1987 Turned on the Sexy

Have you ever been asked what smell you remember most vividly from childhood? I always answer, "Lilacs," because I remember so clearly that summer essence in my parents' backyard. Upon deeper reflection, though, I realize there is one odor above even lilacs that stands out among the rest. That scent is: Drakkar Noir.

Now, men, let me ask you a few questions. Was there some kind of chain mail in 1987 that threatened the lives of your parents and dogs if you didn't wear the Drakkar? Was it the free cassette some of the bottles came with, featuring the likes of Jimmy Hendrix and Rod Stewart that drove you to the purchase? Or does it actually smell good to you? Does it smell like the success of banging hot babes in the back of that van you'll someday buy with your earnings from your after school job at the D.Q?

Who knew working at the D.Q. could be so sexy?

I need someone to explain to me why every boy I developed a crush on from 4th grade through college seemed to bathe in the fine fragrance that IS Drakkar Noir.
One boy, in particular, kept what could only be described as a family-size bottle of the stuff in his locker and would dab droplets behind his ears between classes.
It was so strong, that all my books got dosed and later in the evening as I sat down to do my homework, the smell would waft up like a cartoon and lure me to a faraway land. Drakkar would whisper to me, Who needs Advanced Algebra when you could be dating a man not afraid to wear base notes of patchouli?


Drakkar promised me a life filled with the dulcet croons of Rod Stewart and a man sporting a feathered mullet even MacGyver would be jealous of. In short, Drakkar lied.

Only recently, I learned that D. also once wore the infamous scent. He gets defensive about it now, but I can't blame him for his dark past. I imagine him, dabbing it behind his ears, and being transported to a world of mystery. Throwing on his trenchcoat and defiantly flipping his long hair out from under the collar, 'cause that shit pulls, and striding out the door. Then running back in, for one final spritz.

After all, haven't we each, at one time in our lives, been lured in by that self-important feeling one can only achieve from smelling like Treemoss and Guy Laroche?