Underwear, Part II

Originally Posted Sunday, August 4, 2013

Nobody seemed to be creeped out by the used underwear for sale story.  That's good, I guess.  Underwear used to be more taboo than it is now, but people pretty much walk around in the streets in undergarments and of course Victoria's Secret has made it possible for father's to buy sexy outfits for their daughters without feeling odd about it, so I guess it is to be expected.  Red made a wonderful series of etchings of women's underwear.  I own one.  They were small prints of underwear just hanging in empty space.  She told me that when she was young, she had underwear for every occasion and that each pair made her feel differently, like a different person.  I myself quit wearing underwear about the time I woke up one morning and found I could make a tent out of the covers.  Slipping naked under the cool sheets at night was something I'd never heard of or seen before.  People wore outfits to bed, sleeping costumes.  I felt that I was somehow connected to secret adventurers and unnamed heros.  I was making discoveries. 

One of my most vivid memories from jr. high was when Benny Ricks, one of the coolest badasses in any part of town, took off his pants to dress for gym class and was standing in a pair of women's underwear.  He was two grades ahead of me (all three grades, 7-9, shared the same locker room), so I hadn't much to say about it, but the place went mad like a bunch of chimps in the monkey house when the trainer brings bananas.    Benny, though, just stood there smiling and listening to the slurs thrown his way until the room had finally quieted.  Then he said one word.  We all knew who she was.  It was unbelievable.  Certainly not.  She would never. . . .  And then, like that. . . Benny was once again the coolest cat in the world. 

I say that it was a vivid memory, but that moment influenced my future, too.  There was just something about a girl giving you her underwear that was. . . special.  Not girlfriends, but women you met, women with whom you flirted, women with whom you had yet to and may never join in the act of making love.  It was a real denouement (I know I've used the word twice in two days) to a first flirtatious conversation. 

"Let me have your underwear." 

"What!?" 

"You know what I said.  Give me your underwear." 

"You're crazy.  These are expensive." 

"I'll buy you another pair.  Give me those that you have on." 

Then the hesitation.  "Oh my god. . . I've been wearing these all day. . . ." 

"Good.  Let me see them." 

Sometimes the thrill was that they were going home to boyfriends or husbands.  They liked that, leaving the house in underwear, then going home without them.  It was a small danger.  What if he was amorous just as she walked in the door?  What if. . . ?  It was a small danger but one they could think about then and later, too.  And of course there was the small dampness that was happening at the moment as well. 

But all that was years ago when the world was different and one could still get a kick out of such things.  A lovely shared moment.  Sometimes, you never saw the woman again. 

Silly confession, and probably not wise.  Hence, the use of second person. Still, you might say, "Oooo.  Another piece of the puzzle." 

I wish I had made a beautiful picture of a woman sniffing a pair of underwear to post for today's picture, but I've never thought to do such a thing.  I will now, though.  Maybe a series.  Hey, Red, if you ever read this from whatever prison you are apparently in. . . I'm stealing something of your idea.  Send me a picture.  Hell, yes.  Anybody reading this blog, feel free to send me pictures of underwear, anybody's underwear, whether they are worn or hung or lying on the bed or floor or from the bathroom curtain rod.  We will make a documentary.  I'll post them.  Anybody, that is, but Q who would send me something terrible and degenerate.  This is only a sweet request.  Don't do it, Q, don't spoil it for me. 

Or, perhaps. . . we can make a pay website for those whose tastes might run that way.  There's something. . . .