You know how the saying goes "Make sure you when you leave the house, you're wearing clean underwear. You never know if you'll get in an accident and have to be taken to the hospital". My mother never uttered this phrase, but I'm sure it was in the back of her mind. She was more concerned with my skirt length than the panties beneath. Short skirts, in her mind, would lead me down the path to harlotism. (Harlotism is the first stop on the way to Slutville)Unbeknownst to her, I had already taken the path and was in the process of constructing a seven lane highway over it by the time I was 17. Now I'm all grown up and panty free. Well, not always. Panties, as a rule, must be worn with jeans or any form fitting pants. It's my thing. Don't judge me. There is creeping up and tweaking with jeans. A wrong move by an inch and your lady bits might get pinched. Then there is the dreaded camel toe. Panties are a protective barrier for all I hold dear.
My panty drawer is small; probably holding 25 or so pairs. Have you ever wondered why it's called a "pair of panties"? Pair means "two". Like a "pair of socks" or a "pair of mittens". How can panties be "a pair". I'm not wearing two, just one. Is it because there are two leg holes? What a brain teaser! Anywhoo....back to the protectors of my crotch.
I'm a firm believer in the thong. After introducing myself to it 17 years ago and slowly acclimating to the feeling of a string in my asscrack, I will never go back. I do have a few pairs of bikini briefs worn only to bed with cute little babydoll tee's. I admit I've worn a briefs in the rare emergency situation when all the thongs are awaiting their dip in the tub. I can truly say I know what it feels like to wear a diaper. Just throw on a pair (there's that confusing word again) of briefs after 17 years of dental floss in your bum. You'll swear it's a diaper and you have a load in your pants.
Ladies, I know you'll hate me for this next part, but it needs to be said. Period Panties. That's right. The few pairs you keep in the back of the drawer for the very special time of the month. The undies you would swear on a stack of bibles aren't yours. You know what I'm talking about. I'll wait while you go look.
See. I told you. They are there, aren't they. Stains and all. Now, let's just up the grossness factor, shall we. Do yours have holes in them? Do yours have holes in the crotch area? Don't look at me like that. You know they do. We're all the same. We wear them down to rags. The elastic broke 6 months ago, the leg seams are fraying and the once vibrant hot pink color has dulled to a orangish red. Yet we keep these embarrassing bits of silk, cotton or satin until they are so disgusting a two dollar hooker wouldn't use it to wipe her ass.
My favorites are the pairs my dogs have mined from the dirty laundry pile. They root around for the nastiest, skankiest pair, skulk off to a corner and have a chew. Hours later, I'll come across the soaking wet bit of lace, gag violently and throw it back in the wash - unable to part with them. Throwing them away only causes the problem of which semi-nice pair do I have to choose and banish to the "period pile" to replace the pair I just threw out.
Ladies, I'm afraid our secret is out. While we harp on our husbands for their collection of skid mark briefs, (Seriously guys. I mean, how hard is it to wipe properly) we have our own tiny pile of shame. People ask me why I don't allow my husband to do the laundry. I always respond with a half truth - that I'm afraid he might wash everything together and ruin my clothes. But the whole truth is, I'm afraid he might find out how truly disgusting I really am.