Selkiefolk

“Coming home soon; don’t wash,” Napoleon Bonaparte once wrote to his wife, Joséphine.

My boner party gets going in the same way.

Natural body odors of attractive people turn me on. But people - we all - hide them and cover them up so much. Natural smells have unnaturally become shameful, forbidden fruits; that's the kind that tastes best.

For me, like some other historic guy I read about (in a bid to write a try-hard bio for pantydeal), those odors "refresh me, and I would go miles to smell them."

And travel I have. I flew, bussed, taxi'd and hiked 5,222 miles from the UK to Copan Ruinas, Honduras just to smell an armpit. Ok, it wasn't specifically an armpit; it was a Mayan woman pleasantly scented in her natural odor, making some bead-craft-type-thing for tourists, and much of the perfume likely came from her pits. I didn't intend to travel for that heavenly whiff. But when I caught it, so surprising, so new and curious, a light natural, unperfumed feminine pheromone drifting on the breeze and surprisingly stiffening my cock. I don't get that from Dove!

Pussy smell too. Love that. Love it. Smell of intimacy, yet when up close and personal so strong and entrancing. Yet even more hidden from the senses. Instead of pumping out enticing food smells, if McDonalds unleashed puss perfume into the air I'd be there morning noon and night. They say the smell of freshly baked bread sells a house. Not for me. Freshly-climaxed pussy, on the other hand. Want to sell me your house? Shove your used knickers in my face while you give me the grand tour.

Joshing aside, if you haven't guessed yet, I'm kinda into strong, feminine smells. Smell of desire unleashed. I don't know why. Freud would say it's because I'm a repressed gay or that I want to bone my mum. But Freud had his own sniffing problems: prodigious quantities of cocaine on the reg and let's face it, when have you not talked to 'that guy' in a club off his face on Charlie and repeating over and over about how every problem was due to someone being a repressed gay or mum-boner-wanter.

Who cares? All I care about here is that you lay off the deodorant for a day, wear a top that covers your pits, soak it in your essence and swap me it for some cash. And musky panties too. Send them across the miles like Napoleon returning to Josephine, like a sensual tour of the Honduran highlands. So I can feel refreshed. And stop writing this weirdness and have a wank.