Oud Smell Quotes

I’m an overthinker. Many of us are. My mind gets racing a thousand miles a minute and I get anxious about my work, my career, or where I need to be in thirty minutes. Every day I need to shut down this machine and simply be still. Be aware of your breathing, really feel your breath going in, going out. Be aware of the feeling of the cloth on your shirt. Be aware of the grip on the steering wheel. Tell yourself--out oud--that the only thing that truly exists right now is this exact moment, and enjoy it, swim in it. Someone once said that your mind is like a raging river that’s full of debris, and when you’re floating in this river, you reach out and try to grab the branches and rocks. But what if you could climb onto the bank and watch the river? Suddenly you’re in a calm place. Maybe it sounds like a cliché to say, “Stop and smell the roses,” so I’ll tell you this instead: “Stop and watch the sunset.” Just the other night, driving home in L.A., I was struck by how beautiful the sky was--a dark blue canvas painted with strokes of bright orange and red. It was truly one of the most glorious sunsets I’d ever seen. I was stuck in traffic, worrying about one thing or another, and I just gazed out the window and drank it in. I let it fill my soul and inspire me. The world stopped revolving for just that split second, and my mind was still and calm. And to think, I could have missed it.

I put a handful of Criollo beans into the grinder. Their scent is very far from sweet. I can smell oud, and sandalwood, and the dark scents of cumin and ambergris. Seductive, yet faintly unsavory, like a beautiful woman with unwashed hair. A moment in the grinder, and the beans are ready to use. Their volatile essence fills the air, freed from one form into another. The Maya tattooed their bodies, you know, in order to placate the wind. No, not the wind. The gods. The gods. I add hot water to the beans and allow them time to percolate. Unlike coffee beans, they release an oily kind of residue. Then I add nutmeg, cardamom and chili to make the drink that the Aztecs called xocoatl- bitter water. That bitterness is what I need.

The smells I associate with yoga are contradictory. Freshly showered bodies and sweat. Sandalwood from a scented candle mixed with hot feet on rubber mats. Head-clearing pure air, ozonic freshness- and deep oriental mystery. Stillness and invigorating renewal. Feminine grace and masculine strength. Anima and animus. My scents of yoga are: Madagascan Jasmine by Grandiflora Lime Basil and Mandarin Cologne by Jo Malone London Exhale by B Never Too Busy To Be Beautiful Pour Monsieur by Chanel Oud by Maison Francis Kurkdjian New West for Her by Aramis Black Lapsang by Bodhidharma Santal by Diptyque (my favorite candle for the yoga studio)

Real Dubai Call Girls 0501780622 Gold Souk Nights – Deira, the old heart The alley behind the Gold Souk was narrow, hot, and loud with haggling even at 1 a.m. Neon signs in Arabic and Hindi flickered over piles of 22-karat bangles, but Zara wasn’t here for jewellery tonight. She slipped through a side door marked only with a small brass camel, climbed the creaky wooden stairs above a spice shop, and knocked twice on the green paint-peeled door. It opened instantly. Armaan filled the frame: tall, Pakistani, thirty-one, sleeves rolled up on a half-unbuttoned kurta, gold chain glinting against brown skin. The tiny apartment smelled of cardamom, oud, and the cheap rose attar he knew she liked. “Thought you weren’t coming,” he said, voice low, already pulling her. “Flight from Karachi was delayed,” she lied. She’d actually been in a Burj Al Arab suite until an hour ago, scrubbing another man’s cologne off her skin in the hotel shower. He didn’t ask questions. Never did. He just pulled her inside, kicked the door shut, and kissed her like he was trying to erase every fingerprint that wasn’t his. They didn’t make it to the bed. He lifted her onto the old teak dining table instead, shoved her short black dress up to her waist, and dropped to his knees on the worn Persian rug. The fan spun lazily overhead; sweat already beaded between her breasts. “Missed this taste,” he muttered against her thigh, biting the soft skin hard enough to leave a mark she’d have to hide under concealer tomorrow. Then his mouth was on her, rough and hungry and perfect, two fingers sliding inside like they belonged there. She came fast, fingers tangled in his hair, biting her own wrist to stay quiet so the Bangladeshi neighbours wouldn’t hear. When he stood, he didn’t bother with the rest of his clothes. Just freed himself, rolled on protection with shaking hands, and pushed into her while she was still pulsing. The table creaked under them. Gold bangles on her wrist clinked with every thrust. “Say it,” he growled in Punjabi, forehead against hers, hips snapping hard. “Sirf tera,” she gasped. Only yours. He kissed her to swallow the lie, fucked her harder to make it true for the next thirty minutes, and when he came he buried his face in her neck like a drowning man. After, they lay on the cool marble floor, sharing a bottle of cold Rooh Afza, city sounds drifting up from the creek below: dhow horns, Hindi music, the call for Fajr still hours away. He traced the faint diamond-shaped bruise on her collarbone: someone else’s teeth mark. “Next time come straight here,” he said quietly. She kissed the inside of his wrist. “Next time I’ll try.” They both knew she wouldn’t. In Deira, love is cheap and gold is heavy, and girls like Zara only get one or the other. Tonight she took both, and tomorrow she’d fly first-class back to the man who paid in diamonds instead of promises. But right now, Armaan’s heartbeat under her cheek was enough. For one sweaty, secret hour in a cramped apartment above the souk, it was everything.

LuXury Dubai Call Girls 0501780622 Thirty Floors Above the Desert The Burj Al Arab suite was all gold and glass and impossible height. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Dubai glittered like someone had spilled a trillion dollars across black sand and lit it on fire. Zara stepped off the private elevator at exactly 11:07 p.m. Black abaya left in the Rolls downstairs; now just a backless emerald dress that cost more than most people’s rent and heels sharp enough to commit murder. Her hair fell in dark waves to her waist, still smelling of oud from the spa. He was waiting by the bar, jacket gone, white shirt open at the collar, cufflinks glinting like liquid mercury under the chandelier. Khalid Al-Mansour. Thirty-three. Old Emirati money mixed with new oil money. The kind of man who could buy a woman’s silence in seven figures and still make her thank him. “You’re late,” he said, voice low, amused. “Traffic on Sheikh Zayed,” she lied smoothly, letting her clutch drop onto the marble. “You said midnight.” “I said be ready when I want you.” He poured champagne, two flutes, didn’t offer her one yet. “Take the dress off.” No hello. No small talk. She liked that. Zara reached behind for the zipper, let the silk slide down her body like liquid sin. Nothing underneath except skin the color of warm caramel and a thin gold chain around her hips that caught the light every time she breathed. Khalid’s eyes went almost black. He crossed the room in three strides, backed her against the cold glass. Thirty floors up, the city sprawled beneath them like a toy no one else was allowed to play with. His mouth found her throat first, teeth scraping, tongue soothing. One hand pinned both her wrists above her head; the other slid between her thighs without asking permission. “Already soaked,” he murmured against her pulse. “Tell me, habibti, did you start touching yourself in the car thinking about this?” “Maybe,” she breathed, arching into his fingers. “Or maybe I just know what twenty-five thousand dollars an hour feels like inside me.” He laughed, dark and dangerous, and rich, and pushed two fingers deep, curling until her knees shook against the glass. “Look down,” he ordered, turning her face to the window. “Whole city watching you fall apart for me.” Dubai blinked and shimmered below, indifferent and dazzling. She came with his name in Arabic on her tongue and his thumb on her clit, forehead pressed to the cool glass, legs trembling so hard he had to hold her up. When the aftershocks faded, he spun her, lifted her onto the grand piano no one ever played, and dropped to his knees like a man about to pray to something far less holy. By the time the sun bled gold across the desert, the sheets were ruined, her lipstick was on his thigh, and there was a new diamond bracelet locked around her wrist that hadn’t been there at midnight. She left at 6:00 a.m. sharp, dress back on, heels in hand, city waking up beneath her feet. He stayed in bed, smoking, watching the door close. Same time next week, the bracelet said. She smiled in the elevator all the way down. Some cities don’t need love stories. They just need transactions that feel like sin and pay like heaven.

Companion Dubai Call Girls 0501780622 The 122nd Floor The lift climbed so fast her stomach stayed on the ground floor. When the doors slid open on 122, the air itself felt different: colder, thinner, expensive. Address Sky View, Pinnacle Suite. The one that costs seventy-five thousand dirhams a night and still isn’t on any booking site. He was already there. Yousef. Not an Emirati prince this time; worse. Half-Emirati, half-Russian, all predator. Built like a fighter who’d traded the ring for boardrooms and underground cages. White thobe open at the throat, black Rolex President heavy enough to use as a weapon. He didn’t speak. Just crooked a finger. Zara walked forward barefoot across heated marble, the hem of her crimson dress brushing her ankles. She stopped one foot away. “Turn,” he said in Arabic-accented English that still managed to sound like a command carved in stone. She turned. The zipper came down in one slow, deliberate pull. The dress fell. No bra. No lingerie tonight. She’d been told exactly what he wanted: nothing but skin and the thin platinum anklet he’d sent yesterday with a single line: Wear this and nothing else. His hands were on her instantly: rough, warm, possessive. One slid up her spine, fisted in her hair, bent her over the back of the white leather sofa that faced the window. Dubai lay spread beneath them like a circuit board made of light. “Hands on the glass,” he ordered. She obeyed, palms flat against the cold pane, 450 meters above the fountain show that looked like cheap fireworks from up here. He didn’t undress fully. Just freed himself, thick and already leaking, and pushed inside her in one brutal thrust that tore a cry from her throat. No warm-up. No mercy. Just the sound of skin hitting skin, her breath fogging the window, his low growls in Russian she didn’t understand but felt in her bones. “Mine tonight,” he rasped against her ear, one arm banding across her chest, fingers closing around her throat just tight enough to make her see stars. “Every moan, every drop, every fucking heartbeat. Mine.” She came clenching around him so hard her vision whited out, forehead pressed to the glass, watching the world spin far below while he kept going, relentless, until he followed with a curse that sounded like surrender. When he finally pulled out, he didn’t let her move. Just spun her, dropped to his knees, and licked her clean like he was starving for the taste of what he’d done to her. Later, showered and wrapped in his thobe that swallowed her whole, she sat on the terrace smoking his Cuban cigar while he wired the money. Half a million dirhams. For six hours. He kissed her once, soft and almost tender, right where the city lights reflected in her eyes. “Same night next month,” he said. She exhaled smoke into the desert wind. “Make it a million and I’ll bring toys.” He smiled, slow and feral. “Done.” The elevator took her back to earth at dawn. She stepped out into the lobby smelling like oud, sex, and money that high only comes when you sell your body to a man who can buy the sky and still wants more. Dubai never sleeps. Neither do the girls who own its nights.