the drawer

where we finally talk about pamie’s panties

Just when I think I have part of my life cleaned up I look around and notice another section that is completely out of whack.  I spent two hours yesterday cleaning up my bedroom– throwing out clothes that I’ve been hanging onto but not wearing for two years, always with the promise that “I might need it” someday, hanging up the piles of clean clothes that line the walls of my room, whittling down my underwear drawer to pairs of underwear that I’ve worn this year–

And as I was going through my underwear drawer, which I have to admit I really hadn’t paid much attention to over the years, I realized just how many years of memories are in that drawer.  I had panties in there from when I was in the ninth grade.  And as I sat there deciding which bras were completely dead and which ones might still do in a pinch, I realized something that I have been lying to myself about all these years.

Men don’t care about my underwear.

I had a hunch that Victoria’s Secret and Fredericks of Hollywood were only created to make women feel like they needed to dress up as strippers and prostitutes to “make your man hot.”  Those magazines and catalogs would come in and despite men making jokes about flipping through the pages to look at Tyra, I’ve never actually see a man look through a Victoria’s Secret catalog.

As I started getting boyfriends growing up, I remember the girls in the locker room teasing me about my stupid looking bras.  They said the straps were too big, the bra was too white…

I started wearing demi-cup bras because my friend did.  We stuffed our boobs into too small of bras because we thought that all the larger bras were ugly.

But when I took my bra off for a boy, he’d ask why those terrible marks were all over my chest.  They were from the bra cutting in, trying to make myself look like a bra model.

As I sat there yesterday holding all of these pairs of underwear I started thinking about why I had all of these old pairs.  Then I realized that I was holding on to the favorite pair of underwear of each of my old boyfriends.  The one thing they all had in common was that they really didn’t care about my underwear.  They never bought me underwear, and they never wanted to see me flounce around in little lace things.  But I wanted them to want me to flounce around.  I would buy lace underwear, satin underwear, cotton underwear, underwear with flowers, with polka dots, bikini cut, briefs, high waist…

And there would always be one pair per boy that they would ask about.  Not that it was the one that drove them crazy or anything, just one pair that they would say, “Hey, you’re wearing my favorite pair of panties today.”

And as I held these older pairs of underwear in my hand I saw just how different all of their styles were.  They would never be friends, all these guys, because deep down they want something completely different on their girlie’s ass.  One liked maroon silk with white flowers.  Another liked black cotton with white polka dots.  Another liked a hardly-there black lace that I often called the hooker panties, since it looked like there weren’t any panties there at all.

When I know information like “favorite panties” I try and dress for occasions.  It adds at least twenty minutes to my morning ritual.  If I think that there’s a possibility that maybe said boy could possibly see my panties that day, and I’m feeling frisky or it’s some sort of holiday or celebration– out come the favorite pair of panties.  And I have them in descending order according to favoritism.  Weekends, or any day where I could spend all day in a t-shirt and panties are key times for the “favorite panties.”  They are the first pair tossed in the wash so that they are ready at a moment’s notice.

I’m sure not one boyfriend of mine has ever noticed the special attention I pay to my knickers when we go out for the evening.  This is because there are many times that I wear the “favorite panties,” but no one ever finds out.  And if I miscalculate the month wearing the “favorite panties”… well, I’m mad at myself for weeks.

And I know that it doesn’t matter.  I’ve seen that it doesn’t matter what I put on my bum.  But sometimes I wish it would.  Sometimes I’d like to feel like Tyra Banks, and just lay back on a rock wearing the seamless collection while the sun bathes my stomach and a waterfall is splashing up all around me and my boyfriend looks at me and says, “This is the most perfect moment of my life.”

I’d like to be walking from the bathroom to the closet and have my boyfriend say, “Hey, is that a bikini cut?  Wow.  You really have lost weight in your hips, because it hugs in just the right places.”

Or, “I went ahead and bought you a few pairs of bras and panties from Victoria’s Secret.  This is your size, right?  I think these would look incredible on you, and I can’t wait to see you do a fashion show for me.”

Am I sharing too much of my fantasy life?

The big question is– why did I have so many old pairs of old boyfriend’s favorite panties?  Well, like I said, I haven’t really gone through that drawer in a long time, and I didn’t know they were all there.   But the reason that only the favorite pair stuck around is easy:  in case we made up after the break up– you know that’s an occasion for the “favorite panties,” so he remembers just how much he missed me, of course.

I just want some days of the week underwear, I really do.

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