Last Friday, Slayyyter dropped her new song “Beat Up Chanel$” -  a chaotic, slutty little masterpiece -  and it pulled something out of me I hadn’t felt in a while.

That old itch.

The one that used to find its fix at 1:30am, somewhere between the sticky floor of a club and the subwoofer vibrating through my ribcage. The one that lived off dark rooms, deep bass, and just enough danger to feel alive.

I’ve always loved dance music, hyperpop, and dirty decadent pop. The stuff that hits like sex and satire at once. Peaches. Charli. Nine Inch Nails. Music that doesn’t ask permission. That’s what Bound is made of.

When I created Bound, I wanted a scent that captured that precise collision -  sex, sweat, latex, a flicker of violence, a smirk that means trouble, and the kind of thrill you chase when you’re pushing past your own limits. It’s a tribute to nightlife and everything it offered me. Power. Pleasure. Performance. Escape.

But I’m older now. I’m not in that space anymore. The nights are earlier. The club is mostly in my head. I’ve outgrown the scene, but not the sensation.

Bound is, at its core, a way back in.
A private club with no guest list.
The afterparty I get to carry with me.

Because scent, like music, hits hard. It remembers. And when the night calls I still answer - just differently now.