My Darkest Sniffing Secret

I can't believe I'm saying this out loud, but I've got this twisted thing I've been hiding for years; it's like an itch I can't scratch, pulling me back every time. I used to sneak into my friend's house when no one was around and rifle through her daughter's laundry, finding those little pieces of fabric that still held her scent. God, the rush it gave me was insane, like a forbidden high that made my heart pound and my hands shake with excitement. I'd press them to my face, inhaling deeply, imagining things I shouldn't, feeling that warm, musky aroma wrap around me like a secret lover's embrace. It was wrong, I know, but in those moments, nothing else mattered; my body would react instantly, blood rushing south, turning me into this animal driven by pure, unfiltered lust. The guilt hits hard afterward, like a punch to the gut, leaving me questioning how I could stoop so low, but damn, the thrill was addictive, making me feel alive in a way nothing else could. I'd justify it in my head, telling myself it was just curiosity, but deep down, it was about the taboo, the risk of getting caught, the way it made every nerve ending fire up. Now, years later, I still think about it sometimes, wondering if I'll ever shake this shadow, this messy craving that lingers in the back of my mind. It's raw, it's real, and it's part of me, flaws and all.