But perhaps most memorable were the set of Princess themed underwear I received when I was seven years old. Little bikini cut cotton panties with Snow White on the front, or Cinderella. Kind of creep-tastic, looking back, but that the time, I loved them. I wore them every single day. For three years. My mother had to literally peel me out of them.
And then they got holes in them from being washed so often. And I wore them anyway.Because at nine-going on ten, I had less shame than I do now, which is almost impossible tobelieve. I wasn’t the most popular kid at my private Catholic grammar school. I wore really thick glasses (that had Minnie Mouse on the hinges, obviously), I rarely if ever washed orbrushed my hair, I was stick skinny and had dry skin. Why my mother never brought me to the kids division at Ford, I’ll never know. Anyway, I had little to lose in the coolness category. I was already deemed a loser by my peers, so I had given up trying to impress them in second grade. I continuously marched to the beat of my own Disney themed, unhygienic drum. And that included Disney themed panties.
Until my sister’s boyfriend found them.
My sister was seventeen, a full eight years older than me. She was super cool to me. She had a Jeep, and she had a boyfriend, and she had cool long blonde hair and she listened to Dave Matthews and Counting Crows, and I would sometimes steal her CDs and makeup and make myself look like a Puerto Rican drag queen dancing in my bedroom to “Mr. Jones”. But I loved her boyfriend, Mike. He was also the epitome of cool. He, too, drove a Jeep (ps, Jeep has not paid me for any of this product placement), with a soft top. He played lacrosse (telling), and he had thick, curly, gorgeous black hair that I knew he could never lose. He was nice to me and took me to play Q-Zar sometimes. I loved Mike.
So when I rushed out of the bedroom in my nightgown to see him downstairs one night, I was unaware that my nightgown (with Ariel from the Little Mermaid on front, obviously) was tucked into my over-washed pink underwear with the torn remnants of a Sleeping Beauty decal on the front. So when he picked me up to hug me, his hand touched my bare ass.
I cried for three days.
That story still haunts my Thanksgiving dinners. It will probably haunt my wedding in my sister’s maid of honor speech. I may never allow my kids to watch Cinderella, or dress up as her for Halloween. Scarred doesn’t even qualify the gaping wound my nine year old ego sustained that night.
My underwear selection now is a bit more perverse, though surprisingly more concealing. I’m a typical twenty four year old that has an inordinate amount of lace panties in multiple colors, and I love boy shorts. I have a couple pairs that make me look like I actually have an ass, and I have my fair share of granny panties in plain white with little blue ribbons on them. The point is, however, I think through my underwear selections methodically. I try on fourteen pairs in a shot, deciding which look the best and which look the most durable against laundry detergent and intermittent agitation. I replace my underwear collection every six months as a result of my childhood trauma. I have spent more money at Victoria Secret than I did on my tuition for four years at The University of Maryland. There should be a library with my name on it in the back of the store by the bathing suit section. Dutch authors need not apply.
So I guess, after having been one of the most shameless underwear wearers ever, I have become an underwear snob. Like when a fat chick loses a hundred pounds and looks bangin’, and she watches everything everyone else eats, judging them calorie by calorie. That’s me. Thread by thread, I judge underwear.
For guys, it’s a bit different. There’s only so much to judge. Boxers, briefs, or boxerbriefs? If you wear briefs, you have no shot of putting your penis anywhere near me, and I canonly recall one encounter where I actually left a guy in the middle of the night and never returned his phone calls because he had on some tighty whities. I’m sorry, I also stole a box of Entenmenn’s cookies from your kitchen because I had to wait for a train in Penn Station and I had no cash on me to buy Taco Bell. So now I’m making fun of you and I stole your cookies. I’m a shitty hook up. Sorry, dude on Amsterdam and 107.
Boxer briefs, never my first choice for underwear. For one, I can’t steal them. I am a clothes thief (sweatshirts being my coveted prize). I borrow t-shirts and shorts to lounge around in, and boxers work brilliantly for bedtime outfits and lay around lounge outfits on Sundays. Boxer briefs are never convertible for girls. You can’t make them fit, no matter how many times you roll them up. Because they are meant to be tight on thick guy thighs, they hang off your legs, but still touch your legs, causing you to tug and pull at them (like I did when I was four, and I hated the feeling of jeans on my legs. So I would stand in the mall tugging the seamsat my crotch whining to my mother “these feel weird”), and they chaff. God, do they chaff. Awful. Uncomfortable. And let’s be honest – the only guys who look remotely good in those are guys who have Grecian God bodies. You don’t want to see a 270 pound, five-foot-two guy in anything spandex, underwear included. These were made for athletes.
But boxers? Glorious boxers. I used to steal my boyfriends’ boxers all the time. I’d wear them around his dorm, my dorm, my house, out to the deli. I loved them. I thought I looked adorable in them. I didn’t care that the fronnt of my vagina was potentially exposed through theopen seamed fly. I’d just wear cute underwear underneath. It would be like showing off cute patterned bra straps. Dating athletes was so hard sometimes on my fetish for boxers, because very few of them ever wore them. They always liked to be held in place, spandex tight, in case they were randomly asked to score a goal or run a mile. It took a lot of getting used to.
Charlie – who I fondly called Chuck – was a midfielder for an English Premier League team, and the second in command on his European national team. He was a great leader for three years for his national team, taking captaincy on several occasions, and having a strong media presence, enjoyed by many because of his quiet charm and insanely good looks. And in those three years, I had the pleasure of seeing him naked on several occasions. The first time was perhaps one of the most well planned out, internationally amazing things I have ever done in my life. Dan Brown may have based an entire plot line off of my planned sexual encounter with Chuck.
Chuck and I met one night in London. There’s a really long, drawn out back-story regarding one of his teammates, but it has no place here at the moment. Long story short, heknocked over my beer, it exploded, and three months later we began chatting on Facebook.
I had never actually held a conversation with him in person. But we became the best of cyber buddies. We were reminiscent of people in 1996 who had relationships with people they had never met thanks to AOL chatrooms. And when I gave him my number, we became instant sext buddies.
I don’t know why it was so easy to take pictures of my bare breasts and send them to a guy I had spent a total of fourteen seconds in the presence of, but it was amazing. I found it totally liberating. And I got some fabulous pictures in return. But text messages can only do so much, and three months in, we decided somewhere down the line, we would have to see each other in person, naked, to determine if we really looked as good as we did in reverse mirror images. A struggle, for me, because I took like thirteen pictures before actually sending the best one where I was sucking my stomach in and curved just the right way so it looked like there was a shadow under my boob, indicating size. I should have been a photography major because the shit I could do with a three megapixel phone camera was stunning.