Playboy VIP for Him.

I can drop some serious cash at a Rite Aid. It’s kinda my thing. I’ll stop in for toothpaste, and come out spending $50 extra on greeting cards, vitamins, and apricot moist towelettes I don’t need.

Today I am rushing over for batteries, and that’s it. I remind myself that I have no room for another spiral notebook, can’t justify a new nail polish, and must turn away from the Red Vines! I almost succeed until I run into the Playboy VIP for Him fragrance on my way to the checkout line. 

It’s the bunny that gets me. It’s the promise of “luxury, glamour and extravagant parties,” written right there on the bottle. It’s the packaged high-life sold for $15 in a drugstore aisle. Suddenly I want to cry. I want to believe. I want to stay here all day, simply stand next to the cologne, and sell the shit out of it. I want to convince men passing by that this will make them irresistibly charming, stylish, rich, unusually seductive even! I want to give them an answer in a golden bundle, and I want that answer to smell good.

I reach for the tester and spray. I open my sense and my lastima-filled-heart expecting something spicy or sexy, but instead it just smells like pot and plastic dolls and rum. It smells like dumb lies. It smells like the last hope, the one you have just before you give up. Then a teenage boy with darting eyes and bitten nails approaches. I hand him a box. He softly mutters “thanks,” but looks doubtful. So I smile. I tell him women will go wild. I grab one for my husband, too, just to prove it. 

p.s. Thankfully I kept the receipt. Eric had zero lastima for this purchase.