Pantyliners and nappies smell the same; did you know that? There's no earthly reason (except for the two obvious ones) why these two symbols of maturity and immaturity, and later hyper-maturity, should be inextricably linked like this. You won't find this elsewhere. Dummies and tickets to the opera don't smell alike, nor do babygros (y'gotta go with the proper spelling, even if it looks wrong) and coffee. Why should anyone - any twisted mad scientist with access to both pantyliners and nappies, any god, fate or other, any naughty prankster with a large jar of eau de kotex - want to stir reminiscences of one with the other? It's a sick and twisted world out there, little girl; you're nice and safe in here with me. Smells evoke memories and emotions - proven medical fact. If you need the smell of a nappy (and just to clear up any confusion, we're dealing with unsoiled nappies and pantyliners) to invoke any love, or recollections, of your new-born children then you're a nasty fuck, or you suffer from some form of brain damage or psychiatric block. Nasty fucks are nasty fucks; nuff, as they say, said. We must tiptoe politely around people with brain damage or psychiatric blocks, putting them in nappies and hiding them in the back room. So that's nappies dealt with. If you need the smell of nappies for someone, then you have been dealt with by me, labelled and sent off to the appropriate department. You may now live your life attached to the runners that follow from there, you may do as you wish, you may even be allowed to smell nappies from time to time. Aren't you lucky?

Which brings us to pantyliners, and most men begin to squirm. Other than suicidal men (who are likely to be sensitive enough to understand about this bleeding lark anyway), men tend not to comprehend the idea of bleeding to flush out the system. It's a slight tangent, but if I found myself bleeding out of my penis, I don't think I'd go to the doctor. I'd wait to see if it would clot and heal of its own volition; if it was still bleeding after a couple of hours, I would presume I was turning into a woman and put on a look of resigned assumption to my face. If the blood became noticeable (which, for reasons of blackness in clothesosity, is only likely to happen if it runs down my legs when wearing shorts) or the pain becomes unbearable (which it wouldn't, as all physical pain can be transcended) then I might go to the doctor. End tangent. Back to pantyliners, and more importantly their odour. So... to make the expected admission that I go round sniffing pantyliners, or not to make the expected admission that I go round sniffing pantyliners? That is the bastardisation of a bastard. As much as I love each and every one of you (diluting my love so much, you wouldn't even notice if I'd mixed it into your glass of water), there are elements of me that must remain private. Whether I have sniffed pantyliners or not is not the issue. Let it just be said that in the past year I didn't once sniff a pantyliner. Any occurrences before that are for you to animate yourself.

Which is worse: sniffing nappies or pantyliners? An interesting question, no? Perhaps your condescension to the fact that I may have sniffed pantyliners stems from everyone's knowledge of nappies' odour, yet fear to recollect the smell of sanitary towels. Perhaps society is more comfortable with faeces and urine than blood (which can't be true, or wars would just be huge shit-flinging contests). Who's really the sick one in this so-called society? Me? You? Or [hate figure we can all work together against]? Be true to yourself. If you are a woman, sniff your pantyliners. If you are a man, sniff those of your wife, girlfriend, best friend you want to fuck, mother, secretary, unknown woman on the street, or Mary Stuart Masterson. You or they needn't be wearing them at the time; some might say it can't hurt, but if you sniff a woman's pantyliners while she's wearing them, she's liable to ask questions.