"Can Desire Be Bottled":
7 Days With Don Juan 1973

DAY ONE

I woke up and dabbed Bruxa’s Don Juan 1973, across my collarbones, wrists and hips. It’s impossible to apply something scented with oud and not slow down. It’s one of the most ancient fragrance notes in the world, prized for its depth and its pull. Smoky, resinous, honeyed. The kind of scent that feels like it already knows you deeply.

And this oil is infused with biotech pheromones. I don’t pretend to know exactly what pheromones do on a chemical level, but scent travels straight to the limbic brain, the place that governs instinct and emotion. There’s a reason a smell can unravel you or wake you or make you remember who you once were. Wearing this pheromone-infused scent felt like tapping into that part of myself. An animalistic alertness. 

I worked from my friend’s place, a friend I once assumed I’d end up in bed with. We never did, but something between us still sparks. Creative chemistry, I guess. She photographed me in her apartment, J-Lo blasting, me slipping into a tight black Dolce & Gabbana dress I bought in Milan and dancing around like someone who confidently owns the room. In one photo I look like Monica Bellucci, which feels on-theme for a day coated in Arabian oud.

Afterwards I took myself for a solo martini at a French bar. I was feeling unusually social. Perhaps the pheromones? Bringing my curiosity back to the forefront? A French bartender slipped me a coaster that read je veux te faire l’amour. Translation: “I want to make love to you.” Then he poured me a martini on the house. 

Later, I went to dinner with my boyfriend at a restaurant owned by a former flame. A funny full-circle moment: past and present. The whole day had that feeling, like life was flirting with me. What struck me most was how social I felt. I hadn’t felt like being out and about in weeks. Today I felt open. Playful. In my body again. Present in a way I hadn’t realised I'd been missing.

DAY TWO

I woke up hungover in the way that feels sharper than it used to. Maybe this is thirty. Maybe martinis are getting stronger. My head pulsed, my stomach churned, but I still dabbed Don Juan 1973 onto my wrists and collarbones before heading to my hair appointment. I slipped the travel vial (5ml) size into my purse, assuming I’d need its strength later on. The packaging is beautiful — reminiscent of a classic cigar box. Regal, somewhat masculine, refined.

At the salon they handed me sparkling water and Hydralyte, and revived me with the best blowout I’ve had in years. I left looking a complete transformation to how I’d walked in. Clean hair does that. Maybe the oil was working its magic, too?

By the time I met my girlfriend for dinner I was feeling myself again. I wore a black catsuit and stilettos because the mood called for it. I’ve been gravitating towards heels lately, which feels like a sign that something inside of me is coming back to life, sexually. 

We stopped by a jazz club first. Musicians we knew greeted us with cheek kisses. One paused, breathed me in, and told me I smelled intoxicating. I pocketed the compliment for later.

Dinner was at a spot I didn’t realise was owned by a man I’ve always had sexual tension with. No actual romantic history, just a spark of potential that leaves you wanting more. He kissed my cheek and also said I smelled delicious. I reapplied the oil midway through dinner and watched him notice. He asked what I was wearing. “Do you want to try some?” I asked, half joking. Within minutes I was dabbing Don Juan 1973 onto the wrists of half the waitstaff. They were obsessed. One said, “We need this!” Another offered us free dessert.

I wandered over to a table of people I knew and they told me I was glowing. I felt it. I felt warm and magnetic in that way you can’t manufacture.

Later that night I Ubered home to my sleeping boyfriend. Something in me stirred. I woke him with kisses, urgent and playful. I wanted him. “What’s come over you?” he asked, smiling, half-asleep. We made love in the darkness.

DAY THREE

I woke up craving quiet. After two very social, very flirtatious days, I wanted something slower. Something that pointed inward. I dabbed on Don Juan 1973 before heading to the markets, more out of ritual than intention. The scent settled over me like a soft veil. Warm. Familiar. Grounding.

At the deli the European men flirted with the usual theatrics. One slid an extra donut into my bag with a conspiratorial look. Maybe it was the oud. Maybe it was the mood. Maybe it was both. 

At home I put on a soft, flowy dress and cooked all afternoon for a friend who was coming over. The house filled with scent: garlic, tomatoes, fresh basil, and the faint trail of oud from my skin. It felt like a small kind of luxury. A way of tending to both myself and someone I love.

Cooking is one of the places I feel most sensual. Hands deep in herbs, olive oil slick on my fingers, the subconscious choreography of chopping and stirring and tasting. Taking chair with each zucchini roll. Smelling in the fragrance of being fed. 

Nothing remarkable happened, but the whole day felt calm and quietly pleasurable. I didn’t need external validation the way I had on the first two days. I didn’t crave attention or flirtation. I just felt good in my own body, moving around my kitchen, barefoot, happy.

There’s something about wearing a scent you enjoy when you’re alone. It becomes less about being desirable and more about being attuned. More about remembering that sensuality starts inside you, not outside.

DAY FIVE

I woke up with a spark under my skin. Pilates first, then a long shower, then Don Juan 1973 pressed into my collarbones once more. The scent felt like it was priming me for something.

I spent the morning writing a sex toy review, which required testing a handful of vibrators for noise versus strength. My boyfriend  was out dropping his daughter at day care, so the apartment was quiet. It was an… intimate way to start the day. There’s something amusing and strangely empowering about sitting at your desk, half-dressed, comparing decibel levels while taking notes. The energy lingered in my body long after I’d finished.

In the afternoon I wandered through my favourite vintage market and found a crucifix necklace for the event I was hosting a panel at that night. Another Monica Bellucci fantasy had been forming in my mind — leopard print dress, smoky eyes, a cross resting against my chest. The man working the stall flirted with me immediately. He asked if I was going to heaven or hell. “Naughty heaven,” I told him. “The heaven where we all have sex.” He laughed and gave me a generous discount.

Getting ready later felt ritualistic; a theme for this week. I reapplied the oil, did my makeup slowly, sipped bubbles, and watched my vision come together in the mirror. Don Juan 1973 always hits differently at night. Warmer. Smokier. A little dangerous.

The event itself — the official launch of this very oil — smelled like Don Juan 1973 the moment you walked in. The room was charged. Full of people who love the same things I do: style, story, play, sexual liberation. I hosted a conversation with a well-known escort about the realities of sharing your sexual life with the public. It was the kind of conversation that reminds me why I do this work.

People kept complimenting how I looked and how I smelled. There’s a particular pleasure in being seen by people who understand the language you speak. Not just sex, but sensuality, expression, autonomy. I left feeling buoyant. Like I’ve found my people.

DAY SIX

I woke up exhausted. But underneath it there was something else: a low, steady thrum of desire. I dabbed on Don Juan 1973 almost absentmindedly — it’s become a part of my every day — while getting ready for a photoshoot for an upcoming podcast project. The scent lifted me a little. 

The shoot was always meant to be sexy. Stripper heels, a chair, my body posed somewhere between power and surrender. The photographer asked my boyfriend to step in behind me. He placed his hands on my hips while she focused on my face, and suddenly the energy in the room changed. Real desire. I was fully in my body.. Those were the best photos we took, you can see it in my eyes.

Afterwards we wandered through the park to keep shooting. I was dressed in a bodysuit, tights and heels, clicking over gravel paths while families walked by with prams and young, conservative lovers smooched by the cacti. For the first time ever, I didn’t feel embarrassed about being sexual in public. I felt… unapologetic. Maybe it was the oil. I’d been dabbing it on all day, like little reminders to inhabit myself fully.

Later we went to a house party celebrating one of my boyfriend’s friends finishing cancer treatment. I should’ve been exhausted. I was exhausted. Yet I stayed energised, chatty and open. It surprised me. There’s a kind of confidence that comes from spending the whole day in your sensuality. It softens you, but it also sharpens you. Makes you feel alive and sure of yourself.

I went home feeling warm and worn-in, like a candle that’s been burning all day. Don Juan 1973 still clung to my skin. My body felt both tired and wired, a combination that somehow made sense.

DAY SEVEN

I wanted a quiet day. Pilates in the morning, then home to shower, tidy the apartment, move slowly through the softness of a Sunday. I dabbed Don Juan 1973 across my skin out of habit now. The scent felt like part of the day’s architecture. A through-line.

By afternoon the house felt peaceful and warm. My boyfriend and I were both home, drifting in our own little orbits. Nothing urgent. Nothing loud. And then somehow — almost without warning — the energy shifted.

We started wrestling on the bed, playfully at first. I didn’t know I liked that. The physicality of it. The way it turns your body into instinct. Every time he pinned me or I pinned him, something inside me opened. The laughter, the tension, the closeness. It tipped effortlessly into desire.

What followed was some of the hottest sex we’ve had in weeks. He asked me to touch myself in front of him with a vibrator, something that usually makes me self-conscious. I don’t know if it was the oil or the week or something internal shifting, but the shame wasn’t there. I felt confident, even hungry. He watched me with hungry attentiveness and it gave me permission to go deeper into myself. It felt new. A door I hadn’t opened before.

Afterwards we ordered curry and ate it on the couch, still flushed, still laughing. We drank leftover champagne from the night before and put on Eyes Wide Shut. A strangely fitting end to a week shaped by scent, desire, fantasy and self-discovery.

What struck me was how natural it all felt. The intimacy. The play. The lack of hesitation. Somewhere over the last seven days I had softened into myself again. The oil didn’t create anything that wasn’t already there, but it made me more attuned to it. More willing to follow it.

Don Juan 1973 lingered faintly on my skin as the film played. I felt grounded, turned on, loved, open. A whole week of being reminded that sensuality isn’t an event — it’s a state of mind. One you can return to, cultivate, and carry.