Out in the wild where the pines stretch high and the rivers run clear, my older bother Cole (27 years old) and I (Jack 25) embarked on our yearly ritual—a week of living off the land, leaving the comforts of modern life miles behind. This year, the untamed spirit of the wild inspired a brotherly challenge: to see which of us could sport the most potent, natural manly musk from our sweaty hairy pits after days in the forest without soap or deodorant under our arms.
As dawn broke on the first day, Cole and I, two brothers forged from countless adventures, strode into the embrace of the wilderness. My frame, a solid six feet with shoulders built from scaling cliffs and paddling against currents, carried the backpack with ease. Cole, slightly taller, bore a chest that spoke of boulders climbed and logs hauled. His nipples perked from the crisp morning air. Our gear was minimal—tents, fishing rods, a hatchet, and the bare essentials. We were manly men of the woods, after all.
The days were a relentless cycle of exertion and survival. Sweat beaded and trickled down my spine, absorbed instantly by my shirt until I would toss it over my shoulder like Cole, Cole's shirt, similarly drenched, clung to his skin before he had taken it off, somehow more naked than after he peeled it off, Our armpits became ripe, brewing a pungent concoction of sweat and the musk that you couldn’t avoid if close like when we would stop to piss on a tree or rough house a bit at rest stops.
By the week's end it was our last day making camp. The gear lay scattered—well used, well worn, testament to the labor of our hands. My axe, its handle smooth from use, rested beside the dwindling fire, the blade dulled from meeting wood. Cole’s rod, perched against a tree, had the look of a tool that had battled the river’s might.
The final judgment was upon us. The evening was silent but for the crackle of the fire and our measured breaths. We stood, arms raised, our exposed armpits revealing the untamed result of our challenge. I leaned in towards Cole, the air thick with the musk of days spent in the embrace of the wild. He did the same, his nose scrunching slightly as I buried my face into my hairy sweaty bothers ripe musky armpits—a silent concession. There it was, a clear yet unspoken declaration amidst the whispering pines: my natural essence had won the day, a fragrance more potent than Cole’s, but only barely, I couldn’t help but sneak a lick and play it off as a joke.
We shared a nod, a smirk—the ritual complete. The woods knew, and now, so did we. I had won, Later laying in the tent, the scent was everywhere, I stayed hard, maybe from the masculine energy and the testosterone thick in the air from our exposed pits. Almost enough the awaken a hidden drive in a man I guess.