only the girls in front of you are being polite. Wherever your back was facing they were all gesturing WHAT THE FUCK!!!

So you choose your lovely lady, she offers a professional smile. Kind eyes. Inside voice saying, “sweet merciful fuck”. “Hi, love—let’s go,” she says, because she’s a saint and also this is her job. You follow, your scent follows like a badly-trained Labrador. Her eyebrows try to file for hazard pay. She cracks the balcony door a thumb’s width like she’s defusing a bomb with manners.

You launch into small talk: parking, weather, how Google Maps is a narc. She’s nodding, lovely as ever, while quietly doing air traffic control—glass of water on the table, air-con nudged from “sauna” to “sea breeze,” candle relocated to the next postcode. The room was meant to smell like warm skin and good choices. You’ve turned it into Chemist Warehouse at closing time.

Then she deploys the line every pro learns on day one: “Do you want a quick shower before we relax?” Said like a spa upgrade, not a plea for survival. You roll out the classic: “I showered before I left.”

She smiles: “Perfect. The water here is gorgeous.” Translation: mate, soap isn’t holy water—you won’t burst into flames.

You vanish into the bathroom. She exhales like a free-diver. Towel out. Unscented lotion within reach (unscented, John, not “Ocean Thunder Mega Blast”). Fan angle set for downwind survival. If she had a hard hat, she’d put it on.

And because you’re not actually a muppet, you come out fresh—hair damp, face relaxed, shirt downgraded from biohazard to “date night.” She gives you the real smile this time. “That’s better.” It is. The room stops fighting you. Her shoulders drop from around her ears. The candle goes back to mood lighting instead of emergency flare.

Let’s be clear: she doesn’t hate fragrance … she hates fragrance crimes. She’s seen them all.

There was the bloke who bathed in Lynx like he was attempting a controlled burn. Opened the door and—boom—instant high-school disco in a can. She fanned the hallway with a menu and considered calling the EPA.

Then Aquatic ‘04 Guy: smelled like a Blue Light Disco did a load of washing and forgot to rinse.

Then Dessert Dad who wanted to smell “edible” and arrived as a human custard tart. Lovely in theory, diabetes in practice.

And Gym Diesel—finished bench press, “set” the gains with aftershave in the carpark, walked in radiating spicy petrol and regret.

Back to you, Champion of the Puffer. You sit. She slides a bottle of unscented lotion closer like it’s a peace treaty. “This is great for shoulders—mind if I?” A little goes on the warm spots so your remaining fumes stop trying to climb the curtains. She’s running a one-woman hazmat unit while making you feel like you’re at a day spa. That’s talent.

Now here’s the spicy truth no one tells you because they’re polite: two sprays, max. One on the wrist (tap to the other—don’t sand your skin like you’re refinishing a deck), one on the chest or side of the neck. Done. If five minutes later you can still smell yourself like a punch in the nostrils, you’ve overcooked it. You’re nose-blind; she isn’t. Her houseplants will write a statement.

Do not hose your shirt. Fabric keeps scent like it keeps secrets, and both come back to haunt you. Do not top up in the lift like you’re marinating a steak. Do not layer four “alpha predator” potions you bought off a podcast hosted by a man who calls himself Wolf.

What actually lands? Clean, close, discoverable at hug distance. A whisper of citrus, a bit of wood, maybe a soft musk that says “come here” instead of “evacuate.” Smell like a bloke who owns towels and feelings. That’s sexy.

And when she offers that rinse, say yes like a gentleman who wants the best version of her for the next hour. It’s not a test. It’s foreplay and fire prevention. Come back warm, fresh, not trying to fumigate her curtains, and watch the difference. The chat gets easier. The laugh turns genuine. Her hand finds your shoulder because she wants to, not because she’s steering you toward the window.

My favourite real-life moment at Langtrees: John 2.0 rocks up wearing half a bottle like it’s body armour. She does the shower line. He goes, “Fair call,” disappears, returns a calmer human. She breathes in once, grins, and says, “Now we can have fun.” He gets the five-star version of her because he didn’t try to seduce her with chemical warfare. He seduced her with manners.

So here’s your playbook, Romeo: wear a scent, don’t wear a fog. Make your memory at kiss distance. Let her remember the way you listened, the way you made the room easy—not the way her eyes watered when you said hello. Turn up like a man, not a malfunctioning air freshener.

Alright—confession time. Drop your worst fragrance felonies below. Brand, body count, and the exact moment you realised you’d smoked out the room. Best confession wins a mint. Worst confession wins… a shower.

Author: Master Yoda
For: Langtrees.com  

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