Gentlemen of SATX, gather 'round the tailgate because I just baptized my neck in Versace Eros and sweet baby Jesus, this stuff is pure South Texas rocket fuel.
It's 85° in November—again—and while the rest of the country is breaking out pumpkin spice, I'm over here smelling like a Miami nightclub teleported itself into a Hill Country honky-tonk. One spritz and suddenly my beard has abs, my boots feel tighter, and even the armadillos are giving me bedroom eyes.
Top notes? A citrus party that screams "I just peeled a grapefruit with my teeth while doing push-ups." Heart? Minty fresh spicy vibes so crisp you’d think I brushed with tabasco toothpaste. Dry down? Vanilla-amber coziness that wraps you like your tía’s hug after you mowed her lawn in July—sweet, proud, and a little sweaty.
Projection? Bro, I walked past Whataburger and the honey butter chicken biscuits started fanning themselves. Longevity? This thing clings harder than humidity on a San Antonio summer night. Ten hours later I’m still getting whiffs and wondering if I accidentally joined a cologne cult.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a patio calling and a cold Shiner that just volunteered to be my wingman.