I will unravel the sordid layers of your twisted desires today, exposing the grimy truth lurking beneath your fart-smelling fetish. You're a testament to the perverse, a devotee to the stench others flee from. Why? Because your mind is a cesspool of corruption, reveling in what society deems repugnant. You get hard from farts because your arousal is wired to the base, the vile, the utterly disgusting aspects of human existence. Your fascination isn't just a quirk—it's a deep-seated perversion, a testament to your inherent depravity. And today, I'll strip you bare, exposing the filthy core of your being, making you face the nauseating truth of your existence.
You don't just like farts; you worship them. They are your altar of debasement, your sacrament of shame. While the world turns away in disgust, you lean in, eager, mouth agape, waiting for that next shameful thrill. It's not just a preference; it's an obsession. And in your twisted mind, the foul stench is akin to the sweetest aroma. You're not just a fetishist; you're an acolyte of the abhorrent, a disciple of degradation. So, embrace your disgrace, inhale deeply, and revel in the only pleasure you know—your fetid, repulsive nirvana.