Friday night at the izakaya was incredibly busy. As usual, orders kept pouring in one after another, and I was constantly rushing around carrying drinks. I'd quickly forget requests for cold water, and getting complaints was just part of the routine. One of the male employees, who couldn't do his job properly, would always snap, "You're not paying attention to what's going on around you!" I'd just pretend not to hear—it was second nature by now. The manager would shout, "Hey, they're calling you!" and slap my ass. As revenge, I'd casually loosen my apron strings to make things harder for him—a trick I'd pulled a few times already. But once work ended, there was something I always looked forward to: carrying everyone's discarded uniforms to the laundry machine. I loved sneaking in a sniff while I was at it. I'd deeply inhale the concentrated sweat, the stale middle-aged man stink of that useless coworker—it had become an addiction. It stank. Really badly. Yet the moment I thought it was gross, I'd immediately want to smell it again. Of course, I liked my own post-work scent too, but it just couldn't compare to a man's. Even when I had a boyfriend, I'd get turned on sniffing his used socks, and eventually I liked the socks more than him—so we broke up. That day, I'd accidentally been stuck teaching the new girl how to do the laundry, missing my usual sniffing chance and leaving me frustrated. Then someone called out to me. I knew I was a pervert, hadn't had sex in a while, and thought, why not? So I followed along half-heartedly. Being told I was super cute, that I had big, beautiful breasts, made me feel amazing—more turned on than ever before. But having everyone see me so wild and undone was deeply embarrassing. Yet, it excited me too. Part of me even wanted more people to watch. That desire, that craving for exposure—yeah, that's what really proves I'm a total pervert.