Date: Sun, 14 Aug 2016 20:42:11 +0100 (BST)
From: z.blake@tutanota.com
Subject: Smell This 23

SMELL THIS 23
By Brad, Mark, Jon & Zachyboy
M/b, b/b, oral, anal, sniffing, buttplay

Complete fantasy. Never happened and we don't encourage it. Read, sniff,
enjoy, then go home and keep your hands and your noses to yourself.

What's that you say? You've never donated to Nifty? Here's your chance to
correct that oversight.

http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

On with the show.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

PARADOX: SWIMSUITS

I have such a love-hate relationship with boys in swimsuits I don't even
know where to begin.

First of all, to be clear, pictures of boys in swimsuits? Good God, bring
`em on. Especially if they're tight little Speedos. Please don't stop on my
account. I'll quietly work out my confusion on my own time, and I won't
interfere in any way with your swimsuit sharing. If you're propagating
pictures of boys in swimsuits, I can't thank you enough. Honestly, you're
doing the Lord's work.

Boys in dry swimsuits are great. They haven't been to the beach yet. They
haven't jumped in the pool. Their cracks are still moist, damp and
stinky. He took off his pants – and better, his underwear – and he
put on a swimsuit. There's nothing separating his crack from my nose except
one thin layer of Speedo. And what's inside is stinky and ripe. Because
he's hot. He's sweaty. He's a boy. It's summer. If his crack wasn't all hot
and sweaty, he wouldn't be heading for the beach now anyway.

So, dry swimsuits are glorious cock-hardeners. What's inside is super rich
and ripe and ready, and it needs sweet, kind relief. I want to provide such
relief in the changing room, bending him over a bench, and relieving his
sticky discomfort with my tongue and a finger or two before he ever hits
the diving board.

Boys in dry swimsuits arouse me. Boys in WET swimsuits perplex me.

On one hand, my eyes go, "Hey, that's a boy in a wet swimsuit!" Or, "SHIT!
A a boy in a wet Speedo!" The way a wet Speedo clings to a boy's crack and
nibblybits leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination and quite frankly
in most cases, makes me reach for the Lubriderm.

But on the other hand, I'm a butt sniffer. That's what I do. It's the curse
I came home with. The doctor slapped me on the butt when I came out of
mama, and said, "Sorry, Miz Zachymom, this one's gonna be an ass-sniffer. I
can tell by the umbilical cord."

So, boys in wet swimsuits? They take away the sniff zing for me. Because
everybody knows, water cleans buttholes.

When I see a boy in a wet swimsuit, all I can think of is, what a crying
shame.

All that magnificently fragrant boy butter, dookie butter, anus paste,
buttonhole sheen, beige-to-white doody-goo, whatever you want to call it
(and I encourage you to pick a name), is all washed away by H2O. If ever
there was a dictionary definition for "travesty," there it is.

Now, I know that's not true technically. At least not 100%. The way a boy's
crack is built to lock in un-freshness, he can theoretically put on a
swimsuit (preferably tight one), and that boy can swim for hours without
actually washing away the creamy essence of the stuff that makes the good
smells.

Those aromas and that magic paste will still be landlocked to some amount,
deep within his cling button, still gummed into the power center of his
cock-gripping little squiggler, still caught up in his stinky anal folds,
albeit watered-down and runnier than usual. No matter. Left alone, it'll
turn from runny to tacky-clear gloss again, twenty minutes after his suit
dries.

The good stuff won't actually disappear unless he sticks his finger down
his backside and sort of rubs it in his asshole, cleaning himself while
he's underwater and has the chance to tidy when nobody's looking; something
some boys do in the water without even thinking about it, something some
boys don't even give a passing thought to the hygeiene.

Unfortunately, the boys who DO take an underwater hole diddle don't even
realize they're doing it in most cases. It's just an instinct. Clean up the
greasy bits. Certainly, they're not giving advance thought to how it'll
interfere with my enjoyment of their stink down the road. Kind of
thoughtlessly selfish on their part, to be honest, moms and dads. Children
should be taught to think of others, not themselves. Especially when
they're so cavalierly cleaning their own buttholes like it doesn't even
matter. It's completely inconsiderate. Watch that, parents. Nip that in the
bud.

So, yeah. All said, a boy in a wet swim suit is a 50/50 puzzle for me. His
crack might still be stinky but wet, or it might be completely clean and
washed away. Only time, and a full nasal examination bent over the changing
room bench will tell when he comes out of the water. Thank goodness for a
palm-slipped twenty bucks and a lunch at the food stand, most boys are
usually more than happy to cooperate in your investigation. Weirded-out a
little, and they'll need to be coaxed, but when your wallet comes out,
they're generally good sports about it.

And of course, our long-revered "Smell This" ABC-SAT rule quickly comes
into play. Longtime readers? What does ABC-SAT mean? Say it out loud with
me.

All Boys Cracks are Stinky All the Time.

Right. You got it.

Which means, even if he finger-washed the dook grease away, the scent will
soon start growing back naturally on its own, within a simple hour or
two. You just have to be patient. ABC-SAT, my friends. Just wait. It's one
of nature's miracles. Clean Butts Soon Re-Stink. Pretty Darn
Quick. CB-SRS-PDQ. There's another one you'll have to memorize.

So wet swimsuits, ehhhh. I'm 50/50 on what they do to me. They look fucking
great, but they might be a wash.

Getting back to our boy in the DRY swimsuit on the other hand, as I
mentioned at the outset, well now, he's a completely different kettle of
fish. Completely.

A boy in a DRY swimsuit has taken his underwear off, 10 times out of 10 if
he's wearing a Speedo, and 5 times out of 10 if he's wearing board
shorts. You can't wear underwear under Speedos. It looks dumb. He knows
it. If he's wearing board shorts, it's a 50-50 shot.

Tons of boys wearing boardies will leave their undies on to avoid the
bare-dicked embarrassment getting their cocklets out in front of their
friends, which is also regrettable, but realistic in this day and age of
the hideous boys' swim suits that come down to their knees. These too-long
fashion disasters are natural undie-hiders and some boys will take
advantage. "GoD's" we sniff-gents call those board shorts at the beach or
the swimming pool. "Garments of Despair."

But anyway, 10 out of 10 Speedo boys and 5 out of 10 board shorts boys have
taken their undies off for you, leaving you unfettered access to them back
in the house or back in their backpack in the changing room locker (be sure
you offer to hold onto the key). "You don't want to lose that locker key in
the water, Tiger!" you chuckle, hardy-har-har. "I better hang onto that for
you!" Meanwhile, your dick grows.

As stated earlier, before he gets into the water, his butthole is literally
at its stinkiest of the day, unencumbered by a layer of underwear
fabric. His anus is in marvelous condition for deep-tissue sniffing. And
dookie butter doesn't rub off on polyester the same way it rubs off on
cotton, so as far as crystal-clear stink sheen is concerned, he's packing
the motherlode.

Now I know I can't walk right up to him at the beach or the pool and say,
"Listen, before you get in, bend over the pool ladder and let me take a hit
of your crack before you hop in the water and the chlorine fucks up the
chemistry."

I can't do that. So, next best thing, as soon as he's swimming and
splashing and laughing and distracted with friends, I head straight back to
the locker room. "Gotta take a whiz, boys!" Then straight back to the
locker room I'll go, straight back to the bathroom or backpack or wherever
he changed to retrieve his undies, press them to my face, lock the door,
pull out my cock, and spend a vigorous three minutes alone with my
thoughts.

Used undies are a boy's special way of saying to you, "Here's a private
little way for you to smell my pretty sex hole. You can smell it and taste
it and think about fucking it, and nobody has to know about it. Not even
me." God bless boys who leave their undies behind. No harm, no foul, and
three minutes later with a tissue down the toilet, we're all home free and
no one's the wiser. No one's in jail and no one needs therapy.

Next bullet point. Swim teams.

Entire SWIM TEAMS in dry Speedos? Fuck. Go ahead. Google "swim team
picture" and watch me fall out of my chair, having seizures. Whoof. Good
God. Don't even get me going on whole TEAMS of boys in still-dry Speedos. I
swear to Christ, we'll be here until "Smell This 82.

My mind just goes crazy when I see a picture of a swim team who haven't
gone in the water yet. First of all, they're ALL still dry. Second of all,
their asses are ALL still dirty. Third of all, their underpants are ALL
lined up, waiting for me in the locker room treasure vault. Fourth of all,
they haven't washed their ass stink since their shower the night before. Or
two nights before. Or five nights before. Fifth of all, I need to go
masturbate. I'll be right back.

And there's a whole fucking TEAM of them! A collection! An ass-sniffer's
BUFFET!

There's this scene on this old TV show where a recovering alcoholic says to
another inquisitive character who asks him if he still craves a drink now
and then. "That's the problem," says the recovering alky. "I don't want *A*
drink, I want *ALL* of the drinks."

That's what it's like when I see an entire swim team in dry Speedo
swimsuits. I don't want to smell ONE of their assholes, I want to smell ALL
of their assholes. Line them up and let me sniff. First through the fabric,
and then drop their trunks. Let me sniff and moan and quiver and
compare. Like a wine tasting contest. Like a sampler plate of heavy dessert
cheeses after dinner. Roquefort and Winnimere. Folgie di Nocci. Only MY
five minutes at the dessert plate comes with a hands-free detonation in my
pants.

So, yeah. I've babbled on enough. Summary-conclusion, I have a such a
love-hate relationship with pictures of boys in swimsuits it almost drives
me crazy. Apparently it's not going anywhere, so I stuck it in here, and
now you're stuck with it too. And there wasn't even a decent cum-moment in
this one. Your dick's still in your hand, limp as a noodle, all dressed up
with no place to go.

"Where's the cockadoody cum moment, Zachy?"

Oh well, ((shrug)), they can't all be ejaculatory winners.

Read Jon's cowboy story, "Jeremy," below. His is more hornier. It's gonna
make your wiener tingle.

But at I covered swimsuits today! Glad I got that one out of my system!

You're welcome, sniff brothers.

I'm nothing if not comprehensive.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

COWBOY: JEREMY

I knew my nephew Jeremy would be ripe for sniffing because I got a preview
whiff when we were playing cowboys and Indians while he was staying with me
for the weekend. His parents had gone out of town for a three-day getaway
and Jeremy had begged to stay at my house.

My sister called to see if I would keep him but was hesitant because she
knew I sometimes worked weekends. I assured her it was no problem and, as
soon as she hung up, I called in to work to take the weekend off.

Later that day, I was chasing him around the yard and through the house,
tickling him vigorously whenever I caught him. Jeremy was always the cowboy
and I played the part of bad guy or the Indian chasing after him.

Our chase finally ended in the living room where I captured him and tossed
him, wriggling and shrieking, onto the couch. Before he could escape, I
playfully attacked him and tickled his ribs as he laughed and struggled to
get away.

As he was attempting to free himself from my grasp and climb over the back
of the couch, I sniffed his yummy first-grade ass right through the back of
his pants. His ass looked so cute and delicious in the tight Wrangler jeans
he liked to wear when he was pretending to be a cowboy - impossible not to
sniff when the opportunity presented itself.

The red elastic waistband of his briefs was showing above the waist of his
jeans, and I wondered what cartoon character or superhero had the pleasure
of absorbing his cute skids and pee dribbles all day.

"Did you just smell my butt?" he asked and giggled as I pulled him back
onto the couch cushions. I hadn't expected him to notice and I wasn't
prepared to explain it to him.

"Yeah, I just wanted to see if you smell like a real cowboy," I replied
spontaneously and laughed as I attacked him for another round of
tickling. Once I got him into position for it, I snatched his shirt up and
blew raspberries against his belly.

He shrieked and laughed until I finally released him and then we both lay
there resting for a few minutes to catch our breath.

"Uncle Jon smelled my butt! Uncle Jon smelled my butt!" he chided in a
sing-song voice. I felt a twinge of panic as I momentarily considered what
might happen if he said that later in front of anyone else but, for now, it
was just between me and him and his stinky little bottom.

"The Cowboy Butt Sniffer strikes again!" I announced in a playful villain's
voice and slowly moved toward him to start the chase again. He shrieked and
ran down the hall.

"Gonna smell Jeremy's butt!" I warned as I chased after him. I caught up to
him in his room (my guest room) and grabbed him as he was scrambling across
the bed. Grasping both his ankles, I pulled him toward me across the bed on
his belly while simultaneously pulling his legs wide apart.

"Nooo, nooo!" he protested playfully but he stopped struggling and let me
sniff his asshole through his jeans.

"Mmm, sure smells like a little cowboy back here to me," I said and I
wasn't lying. His scent was muted by the denim jeans he was wearing but
there was an enticing nutty smell coming through with just a hint of tang.

He raised up and looked around at me with an expression of boyish mischief
on his face and giggled as I winked at him and lowered my nose to his ass
again. After another good sniff I tickled him some more and the game was on
again.

A few hours later, my favorite nephew was finally sleeping and I was about
to smell his sweaty butthole through his underwear as he lay sprawled on
his belly in the bed next to me. Even though he had let me sniff him
earlier, I had been hoping for a good chance to sniff his ass while he was
sleeping.

Butterflies swarmed in my stomach and my heart was pounding wildly as I
carefully pulled the cover down and eased myself into position behind
him. I listened carefully for the even breathing of sleep and then,
satisfied that he was sleeping deeply, I quietly lowered my face toward his
bottom.

The faded iconic image of Spiderman in mid-swing, one hand extended, a net
of webs shooting from his hand, emblazoned across the back of Jeremy's
underwear, seemed to be beckoning me to sniff the little boy's hot ass,
proud of the secret treasure he had been guarding all day.

There was an enticing hint of boyish skids showing through, faintly visible
just below Spiderman's feet and streaking along Jeremy's crack. It must
have been his vigorous "horse" (bike) riding that caused the racing stripes
to start that far up the back of his undies.

I paused with my face hovering about a foot above him, my own Spidey senses
already picking up the warm, spicy smell rising from his Jeremy's ass. He
hadn't stirred so I took a deep breath, exhaled and then leaned down until
my nose just barely touched the cloth of his skid-stained briefs.

I inhaled slowly and quietly, savoring the sweet and nutty smell of
Jeremy's asshole as I sniffed it through the seat of his undies.

There was a slight tang like sweet pickles with a deeper, nutty smell like
warm peanut butter on Graham crackers - just like you would expect a cute
first-grader's boyhole to smell.

This was the sweet and savory smell of dirty little boy ass after a long
day and a full evening of running and romping in the Wild West with Uncle
Jon. This was the hot smell I had expected to find after the little whiffs
I got through his jeans when we were wrestling earlier.

As I sniffed the little cowboy's ass I wondered if I might be able to pull
the leg of his loose fitting undies aside enough to lick his hole. Or maybe
I could pull the back of his undies down without waking him if I was slow
and deliberate enough. I was becoming increasingly entranced as I kept
sniffing, my cock leaking a wet spot in my own underwear as my excited
breath inhaled the warm, intoxicating scent.

When he stirred a little in his sleep, I quickly withdrew and laid down in
my place beside him, but I was still overcome with the intense buzz his
scent had triggered in my brain. I lay there breathing hard and
contemplating what was happening. There was a hot little boy sleeping in my
bed and we would have hours together tonight.

More than anything now, I wanted to lick his little asshole and suck him
off. I figured a cute cowboy with a ripe little ass like Jeremy deserved a
good blow job. If nothing else, maybe I could at least smell his dick and
lick it through his undies.

Not sure what to do next, I started gently rubbing his back with one
hand. I didn't even care if he awakened now because I suddenly wanted to
tell him something, although I had no idea what I would say. I wasn't
really trying to wake him up but I needed the physical contact and I wanted
him to know I was there, even in his sleep.

He made a contented whimpering sound as I caressed his back and then he
rolled over to face me, snuggling close with his forehead against my
shoulder. I embraced him and continued to rub his back.

"I love you, Jer," I whispered. "You are the best little cowboy in the
world." He stirred again and I could see him grinning but he otherwise
pretended to be asleep.

"Cause you look like a cowboy," I continued, speaking quietly but no longer
whispering, "and you act like a cowboy." I kissed him on the cheek and then
nibbled his ear. He giggled and hid his face against me. I let my hand move
lower on his back as I spoke.

"You even smell like a cowboy," I said and squeezed his butt through his
undies.

"Are you gonna smell my butt again?" he whispered and grinned.

"Yeah, if it's okay with you. Is it okay if I smell your butt some more,
Jer?"

Uh-huh," he said quietly and grinned. He seemed slightly embarrassed by the
question, but clearly gave me permission to proceed. He had definitely
seemed to think it was fun when I sniffed him earlier.

"Can I have a boy-kiss first?" I asked. He nodded again and kissed me on
the lips - just a quick boyish smack. I put my fingers under his chin and
lifted his mouth to mine again but, this time, I let the tip of my tongue
touch his lips.  He giggled and withdrew so I kissed him on the forehead
and then left him lying there on his belly waiting as I crawled into
position behind him again.

"Mmm, your little ass smells so good, Jeremy," I said, pushing his legs
further apart as I leaned down and sniffed his hot ass again.

"Do I still smell like a cowboy?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

"Yep, you smell even more like a cowboy than before," I said and sniffed
him again, inhaling his perfectly boyish scent. "Bet you taste like one
too."

I hooked two fingers into the leg of his briefs and gently pulled them
aside until his crack and the back of his crinkly little nut sack was
revealed.  With one hand I held the leg of his undies stretched open while
I used the other hand to open his steamy crack.

Even in the dim light of the room I could see his tiny little pucker framed
by a moist smear of boybutter on either side.

He raised up and looked around at me to see what I was doing. Without any
further delay, I licked his hot asshole, lapping up the tangy boybutter and
wriggling the tip of my tongue against his tight pucker. Jeremy put his
head down again and raised his ass a little.

"That feels good, Uncle Jon," he said softly.

"Mmm," I moaned quietly in response. I was sniffing and licking a cute
6-year-old boy's perfect butthole and it was almost enough to make me
cum. I could have kept sniffing and licking him for a long time but I
didn't want him to get bored.

I withdrew briefly and then impulsively licked his nut sack as my keen
senses detected the yeasty and slightly pissy smell of his little dick and
balls - just two or three flicks of my tongue across the back of his sack
and smooth taint before letting the leg of his undies slip back into place.

"Can I show you something else that feels good?"

"Yeah!" he said and rolled right over.

As if he already knew what I had in mind.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

COMEUPPANCE: LUC

Julian Otero, author of "When He Was Six," and its sequels "When He Was
Nine" and "When He Was Twelve" brings up this interesting time-saver:

"Getting ready for school, Luc cleans his teeth while my mouth cleans his
asshole."

Nii-i-i-i-i-i-ce, Julian. I've always been of the opinion that a boy's
asshole should be cleaned three times a day by a man's tongue. Why get soap
involved? Soap and a washcloth need not apply. They are dispensable items
at my house. Nonessential time-wasters. Ridiculously superfluous.

And I'm firm on getting right in there in Luc's little caramel dot and
cleaning it three times a day. Thoroughly. Roto-Rooter. Like a snake. Like
a python. Like the First Annual Lickprod and Tonguefuck Roundup, sponsored
by Listereem Mouthwash. Like a plumber snaking out your toilet pipes while
you stand in the doorway, cheering him on, whispering, "Just a leeeeeedle
bit deeper. Yessssssss. Stick it in there."

I totally agree with you, Julian. Luc's asshole should be cleaned by a man
tongue, three times a day. No ifs ands or butts. Once in the morning, once
after school, and once before bed. Two additional times a day on Saturdays
and Sundays if Luc has been shooting baskets or jumping at the trampoline
park. As soon as it gets sweaty, pull his shorts down and give it another
good going-over. Blow the whistle. Take a time-out, Luc. Spread your gamey
honey cheeks and take some more Julian-tongue for the home team.

Julian continued, "After school, Luc often wants me to wiggle my warm wet
tongue between his beautifully formed ass, all moist and funky."

"Moist and funky," I smiled. "Damn, Julian. That sounds like a 70's disco
song. "Gonna Get Moist, Gonna Get Funky." Flipside, "Shake That Stinky
Booty, Baby." I want to put on my roller skates and fire up the disco ball.

"Gonna get moist and funky with you tonight, little Luc. Moist and funky,
down and dirty."

"Play that funky music, white Luc."

Synonyms for "moist." You knew I'd have to check, right Julian? I always
check for synonyms.

Synonyms for "moist:"

Damp. Rainy. Dank. Not dry.

Luc's damp, rainy, not dry asshole made my mouth water. His dank hole
filled me with man-need. I smell his dankness. I taste his dampness on my
upper lip as I rub my lips across it. Just thinking of Luc's dampness makes
my mouth water. Salivary glands kick in.

More synonyms for "moist:"

Wettish. Wet. Soggy. Clammy.

I sucked on Lukey's clammy little asshole. It was soggy, wettish, musky and
sour."

More synonyms for "moist:"

Drizzly, drippish, humid, dewy.

Luc's humid hole. His dewy treasure spot. His drizzly, drippish, sweaty
honey-spot. alive with flavor from the trampoline park. "Thanks, Luc!
You're deeeee-dewy-licious!"

Well-said, Julian: "After school, Luc often wants me to wiggle my warm wet
tongue between his beautifully formed ass, all moist and funky."

We did "moist," now let's do "funky."

Oooh! Oooh! Listen to the Oxford Dictionary definition of "funky" in the
smell sense. "Strongly musty," and then their sentence example, "Cooked
greens make the kitchen smell really funky."

Luc's little hole smelled like greens in the kitchen.

"Cook me some collard greens, Luc. Bend over and fire up the Brussels
sprouts. Stink-spread the cabbage pot. Put it on high and let it boil all
day.

Other synonyms for "funky:"

Malodorous, bad, decayed, decomposed. Um, no. Let's pass on those. Luc is
not decomposed.

Fetid, foul, frowzy, or fusty? Those aren't bad.

"Luc's fusty fuck button?" I kinda like that one.

Frowzy. "I stuck it in his frowzy dimple." I could make frowzy work.

Other synonyms for "funky:"

Gamey, rancid, reeky, smelly.

Stale and stinking. Strong and vile.

Tainted.

"I pulled Luc's cheeks apart and feasted on his tainted privacy."

I'm definitely feeling good things for "tainted."

Well. Thanks, Julian. That was fun.

I'm a great fan of thesaurus.com.

I couldn't sniff boyass without it.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Julian Otero's magnificent (and I DO mean MAGNIFICENT) boy character Luc
appears in:

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/when-he-was-six/
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/when-he-was-nine
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/when-he-was-twelve/

Please read them all, if you haven't done so already.

An excerpt from "When He was Six:"

As the days and months went by Luc and I continued to enjoy each other. His
skill at sex making grew quickly; he especially enjoyed sucking me off
while I fingered his asshole. He made his pink boy pussy available to me
almost every time I asked for it. No real fucking, but some days, before he
set off for school and me to work, I'd catch him brushing his teeth at the
sink and kneel behind him to lick the little pink jewel between his
cheeks. He always giggled in delight. Or he would come to me at night,
feeling for my daddy dick until it was hard, then jerk me, or suck me, to
orgasm. Sometimes Carol was around, sometimes not. It didn't matter..."

Whoof. Marvelous stuff. Read Julian's stories. Whoof. His whole
catalog. Prolific authors page.

Luc, Luc, Luc.

Sweet tasty Luc.

Look at him grow.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

OH-WELL: BRADY

This is the fourth year Brady's tried out for the soccer team and of course
he'll get in – he always gets in – but not before the cursory annual
physical by the league doctor, Dr. Wellington.

He's pretty sure Dr. Wellington is one of the kids' dads, and that's why he
always offers to do the team physicals for free every year.

Well, that and he likes to stick his nose up kids' assholes and jack off.

The first year Dr. Wellington examined Brady in the first aid office at the
indoor soccer park, he thought it was a little strange that he locked both
of the doors first.

"Just want to make sure we give you a little privacy, hey champ?"

Brady shrugged and hopped up on the exam table when Dr. Wellington patted
it.

He took his temperature and measured his blood pressure and tested his
reflexes with a little rubber mallet. He looked in his ears with a
light. He looked in his eyes. He looked at his throat and he listened to
his heart with a stethoscope.

"Now I just need to check a few more quick things, and you'll be all set,
champ," Dr. Wellington smiled. "Why don't you slide those shorts and that
t-shirt off for me and stretch out up here on your tummy in your undies and
we'll take a quick look-see at your spine and your muscle coordination."

Laying up there in nothing but his undies sounded a little dumb to Brady,
but what the heck. When you're just a little kid and a doctor wants to look
up your spine and your muscle recordination, you do what he tells you.

So Brady, shucked his shorts and his t-shirt and stretched out on the exam
table, backside up, and Dr. Wellington made a whistling sound as he grabbed
an exam glove.

"That's a great spine, Brady," he said, as he gave Brady's butt a
pat. "That's an athlete's spine right there, champ. I bet you'll score lots
of goals with a spine like that one."

Brady didn't know what his spine had to do with scoring goals. In fact, at
9, he wasn't altogether sure what his spine actually was, or where it
started and ended exactly, so when Dr. Wellington laid his head on Brady's
butt saying, "Don't worry, champ. This is normal. I just need to see your
spine up close for a measurement," Brady just figured it was part of the
check-up.

"Oh yeah, oh yeah," he heard the man whisper. "That's a beautiful spine,
Brady. A beauty. A winner."

Brady wasn't sure, but it seemed like the doctor was making sniffing
noises.

"Oh, yes...((sniff))...a beautiful spine. Oh, yes...((sniff))...a wonderful
spine."

The doctor got up and took his head off Brady's butt, and got out a tub of
Vaseline from the counter.

"Next, I just need to make sure your guy parts are in order," he
grinned. "This part's a little embarrassing, but all boys do it. It's part
of every physical."

The doctor made him hop off the table and stand in front of him while he
sat on a stool, and then of all the weird, gross things, Dr. Wellington
reached a hand down his undies and looking Brady straight in the eye and
chattering about how hot the weather was lately, he pinched Brady's peeper
which made Brady squeak, then he dingled Brady's nuts with his finger,
which gave Brady goosebumps, then he dipped his finger in the Vaseline a
little and said, "Just gonna check your prostate now, champ. Bend over that
exam table for me and lean on your elbows."

And Brady at 9 had absolutely no idea what his prostate was, but it must
have been up his asshole, because that's where Dr. Wellington checked. And
THAT made Brady squeak again. You can be sure about that.

"Everything feels fine in there, champ," Dr. Wellington smiled. "Let me
wipe that off for you, though."

He took out a little pad from a jar that said "GAUZE," which Brady read as
GAY-USE" and wiped Brady's asshole and he threw it in a trash can.

"There you go, champ! All set! You can put your clothes back on and send in
Andrew."

Brady got dressed and that was the end of his first soccer team physical.

Andrew thought the prostate part was weird too.

"Mine took forever!" he said. "I mean, what was he checking for?"

# # #

The next year, the same thing happened.

Brady hopped up on the exam table when Dr. Wellington patted it.

He took his temperature and measured his blood pressure and tested his
reflexes with a little rubber mallet. He looked in his ears with a
light. He looked in his eyes. He looked at his throat and he listened to
his heart with a stethoscope.

"Now I just need to check a couple of your guy parts, and you'll be all
set, champ," Dr. Wellington smiled. "Why don't you slide those shorts and
that t-shirt off for me and stretch out up here on your tummy in your
undies and we'll take a quick look-see at your spine and your muscle
coordination."

Only this year when Dr. Wellington put his head on Brady's butt, Brady knew
for a FACT he was sniffing his asshole. He could tell by the way the
doctor's nose breath felt on his butt crack. Like he was steaming up a
window or something.

"That's it, Brady. Just a little more," Dr. Wellington said panting, and
although Brady couldn't see him, he was pretty sure Dr. Wellington had his
hands down his sweatpants, and he might have been wiggling his hard
man-thing, because Brady could hear fabric rustling. He was 10, but he
wasn't dumb.

"So good, so good," Dr. Wellington was saying, and his voice sounded low
and scratchy, like when Brady had a sore throat. Faringitis.

"Now I know he's sniffing my butt," Brady thought, but just to make sure,
he wiggled his butt a little, pushed it back closer to Dr. Wellington's
nose, and the minute he did, the doctor said, "Ohhhhh, yes, Brady, yes
((sniff, sniff)) such a beauuuuutiful spine."

"That's not my spine," Brady thought. "That's my butthole, but if you say
so, whatever."

Dr. Wellington finished up the spine check and his butt sniffing and told
Brady the "other" part was next. Brady sure remembered the "other" part
from last year. Only this time Dr. Wellington didn't put on a glove, and
this time he didn't use Vaseline.

And sure enough, when Brady turned around, Dr. Wellington's thing was hard
and there was a wet spot in his sweatpants the size of a quarter.

"Let's just check your guy parts real quick and make sure they're all
okay," Dr. Wellington told him.

He reached down Brady's undies and pinched his peeper and wiggled it
around.

"You're growing!" he smiled. "Good job! Right on track!"

He wiggled Brady's nuts with a finger, and said, "Nice job. Everything
checks out. Right where they should be."

Then he said, "Just a quick prostate check and we'll be all set."

Brady sure remembered where his prostate was this year. It was sort of hard
to forget.

"Don't you need a glove?" Brady asked the doctor.

"Aw, no," said the doctor. "We're trying to save a little money this
year. No need for gloves really. Why don't you turn around and face the
wall for me, champ? Bend over the exam table a little. That's it."

Before Brady could object, Dr. Wellington lowered his undies, tugged them
down and they fell to the floor.

"Now spread your legs apart for me champ, just a little, like that, good
job, atta boy."

And as soon as he did, Dr. Wellington put his finger on Brady's asshole and
pushed just a little.

Brady heard him make a little moaning noise. Then he heard him take his
finger away. Then he heard him sniff. Then he heard him make a little
spitting sound.

Then he felt the doctor put his finger by his butt again, and this time it
was slippery, and Brady was pretty sure it was just the doctor's spit. And
before he knew it, the doctor's finger was up his butt and he was finding
Brady's prostate. It was right where Brady left it last year.

"Yes, nice, that's perfectly healthy."

But Brady heard the fabric rustling and now he knew for sure the doctor was
rubbing his thing back and forth. He was 10 now, and he already knew what
rubbing your thing back and forth meant. He gave it a try once and he
wasn't very good at it, but he heard some older boys talking about it and
apparently it gets better.

The doctor rubbed and made noises and every once in a while he took his
finger out of Brady's prostate to smell it and say "oh, yes." Only he said
it like this: "oh, yesssssssssss," with lots of S's.

After a while, he stopped and said, "Okay, champ. You're all set. Dress up
and send Andrew in."

And when Brady turned around, the doctor's thing was HUGE in his
sweatpants, and the wet spot was the size of a cookie. Not an Oreo
either. A Chips Ahoy.

# # #

The third year Brady had his soccer team physical, he dispensed with the
preliminaries. He was 11 now, and he knew damn well what happened when you
sniffed a kid's butthole and rubbed your thing. You got your good feelings,
and that's a guaranteed fact.

Nobody was fooling him this year. Dr. Wellington was smelling his butt all
these years and trying to get his good feelings. Well, why didn't he just
say so?

Brady smiled knowingly and hopped up on the exam table when Dr. Wellington
patted it.

He took his temperature and measured his blood pressure and tested his
reflexes with a little rubber mallet. He looked in his ears with a
light. He looked in his eyes. He looked at his throat and he listened to
his heart with a stethoscope.

"Now I just need to check a few quick guy parts, and you'll be all set,
champ," Dr. Wellington smiled. "Why don't you slide those shorts and that
t-shirt off for me and stretch out up here on your tummy in your undies and
we'll take a quick look-see at your spine and your muscle coordination."

Brady did what he was asked, only this time when Dr. Wellington laid his
head on his butt, Brady said, "You don't have to look at my spine, you
know. You can just smell my butthole if you want to. I smell it now too. It
really smells good."

Dr. Wellington moaned out loud, and pulled Brady's undies down, and
squeezed his butt cheeks and Brady got a boner, and Dr. Wellington pulled
his cheeks apart and smelled him, and smelled him, and licked him, and then
he found Brady's prostate again, right where they left it last year.

Before Brady's exam was over that third year, Dr. Wellington and Brady both
smelled Brady's butthole right off Dr. Wellington's finger, and then while
they smelled it together, Dr. Wellington got his good feelings all inside
his sweatpants and it made a stain the size of a Hostess Cupcake, and a few
minutes after that, Brady got his good feelings in Dr. Wellington's mouth,
which was a big surprise to Brady, but a really, really good one, like
somebody just invented a brand new second Christmas.

And Andrew, whose turn it was next, had to wait out in the hall a good long
time before they were ready to unlock the doors and let him come in.

"What's that smell in here," Andrew said, crinkling up his nose.

"Just exam procedures," Brady giggled.

"The healthy scent of a growing boy," Dr. Wellington smiled.

And that was the last year Dr. Wellington got to do the physicals for the
soccer team.

# # #

So the new doctor, Dr. Rankin, is just a dumb old fat guy.

He doesn't even look like a doctor, Brady thinks. Did anybody check this
guy's credentials?

He's old. He's got a dumb pink shirt. And fat old jeans. And his hair looks
like it has cooking oil in it. And he doesn't even sniff buttholes or
anything. And he doesn't check prostates. And he doesn't even lock the
doors or give out his physicals one boy at a time.

This new doctor just has all the boys come in at all once and sit down on
chairs while one boy hops up on the table and gets his leg muscles checked
and his height and weight measured on a clipboard chart. Bor-ing.

Dumbest physical ever, Brady thinks. This guy's got no imagination. And he
looks like somebody's grandpa. But oh well. It gets him on the soccer team.

He wonders what happened to Dr. Wellington this year. He heard his mom and
dad talking. His mom said "inappropriate." His dad said "plea bargain,"
whatever that means.

But Brady's 12, and he wants to play soccer, so if that means letting the
new old fat guy squeeze his leg for a half a second and yawn out, "That's
it kid, who's next?" oh well, who cares, that's life on a sports team.

Dr. Wellington sure knew what he was doing when he laid a boy on the exam
table, asshole up and tummyside down. This fat old new guy doesn't even
have a clue what's right in front of him.

He goes about his business like he can't even smell it. Your loss, new guy,
because believe me, Brady stinks great. He puts his finger in his own butt
a hundred times a day now and he smells it himself. He knows he smells
great because whenever he rubs his thing real fast and he gets his good
feelings, they're especially tingly whenever he smells it.

But no chance of anything like that coming from fat old Dr. Rankin with his
dumb pink shirt and his cooking oil grandpa hair.

Dumb old fucker.

He wouldn't smell a boy's asshole if it stared him straight in the face.

But oh well, thinks Brady, as this new moron checks him.

You can't have everything.

You can't win `em all.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #