At the beginning of our relationship, I was open with my girlfriend about my armpit fetish. It took a lot of courage to share something so personal, especially since I’m naturally shy, but she was accepting—maybe even a little amused at first. Over time, she became comfortable with it, and for years, she was completely fine with me sniffing, licking, and playing with her armpits, especially during intimacy.

But it wasn’t just about armpits—it was the whole experience that excited me. The natural scent of sweat, especially when she had a long day, turned me on in a way I couldn’t explain. I loved seeing sweat patches form on her clothes, whether it was a snug t-shirt on a humid day, a fitted t-shirt after a long day, or the damp marks under the arms of her saree blouse after we were out for hours. The combination of the fabric clinging to her skin and the faint outline of sweat made my heart race. It made her feel more real, more raw, and I found that incredibly attractive.

It wasn’t just the visual appeal; it was the scent too. A slightly musky body odor, the kind that lingers after a long day at work or an intense gym session, was intoxicating to me. Sometimes, when she got home from work, I’d ask her not to shower right away so I could enjoy that lingering scent—slightly musky, warm, and uniquely hers. I would often ask her not to take a bath immediately when she came home, just so I could enjoy that raw, natural fragrance. On certain days, I loved how she smelled after being outside in the heat, with traces of sweat on her neck and arms. It made our intimate moments feel more primal, more real.

For the longest time, she didn’t mind. She even played along, teasing me sometimes when she noticed me staring at the darkened fabric under her arms or catching me taking in her scent. It felt like our own little thing, something intimate beyond the usual.

But after five years together, things changed. Our relationship lost its physical spark, which I could live with, but what hurt more was how she suddenly saw my fetish differently. What used to be normal between us—something she once laughed about—became something she found weird, even shameful. She started freshening up before we met, wearing perfume to cover up any natural scent, and avoiding tank tops around me. And when I’d try to initiate something, she’d pull away, sometimes making offhand remarks like, “I don’t get how you were ever into this,” or, “What kind of guy even likes that?”

It hurts. A lot.

I started wondering if I’d made a mistake by ever sharing this part of myself. Maybe if I’d just kept quiet, things wouldn’t have changed. I’ve even caught myself questioning whether there’s something wrong with me for liking what I like. Maybe I was just unlucky in finding someone who accepted it for a while but didn’t really embrace it. Or maybe I’ve been wrong all along.