Underpants are important.
Back in the day, when I was as young and as fresh as a rose in June, I yearned for lovely underpants. Underpants with flowers on them, little bunches of cherries, maybe even cheeky monkeys. As soon as I left my parents’ home, where good girls wore white underthings, I bought them. I mourned them when they wore out. I felt ashamed when I ventured out of the house in sub-par panties. Maybe, I thought, if I spend the money on these lovely panties from Victoria’s Secret, purchased at their semi-annual sale, perhaps men will pant over me in bars. Never mind the discomfort.
Now…eh. I’m wearing granny panties and you will like them.
I am not ashamed to love granny panties. I prefer the 1940’s trim on them, where they wrap snug around the thigh, perhaps with a wee bit of ruffle. Think vintage swimsuit. You see, granny panties cover my ass. They do not ride up, or um, in. The waist doesn’t scoop down under my waist, exposing my bum to all the world. They do what they are supposed to do. Granny panties are the Navy Seals of the underpants world. They do their job. No matter what.
I am pleased to find I can find flirty underpants in the full-cut style. My husband likes the ones with strawberries on them.
Gentlemen have fewer options. My father prefers tighty-whities. I know this because he would walk around the house in them, sans pants or robe, when he thought his children were sleeping. The last time I stayed in my parents’ home, crashed on the couch, he got up in the wee hours of the morning to feast undisturbed in the kitchen, like a hawk upon a muskrat. I lay on the couch, eyes squeezed tight after that first glance, thinking please dear Jesus Christ send my father back to bed before I see even more of his ass or holy shit his front.
I will admit my father has lovely thighs, and it’s not fair I didn’t inherit them.
My husband prefers boxer shorts. He says there’s more room. I like them because I can buy him silly designs, like Toucan Sam or my favorite, underpants with monkeys all over them. Nothing is better than monkey underpants.
What’s your choice in underpants? Not for other people. For yourselves, you sick, oversexed bastards.
