A Very Thong Story
Undergarments aren’t what they used to be. They used to be basic white shapeless briefs that were meant to protect you from your clothes, or vice versa. Then fashion took over and removed the bulk and droop of the past. There are now choices of cotton boxers, frilly briefs, basic spanks, and silky bikini bottoms. Panties that promise no show lines make me a happy girl.
The thong is considered a tried and true choice for a smoother looking outfit, eliminating the pantiline problem. I have tried wearing different variations of thongs to no avail. After a fair amount of attempts, I could not manage to become one with the thong. I felt it the entire time and became hyperfocused on how I could casually reach back and pluck the strip of fabric from out of my behind. This doesn’t mean I want to be a crinkled fashion faux pas when wearing certain outfits, nor do I want to worry about it. After all, there are more important things to worry about without having to wonder about a bunched up bottom or deep underwear lines that separate your upper and lower stomach into two parts. I understand that the wrong choice of underwear can lead to a wardrobe malfunction, which is why I was willing to try thongs. And while I’m being honest, they’re more of an underwedge than underwear. I think of them as tortilla sized scraps with a runway strip of fabric that nestles itself inside well inside your butt cheeks.
My friend S. feels differently.
“If you buy the right fit, you won’t even know you’re wearing one,” she told me.
To which I replied, how can you not feel something stuck in the crevice of your ass? Even if they did feel okay, I’m too thong-conscious to commit, especially when wearing a dress or skirt. What if I fall? What if the wind bows? What if I have a laughing fit on a full bladder?
What? It can happen.
Let me cite an example of an innocent night on the town gone wrong: S. is walking down a main street in a busy city dressed in a black sundress. It’s at the end of a long day of boating and food crawling, and dinner is next on the agenda. S. steps on a subway grid just as a train passes underneath. She feels an undercurrent of air brush her lower body, nothing to cause alarm. Continuing forward, she realizes all too late that she has stepped into an embarrassing situation. The chain of events occurs so fast that S. has no idea what hit her. A nor’easter blasts up from beneath the grid. It takes S. a moment to realize that her dress is well above her waist, and at the same time she is swatting at something by the side of her head that is tickling her ears. God, is it a fly, a bee, or worse, a bat?
You know that moment when you clearly understand what is happening? S. had this moment while swatting and flailing about; it wasn’t a living creature she was swatting, it was her dress. It had blown up and over her hips, fabric positioning itself around her head like a hood.
You might be thinking, as I did, “Why the hell didn’t you sidestep off the grid?”
Like a like a deer in headlights, S. had gone stupid and froze.
because S. was wearing a thong, her derriere on exhibition for all of Main Street.
Behind her, S.’s friends witnessed her struggle, and one of them had the wherewithal to step forward and end the fanny fiasco.
S.’s incident solidified my thong fears. If I fall victim to a windy street grate, I’ll be in color coordinated granny panties.