The expression on the Versace Pour Homme model’s face carries a distinct hint of confusion (see below). Something happened, or is going to happen. But what? To whom? And how, precisely, am I involved? I possess nothing he could possibly need or desire, so why does he affix me with this stare of profound lostness underscored by an almost menacing passion, like: You bitch. You imperfect bitch.
Indeed, it is a mystery. Men of such otherworldly beauty typically don’t deem me worthy of such probing scrutiny (except, of course, Tom Cruise). Frankly, it makes me uncomfortable. His freakish facial features — the hyper-masculine stubble-peppered chin juxtaposed with the feminine plumped lips, noble nose, and overly-plucked eyebrows — seemed to be architected by some omnipotent being, capable of transcending the boundaries of typical corporeal reality. Perhaps you should look away now, pretty boy, before I am tempted to tousle your hair.
Is this how demigods smell, of bergamot, citrus, and a touch of seaspray? Dominating this musky, woodsy scent is an effusive burst of floral notes that turns this virile smell into an androgynous fragrance. It is no accident, although it is a disaster, resulting in a mannish potpourri, a beefcake flower, a sachet for the jock and sock drawer.
Too pretty for rugby, too rough for polo, the Versace Pour Homme model reads online reviews of carbon-frame bicycles in anticipation of triathalon season. He enjoys burgers and smoothies, retro cola and fine wine, and a bi-monthly cigar. He would rather scrimp on a winter coat in order to splurge on a Caribbean vacation. He slathers lotion on his body with vigorous rubs. He is aware of his metrosexuality, but does not associate with anyone who would dare question this gender-blending identity as anything other than civilized. The mystery is, that there is no mystery. Something happened, or is going to happen. And the Versace Pour Homme model has no fucking clue.
