by Bob Freville
He always loved to sniff things, to whiff things. He always dug fresh smells.
His first olfactory hallucination occurred in puberty.
He got it bad after graduation. Bands of cilia saturated in what looked like rotting corpses but smelled like strips of cotton candy.
Years had passed without a one, but he still went smelling everyone. Salty. Snotty like almond custard. Heady, musty face fucks, stinging the bridge. That smell you get with a chest infection, chicken soup and nutty mucous. Sniffing the jissom on movie theater floors or the ammonia scent of urine in bathroom stalls.
He sniffed and whiffed up and down the coast, always focused on his nose.
He’d gotten fucked plenty times before, despite this preoccupation. Mostly impressionable girls with nasal fetishes, the type of flat-backers who gave discounts to dudes with dong-size shnozzes.
But no bitch meant a good goddamn compared to…
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