Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross

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Husband was at work. Roommate was at the gym. Cats were lounging on the window sill, enjoying the last hour of sunshine before dark. What did this all mean to me? I can masturbate in peace!

I hopped on my bed, grabbed an old Natural Contours vibe and got to work. This particular sex toy holds very fond memories for me; we worked side-by-side in Afrodite Superstar. Well, actually, it was more than side-by-side... but you get what I mean.

Anywho, after I masturbated (and not to a music video featuring yours truly... anymore), I went to the bathroom to have a pee.

As I relaxed on the toilet, I smelled my panties. And not a quick, how are things going down there kinda sniff. No, it was a deep, intense, and intimate whiff. I held that lingering oceanic musk in my nostrils like pot smoke. Then I exhaled, and thought, Well, that was strange.

But, it was never strange to me before. Not during my moments of self-loving, when I would rub my fingers into the melting warm hole that was my happy vagina and run those tainted digits under my nose (then lick it clean like honey). It also wasn't strange when I just sitting around in my bathroom, twiddling my fingers and smelling my underwear right before the flush.

Last night was a different story. Because I don't think other women do that sort of thing... and enjoy it, let alone talk about it. From my past experience as a professional pervert, I used to serve my soiled panties on a platter for greedy little businessman to stuff in their mouths, so it wasn't a big deal. It was fun to see someone appreciate what most lovers would have run away from.

My day job... once upon a time.

But, did my own fetish for panty-sniffing start there? No. In fact, it began where most of our sexual explorations tend to flourish: College. And, even better, an all-girls school.

Group sex and drug experimentation... pretty much part of the curriculum

It was my own personal rule that I wouldn't have sex with any of the girls on campus. College Lesbians (Which is actually an assortment of "experimenting" straight girls, femmes, and butchy tomboys) kept no secrets to themselves. I effectually learned the taste of almost every girl on campus just through lunchtime conversation. I've definitely gotten closer to my girlfriends during spontaneous orgies and the like (God Bless College) but, I mostly sought sexual exploits off Maura Lawn. Lo and behold, the Internet proved to be an alternative. And, that is how I met Aly.

Is Aly her real name? No, because I don't remember it. But, I do remember that she was unlike most girls I met at that time. She looked like a slutty version of Sarah Polley. She wore dark red lipstick the color of crushed blueberries and her eyes were outlined in deep black. Aly was also a cunning exhibitionist. While at work in her tiny slate gray cubicle, she sent me pictures of her tits. She held the rest of her sweater just below her chin and grinned alluringly. Another snapshot featured her robin's egg blue lingerie that she secretly captured from underneath her desk. We talked on the phone a few times, and agreed to meet when our weekends were in sync. Until then, she emailed me lengthy bits of erotica, mostly about her nights in the gym.

Aly lived in Eastern Connecticut, mostly comprised of New England Suburbia. But, glowing in the darkness was a state-of-the-art holy grail for fitness freaks... or for normal freaks like Aly, who took greater pleasure in sizing up the bicycle seats than riding on the bicycles themselves. She told me that she would pretend to wait for a machine already occupied by an attractive lady. Once she was finished, Aly would swoop in. She secretly placed her empty exercise bag right near the bicycle and, as she lowered it onto the floor, Aly would quickly smell the seat and the malodorous pleasure the last rider had left behind.

Aly rarely found women who enjoyed the scent of a sweaty vagina. She hoped that someone as "open-minded" as me would enjoy this fetish with her. Aly was exciting to me, and her lust was unlike any of the other girls, who chose rather attractive and politer types of kink, like spankings and mild bondage. This was on a whole other level of perversity. Aly encouraged me to describe what I smelled like. She always asked what my pussy tasted like after a 2 hour long session of hip-hop choreography and spinning class. She persuaded me to go into the gym alone, when no one else was around, and smell not only my bicycle seat but others, and conclude which one stank the most.

That last act was too much for me, although it was a simple assignment. Our gym was more like a fitness room in the basement of our dormitory. Getting access was by no means an obstacle because the room was always open... which also meant that someone was inside at all times, whether it be a teacher or gym attendant. One night, after a few tokes and a chat with m'lady, I did sneak down to the basement. Still wearing my dirty white high tops and stretch pants, I strolled into the vacant gym as if to have another go at the machines. And, yes, it was empty. The attendant must have went to the bathroom, which meant I had little time to work my nose on the seats. There weren't too many machines - just three bikes, four treadmills, a few contraptions for the abs. The rest were weights and big bulky punching bags that hung from the ceiling. I sprinted over to my bike, third one in on the left. Best view of the television and not too far from the corner, which made me feel claustrophobic. I quickly bent down and smelled the seat.

"Hello." I looked up. Jamie waved her hand at me as she sat back down behind her desk. "We're closing up in 10 minutes, you know."
I smiled. "Well... uh... I was looking for my ring. Have you seen it? I think I dropped it in here."
"No," she replied. "I just cleaned. Didn't find a thing. But, maybe someone found it. I'll make a note of it here in this book." Jamie was a junior and unabashed do-gooder. There was no way she could have known that I was sniffing my own bicycle seat to appease my Internet girlfriend. No way.

Defeated and mildly embarrassed, I said good-night to Jamie and hi-tailed it back to my room.

Aly and I maintained our modest romance for a month. I would lie and tell her where my promiscuous nose had been that night. Bicycle seats became child's play. I had to move on to challenging areas. Couches, shower benches, uncomfortable classroom chairs. Aly grew excited to have a new playmate by her side. For Aly, I could only imagine it was like acquiring a second nose, my nose, one that hardly knew of the delights I would conjure up a few nights a week. However, I would like to say that my stories weren't totally grounded in fiction. For some authenticity, I did smell my own underwear right before they were tossed in the hamper. Some days, the cotton panties absorbed no moisture, nor netted any hint of sweat. Other days proved successful. The silky lining captured milky beads of female ejaculate and the overflow of perspiration from a day's worth of toil. Pre- and post-menstruation yielded muskier results. My nostrils flared as they swallowed the salty essence of my snatch's ecosystem, the juices of my cunt emanated the breath of nature, of sustenance. It was very zen.

Alas, I worked Aly up into a state of olfactoral ecstasy. She wanted to drive down from Connecticut to see me. We did, eventually, mark a day on the calendar for her to spend the night. But, it never happened. I never answered her phone calls or emails. I might have lied to her, feigning sickness or something. I felt bad, but, somehow Aly didn't seem as important to me as the panty-sniffing itself. Not to say I didn't care about her. But, I didn't know anything about her other than what we shared. Plus, I enjoyed the anonymity and privacy of smelling myself (Which, because of this entry, is pretty much obliterated). Even now, during sex with my husband, it seems like such a natural habit-to smell and taste each other-that it loses its magic.

No, panty-sniffing is most enjoyable when I feel ashamed.