When I was in elementary school, I had a gym teacher named Mr. Donaldson. He was nice enough for a guy who wore sweatpants to work, but he epitomized cheesy. Although it was the mid-1980's, he seemed trapped in the Seventies. He sported a fu manchu moustache, had long blond hair parted in the middle, and reeked of Brut.
When most people imagine a guy wearing too much cologne, Mediterranean cabs driver or sleazy European gigolos come to mind. For me, the eye-watering stench of too much cologne will always be linked with Mr. Donaldson, the gym teacher who could disinfect a scrape merely by standing near it.
Because of the deep psychological damage inflicted by Mr. Donaldson, I avoided cologne for years. My father, who used it sparingly, gave me a bottle of English Leather when I was fifteen. I used it as fire starter. Later, when I was 21, I inherited a big bottle of Zizanie; I finished it off about fifteen years later. Along the way, I got a bottle of Polo Safari from a cousin (I regifted it after I discovered that it made my cat sneeze) and a bottle of Drakkar Noir from a friend (my roommate ended up stealing it). To be honest, I didn't feel a pressing need to refill my cologne stocks. I use a simple deodorant, and don't feel much of a need for anything else.