I have a confession. I like to take a trophy from my conquests. Their underwear.

When I was young, I overheard a group of older boys talking. High school guys hanging around my brother, bragging like idiots. One of them was boasting about sleeping with three girls and how he kept their panties as proof. I remember thinking it was crude and gross. But I also remember how that story stuck with me. Something about possession. Proof. Memory.

As I grew into myself, I realized what it was that turned me on. It was not the bragging. It was the claiming.

Now, after I fuck a boy, especially a first timer, I usually take his underwear. I do not want a clean pair. I want the ones he wore. The ones that smell like him. Sweat, sex, nerves, arousal. His musk.

I like the moment I tell him to hand them over. The hesitation. The realization that I am taking something personal. Something intimate. Something he will miss later.

I fold them slowly and tuck them into my luggage. Right between my clothes. I travel with them. They come home with me. Sometimes I pull them out days later. Sometimes weeks. I press them to my face, breathe him in, and remember exactly how he sounded when I took him.

It is not about humiliation. It is about ownership.

He keeps the memory in his body. I keep the proof.

And yes, I have a small collection now. Each pair tied to a specific night, a specific boy, a specific hole I opened and left changed.

Some people take photos. Some keep numbers.

I keep his underwear.

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