I just bought a pair of crotchless panties for no reason,
and if that isn’t a sign of misplaced optimism, I don’t know what is.
I’m not having sex with anybody. I don’t mean at this exact moment – I mean
that it’s more likely I’ll get hit by lightning before I have a reason to wear
these underpants. Unless I suddenly
decide my vulva needs a chance to blow in the breeze some random Tuesday, I
have no need for this barely there undergarment.
It’s not as if wearing crotchless panties ahead of a likely
sexual encounter is even a good idea.
That’s a lot to hit a partner with, just all of a sudden. I feel there should be some kind of warning
upfront.
Like, “Oh hey. Just so you know, before anything really gets
started, I’m wearing underwear without a crotch. I’m not sure why either, but let’s just calm
down and get through this.”
Going crotchless sets some pretty serious expectations that
aren’t likely to be met. It’s the nuclear lingerie option.
Crotchless implies something grandiose is about to
happen. Whatever sex is about to go down
needs to be epic, and that’s a lot of pressure. Masquerade masks should be
involved, perhaps an artfully choreographed orgy or at the very least…one
partner.
My underwear is usually more utilitarian. I prefer granny panties to sleep in, thongs
during the day so as to avoid unfortunate lines or bunching, and I like a bit
of belly coverage. Nobody needs low-rider
underpants.
I normally put some more thought into these things, but all
of a sudden, while shopping for bras during a sale at La Senza, I lost my
goddamn mind.
My wardrobe overall isn’t frivolous. As an adult, I have only two types of clothes
in my closet - clothing that makes me look homeless and without hope but is so
comfortable you wouldn’t even believe, and work clothes in a range of
sizes.
I used to have party clothes, slutty clothes, going out
clothes, clothes for dates, clothes with sequins, going dancing clothes and
vacation clothes. Eventually, I ran out
of room and had to narrow things down.
Not having space means thinking seriously about what you lose and what
you add.
And I’ve now added crotchless panties.
The word panties suggest actual material is involved – which
is wrong. There is an approximate two-inch wide and six-inch long strip of pale
pink lace meant to sit just below the belly button, for what I can only assume
is modesty.
Attached to the tiny strip of lace are two black, very thin elastic
loops I have to carefully thread one leg into at a time. Not that I’ve ever seized any day by jumping into my underwear two legs at a
time, but the delicacy of these tiny black straps and band aid sized lace makes
me cautious.
Once in place, there is a thin black strap on either side of
my private bits and crossing over each butt cheek. The butt cheek section is ornamental only–
the straps neither lift nor separate.
For less packaging than normally exists to protect individual imported
fruit at the grocery store, I paid $19.99 plus tax.
Fortunately, I spent a good minute staring at the black
plastic mannequin modeling this feat of sexy engineering so I knew exactly
where everything should go before bringing them home. One should be confident about crotchless
panty mechanics, if not actual usage.
There’s no instruction manual for just when or how to employ
this type of lingerie. It’s one of those
things that if you’re straight up walking out of a store with crotchless panties
and not the T-shirt bra you wandered in for, it should be assumed you know what
the fuck you’re doing.
Women actually have a lot of guidance, just in case we don’t
know what the fuck we’re doing in general. Creeping up constantly in my
Pinterest and Facebook feeds are helpful links to articles and pointers for how
aging women should be doing their makeup, getting their hair cut or dressing
themselves so as to not be entirely invisible.
As I’m about to turn 42, I best pay attention. Based on the apparent urgency driving these
notices, I’m expecting very soon I’ll wake up with my face rearranged like a
Picasso painting.
If I ignore all the
signs of aging and the advice on what to do about it, my left nostril WILL
migrate to my hairline, and how am I supposed to know how to contour for that?
The hair on my dangerously middle-aged head is another issue
I had no idea I needed to be concerned over.
Fortunately, suggested options for older women are refreshingly varied: a
short bob, choppy bob, medium-short bob or layered short bob.
When I inevitably die alone and feral cats
are eating my face, a bob should be easy for them to get around.
Clothing is trickier though, because I know I’m doing it
wrong. For example, fewer people look at
me lately.
Women will still occasionally size me up from my feet to my
modestly bobbed head. Sometimes I sense it’s
a compliment and they’re wondering where I got my dress, and other times it’s
likelier they’re wondering how on earth
I’m wearing those shoes with that dress, and why are my facial features all
rearranged like a goddamn Picasso painting.
Men…men no longer notice me at all. It’s different than
being ignored. To be ignored, you have to
be noticed in the first place. All those
beauty articles for the after 40 crowd aren’t about being sexy and attractive
anymore – that window of time is apparently closed and painted over. Instead, the messaging focuses on being completely
inoffensive, standing out only as a means to avoid being hit by passing
traffic.
To be certain, nobody gives a fraction of a shit about what
kind of underwear I’m wearing.
But I still do. And the
breeze is quite refreshing.
