Sniffing Dirty Panties: Why I'm A Fan, And Why You Probably Are Too

OK, so I'll start with an easy one. Despite the obviously widespread nature of this interest, almost nobody talks about it, due to the sheer social horror of admitting to such a seemingly pathetic and uncool act: sniffing panties.

I'm not sure how we've become so disconnected from our primal roots that we've lost the ability to admit the simple fact that, if we're attracted to someone, we're quite likely to also be attracted to that someone's scent as well. Clearly, the perfume-and-cologne industry understands this, as do the makers of special pheromone-enhanced scents; there's no shortage of scientific research to demonstrate that scent plays an important role in arousal. The great author Tom Robbins even once suggested, in Another Roadhouse Attraction, that "sex is 80% smell".

Yet, I think that most people, when they're around other people, feel forced to laugh off the notion that they could ever be interested in smelling anyone's underwear (or other worn clothing) for a sexual thrill. There's just no way anyone in contemporary American society could admit to it openly-- so, like a lot of other things we say and do, a substantial number of us, should the subject come up, make a point of  openly ridiculing the notion, make a few lame jokes about 'hard-up pervs' or 'pathetic degenerates', and then the moment we're left alone in a house where attractive women reside, make a beeline for the laundry hamper.

Or rather, I do. And I don't think for a moment that I'm alone in this. Or that it's even that rare.

My own experience with the private delight of panty sniffing began when I was thirteen or so, and was asked by some neighbors to walk and feed their dog while they were away. The couple were professionals in their early thirties, and I'd had a crush on Leigh, the wife, for a couple of years-- she had a fantastic ass, understated but bouncy tits, and really cute straight brown hair...kind of the quintessential soccer mom, but without the kids!

I'd finished walking the dog and was going to take a piss and get back home to play more Mario Bros. or whatever (it was 1988) I'd been doing at home before coming over. I went to their bathroom, and as I was pissing, I noticed a pair of sweatpants lying in front of the shower door, turned inside out by having been removed in one swift pre-shower motion. A pair of peach-colored bikini panties were tangled up in the sweats, and despite having never had the slightest thought about what dirty panties might smell like, I felt drawn to them...

So I walked over and picked up the whole tangled sweats-and-undies mess, instinctively knowing that it would not be a good idea to untangle the panties from the legs of the sweats-- I'd never be able to get it all arranged that way again, which would, it seemed, be likely to lead to detection.

The crotch of the panties was a double layer of cotton, with an almost imperceptibly discolored streak down the middle. Right where her pussy was rubbing, I thought to myself. I remember being initially awed just to be standing there holding Leigh's panties in my hand-- I'd jerked off about five hundred times that summer to a complicated fantasy in which Leigh asked for my assistance with something in the house and we ended up having hot sex on top of a car in their garage, but this was real.

Somehow, my hand shaking with excitement, I raised them closer to my face, sniffing the air around them tentatively, wondering, hysterically in retrospect, if some slight vestige of vaginal odor might have been retained by the cloth-- I'd heard older kids brag about fingering neighborhood girls who were playmates of mine, and heard them talk about how their fingers smelled like pussy for the rest of the day. I'd even declined (despite desperately wanting to accept) a sniff of one guy's stinky finger, feigning appropriate disgust, after he supposedly gave Becky Miller the finger-ride of her young life behind his garage earlier that year. So I knew that vaginal odor was more or less regarded as favorable, in some contexts, but I still wouldn't have realized that a woman's underwear would retain a substantial dose of this odor even days after wearing.

My first sniff, from about six inches away, was rewarded with a slight hint of sweat, almost like the underarm sweat of a teenage girl-- not offensive like male sweat, just an earthy, girlish scent...emboldened, I held the panties right up to my face and inhaled deeply, with the crotch of the panties no more than an inch under my nose-- and instantly my teenaged nostrils were filled with the unmistakable odor of pussy. My cock hardened in a millisecond, my heart pounded like a triphammer, and I just stood there and inhaled, over and over and over, filling my sinuses with the sexy, musky scent of Leigh's cunt.

Seconds later, I was sitting on the lid of the toilet, pants and underwear puddled around my ankles and my throbbing boner in one hand as I held Leigh's dirty undies to my nose with the other. It probably only took about six strokes of my hand to cause a delirious eruption of hot cum from my excited cock. I straightened up the bathroom, replaced the tangled sweats-and-panties where I'd found them, and left.

Over the next days and weeks, I spent considerable time contemplating what I'd done and what it had meant. I wasn't sure if the intensity of the experience was related to my feelings for Leigh in particular or if it could be replicated by substituting the panties of another attractive female. I was pondering that very question while lying on my bed one day, idly flipping through a copy of Rolling Stone, when I realized the means to answer that question were easily within reach.

Making sure my mom and siblings were downstairs and that I was alone on the upper floor of the house, I sauntered into the bathroom and raided the hamper.

In no time I located a pair of my little sister's panties, cute little flowered briefs, and a larger black pair of high cut, silky ones that could only be my mom's. Stuffing both in my pocket, I went back to my room and conducted an intense round of experiments, with the following conclusion: pussy smells great.

My sister was eleven at the time, and had been wearing a bra for about a year. I'm not sure if she'd had her first period yet. Her panties were thrillingly dirty, smelling faintly of pee and sweat but with the unmistakable tang of fragrant vagina wafting distinctly to my nose from the crotch of the little double-sewn gusset. As I moved them back and forth beneath my nose in what would come to be a standard technique for the rest of my life, I noticed the smell changed a little a couple of inches back, and realized that this was the smell of Emily's asshole. It didn't smell shitty, exactly, but had a stronger and more pungent smell than the part that had been in contact with her pussy. I ground my swollen cock in my jeans a little, but was too focused on my examination to take it out and begin masturbating. I smelled Em's panties from every angle, always returning to that magic four-inch section where her sweat and piss and vaginal secretions were strongest, marveling at how vital and womanly my cute little sister's cunt obviously was, even at her young age.

I was so lost in my reverie that I'd almost forgotten that I had more panties to examine! Putting Emily's briefs aside, I cleansed my sinuses by breathing regular air for a moment, and then picked up my mom's silky black panties, to be treated to a scent that was at once more substantial and concentrated than that of eleven-year-old Emily's underpants: my mom, who was thirty-four at the time and highly attractive, had a vaginal scent that was all woman. In retrospect, those particular panties seem to have carried the scent that I now recognize as belonging to a woman who's had her period some days prior; not unpleasant, but somehow heavier and deeper and muskier. This didn't bother me in the least; I've never been so much as slightly squeamish about women and their bodies.

I smelled and smelled those two pairs of underwear for what seemed like hours, although I began to notice my nose becoming "fatigued" after a few minutes-- I guess any scent becomes harder and harder to recognize without taking a break-- so I stashed the panties in the pocket of my Sunday jacket in the closet and went outside to fuck around for a while-- and when I returned an hour or so later and removed the panties from my  closet, the scent had been 'restored' to full pungency!

I resolved right then to carefully return the panties unmolested (beyond copious sniffing) to the hamper where I'd found them, and to not become careless in the future if this was going to be an abiding interest for me-- I could scarcely imagine the humiliation of being caught at this, and I still can't. Apart from my significant other, whose panties I will not hesitate to enjoy right in front of her, I've never been caught out by anyone, and would very much like to keep it that way.

As my teens and college years progressed, I availed myself of countless opportunities to examine and even sometimes steal panties for what became a significant collection: every cute girl was a potential target! I'd go to a party at a friend's house, and leave with a pair of his mom's or sister's underwear in my pocket, knowing that everyone else at the party had the same access to the bathroom hamper as I did, and that there would be no way to pinpoint me as the culprit. Even the multitude of girls I slept with weren't immune to my interest in their dirty underthings; I often kept 'trophy' pairs of their underwear, especially if I'd particularly enjoyed their taste and scent while going down on them...

Fairly early on, I began to seal the panties in ziplock bags to keep their very different scents from co-mingling. I established a very secure system of stashing the bags in a shoebox at the back of my closet, and only took the box out when I knew I was truly alone. I might return from baseball practice with my friend Kevin's big sister's filthy (delightfully filthy, that is) panties in the pocket of my gym bag, having raided their laundry room while changing before practice. I might wake up early on a morning when Emily had a few friends at the house for a sleepover and find worn panties wadded up in the bottom of each of three overnight bags in the upstairs bathroom. My aunt Cassie, a real looker in her twenties, was divested of a racy hot pink thong one night after leaving the item in question on the bathroom floor after changing into her swimsuit during a pool party at our house.

It seemed that everywhere I looked, there was a pair of pussy-reeking underpants that seemed to be dying to be added to my collection. In college, I joined a frat, and discovered that any given room in the frat house was guaranteed to have a pair or two of sorority-girl panties under the bed, or in a corner with discarded jeans and beer-stained rush t-shirts. Around that time, I began to play music, and was in a band with a girl who, besides being phenomenally attractive herself, lived with four other girls in a run-down-but-hip off-campus farmhouse, the bathroom of which was a fucking treasure trove of fragrant underwear. I attended countless parties at the apartments of weed dealers, cokeheads, musicians, groupies...and there were always dirty panties to be found. The discovery and acquisition of these involved only seconds of time: I had my technique down to a science, removing the panties from hampers noiselessly, making just the right noises in the bathroom (flushing toilet, running water in sink, stomping around in a way that had all the hallmarks of a drunk/high/stoned guy in the bathroom, despite the fact that I was, at least on a Panty Sniffing level, sober as a judge.

It got to the point, over the years, where I began to make a priority of scoring a pair of panties from virtually girl I came into contact with on a personal level: the only criteria was the question of whether or not I'd fuck her, given the chance. If yes, then I definitely wanted her panties, even if it was clear that circumstances would never permit actually fucking her.

In many ways, these were the most rewarding scores: if a girl already had a boyfriend, wasn't interested in me, or was otherwise unattainable, I would make it a high priority to get my hands on (and preferably add to my permanent collection) a pair of her underwear. It was so satisfying, sitting on my bed, cock in hand, delighting in the smell of the asshole and cunt of a girl who'd rebuffed me (or who just wasn't available)...I saw it as a backhanded way of subverting her will and almost forcibly being intimate with her, without her ever knowing. I'd sit there, breathing in the aromas of her piss and shit and pussy secretions, mentally chiding her about any skid marks or period stains, imagining her look of abject humiliation if she could see me right now, enjoying the dirty mess she'd made on the seat of her panties, or the flaky, crusty white residue of her dried juices on the gusset from when she'd gotten excited thinking about some slutty activity or other she'd engaged in (or imagined engaging in).

A few things I did NOT (and DO not) ever do, which may be somewhat standard for other panty enthusiasts:

- wear the panties;

-masturbate WITH the panties (why add the smell of my cock to the mix?);

-ejaculate into or onto the panties; or

-examine, smell, steal, or otherwise show any interest at all in clean panties.

I try to use excellent judgement in selecting which panties to steal, and when, and where. I take things into account that perhaps many do not-- for example, I might be visiting a friend's house and visit the restroom to find a little curled-up thong belonging to the friend's super-hot teenage daughter...but upon closer examination, it may prove not to have a very strong scent...so rather than take a substandard item, I might leave it behind, returning it to the exact spot I found it, so as not to arouse suspicion. Then, on a subsequent visit, I will inevitably find a much more pungently-scented pair from the same person, and take that one instead. If I'd taken the first pair, I wouldn't have wanted to risk someone connecting the missing second pair with my visit to the residence...so I guess you could say I'm pretty judicious, despite the hilarity of using such a term for a dirty underwear thief!

I think I've now penned possibly the lengthiest manifesto (pantyfesto?) to the art and science of female underwear appreciation...and, naturally, I'd be fascinated to hear the comments of others who share this interest...please comment, or email, or whatever...and thanks for having waded through this missive!