I got my first job when I was 14 and spent the next two years saving up to a buy a super awesome used Honda Civic that I had a lot of (really bad) sex in before it was stolen OUT OF MY DRIVEWAY, stripped and lit on fire. But before I was working, I cleaned the bathrooms, took out the trash and did the dishes for an allowance of 25 dollars a week. What did I do with this money, you ask? What any 14 year old with a wad of cash in her back pocket who desperately wants to be sexy would do—bought a shit ton of fancy underwear.
What!? Yes. My mother once said to me if I came home with one more Victoria’s Secret bag she was going to cease my cash flow. At least, I think that happened. I remember it happening, anyways. I LOVE underwear. There is nothing better than walking around all day, even if you’re in nappy sweats and your hair is unwashed, knowing that you have a killer pair of underwear on underneath. It’s like having a juicy secret that no one knows about—unless your shorts are too short and you flash everyone in your English class a nice view of your lacey purple crotch. I made lots of friends in English class.
Flash forward a near decade, and although I don’t buy as much as I used to (apparently groceries are more important than a lingerie habit. Who knew?) I have three—yes three—drawers of bras, lingerie and underwear. I could probably stop washing my underwear and still be fine for nearly a year. When I was still living at home my father used to harass me about the amount of underwear (which he called “dental floss” due to the skimpiness of the majority of it) I own. But I can’t help it, I love it! Whenever I am feeling insecure or gross or bloated/have eaten too much indian food, I put on some type of lingerie (the more buckles and straps, the better) and strut around by myself to feel better. It always works. My underwear is a turn-on. To me at least.
Now, my boyfriend buys most of my underwear. These gifts are just as much for himself as they are for me (I’m onto you, B!!)—he knows once he gives me something new I will need to put it on and romp around, begging to be pounced on in a look-at-my-new-underwear fashion. In reality, my boyfriend doesn’t give a shit about my underwear—he just wants to take if off. Proof: the first time I wore lingerie for him, I specifically picked out a nice lacey matching bra/panty combo and greeted him at the door with a triumphant smile on my face. He screwed up his (adorable) nose, gave me a once-over and said “I didn’t know you liked pink.” Oy.
Of course, not all my undies are of the sultry (best.word.ever.) variety. I own a good 50 plain cotton thongs for running, yogaing and other activities where comfort is key. But, if you see me around the streets (I do hang out on the streets..) with a weird smug little smile on my face, it is probably due to the fact that I have a pretty awesome pair of panties on, and no one knows it but me.