Jeez. I just watched the South Park episode on sex education - in my spare time, to help cope with the stress of all the major writing projects I'm not working on, I've been cycling through episodes, backwards -- and it's put me in mind of all sorts of things. One vivid memory was of telling my friends in Grade 7 or such that I really kind of liked the smell of my sweaty jockey shorts, say after I'd worn them for a couple of days (and maybe once or twice to gym class). It was sweet and musky... I wasn't sniffing them for pleasure, you understand -- I hastened to clarify when they all told me I was gross; I would just, you know, inspect them based on scent from time to time to decide whether it was time to change them. Somehow my explaining this fact did not make the practice seem any less gross to them. I went through a period in my pubesence of being painfully aware of the smell of my crotch, actually; I felt like I had developed certain smells before the other boys and was terrified I was weird (and this was in the days before the Won't Get Weird campaign). This led to such extreme practices as splashing my father's aftershave on my balls once. I do not recommend doing this.
Blogging when you've been smokin' a bit might be dangerous, too.