My wife and I were not having sex. Or rather, we were having sex very seldom. It was a difficult time for me, and whether it was the cause of our ultimate split or simply a symptom of a much bigger problem is part of a discussion I have long since stopped having with myself.
On the rare occasions she did consent to any sort of sexual activity, it was often me jerking off with my face between her legs, desperately inhaling her smell, as she laid back and made not-so-valiant attempts to understand and tolerate my need for this behavior. It was a lonely time, and I was so starved for sex and affection that I accepted this as the unfortunate norm at the time. This was the only opening in the sexual barrier she had erected, the only sex in our otherwise sexless relationship—and that naturally made the smell that came from between her legs a focus for me to the point of obsession. This obsession expanded to any aromatic part of her; her armpits I also found intoxicating, which she tolerated with a sort of patient, condescending amusement.
On long nights, when she once again “wasn’t in the mood” and the loneliness became overwhelming, I would wait for her to fall asleep, the search her hamper for her worn underwear, take them into the bathroom, carefully shut the door and masturbate with my nose buried in her worn panties. During the day, while she was at work and my son was at school, I would do her laundry and go through her used undergarments looking for the strongest-smelling pieces, often with one pair of underwear over my nose and mouth while I breathed in her smell while I used another pair in my hand to rub on myself and get off.
The relationship continued like this for many years. We were married with a kid and I was willing to do what I could to wait out a sexual “slow period,” with the promise that things would be better later. The marriage eventually ended, and my self-esteem suffered tremendously. After her, I dated a few women in the years after my wife left—even rekindling my on-again/off-again sexual relationship with her with predictable results.
And then I started to date A. I remember the first time I went down on her. I have never been with a woman who tasted more wonderful.
She was still married too—but also separated—and when we first started neither one of us was looking to jump into a serious relationship. After about six months of “casual” dating, she moved several states away to pursue other work, so we continued as a long-distance affair. We would talk for long stints on the phone—often engaging in variations on video chatting and phone sex.
And she would send me her used underwear in the mail.
I would get overnight envelopes with panties heat-sealed in plastic, and I would take them home, open them up, and breath in her smell, reminding me of her and why I missed her so much. I would masturbate with my nose in her panties, and as soon as they would start to loose their smell, I would get another package in the mail, with another musky treasure.
Even though we were seeing each other only once every month or two, we grew close. After a year of back-and-forth, we made the decision to relocate to the same city and move in together. If I had doubts about my panty fetish being something solely born of loneliness and isolation, this proved it most definitely is not. Nor is it a substitute for sex. Now that we live together—free from our former spouses—we have a lot of sex, but I still have a weakness for dirty underwear.
Sometimes, when she comes home from a long day of work, she’ll walk in the door, drop her bag, reach up under her skirt, pull her underwear off over her shoes, and wordlessly hand them to me before she heads upstairs. Or we’ll be out at dinner, and she’ll return from the bathroom and hand me her still-warm underwear as she slides into her seat, giving me a taste of what I’ll be getting when I get home.
Sometimes, as I get ready for bed, I’ll find her newly-shed underwear on my pillow, waiting for me to nestle into them as I lay sleeping. Often, if she is away on a trip, I will sleepily reach my hand under my pillow and feel a present of her used panties, placed there to keep me company while she’s away.
Then there are the times, when we’re fucking and she’s grinding away on top of me, that she reaches over and grabs the still-wet underwear she just took off, and holds them over my face or stuffs them in my mouth while she makes herself come—and usually me too.
I still love her dirty underwear; and she loves me for it.