I find the scent of my balls to be exhilarating.
After the first swipe-and-sniff, I’m usually hooked, and I find myself instinctively swiping the hairy set again, bringing the fingers to the nostrils, and taking a deep inhalation into the depths of the diaphragm, repeatedly until I’ve had enough.
It’s a scent so visceral and alive yet alluringly neutral, like nature and existence itself.
The late Mr. Fyodor Dostoevsky said that one can tell how good or bad a man’s heart is by their laughter. I say: The measure of a good man lies in whether he loves the natural scent of his sweaty set.
I bet Wantam hates the smell of his pair.
