Get Out Of My Panties, Please

For about a week now every time I open my email I see this subject line: Discover the Mystery of Vibrating Panties. Yeah. I get those kind of emails. I know you’re not surprised. I’ve opened the email and marked it unread a number of times. There’s something about it that just bugs the hell out of me.

Now you know me, I’m no prude. I’m no stranger to sex toys. I’ve been to blow job school and have escorted my aunt and my husband to a number of sex expos in Los Angeles. Ask Dave about the time I made him go buy a Playgirl so he could get the discount ticket price to Erotica LA. I’ve owned a number of vibrators in my day. So this isn’t a sex toy aversion that I’ve got going on.

So, what, pray tell, is my problem you ask? They are panties. They vibrate. Move on. Yeah. I should. See the problem is that I can’t. It still bugs me. I have questions. Like where do I wear them? Are they just for home, or am I meant to wear them to the office? If I wear them to the office won’t people hear the vibrator buzzing away? Awkward stares from co-workers as I reach orgasm isn’t one of my usual fantasies. There’s one that comes with a remote control that can be operated from 12 feet away. What happens if the remote control is on the same frequency as my garage door opener? Will I have an orgasm every time the garage door opens? Will the garage door have orgasms? Is there risk of electrocution? Are the panties fire retardant? These nonsensical and distracting lines of thought aren’t my only issue, but it’s enough to take my mind off the orgasm at hand. Fail.

I have other underwear issues. Like it bugs me that they are now making Depend in fashion colours. No. Really. If you’re one of the people who has to wear them, don’t get your pull-ups in a bunch. This is about me and my issues, I’m not judging you. Well I am, but it’s not what you think. There are a lot of reasons why I’m judging you. But back to me. First off if I have to wear the freakin’ things I’m not going to be advertising it to anyone, let alone myself. I’m not going to be dancing around the house in my diapers and glancing in the mirror thinking “what a cute pattern my panties have.” No, absolutely not. Rather, I’m going to be drinking heavily and contemplating taking myself out in a blaze of glory.

I also have issues with the fact that women’s underwear can cost upwards of $100 a pair. Hell there are thongs, mere pieces of string, at La Perla that start at $100. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love a nice silk pair of panties, but they just aren’t practical and haven’t been since I first got my period in 6th grade. Being a woman is an ugly messy business. If you don’t know that or aren’t willing to admit it, you’re clearly medicated. In my lifetime I have leaked, spotted, and otherwise ruined dozens upon dozens of pairs of underwear both cheap ass cotton panties from Walmart through to over priced pairs from fancy lingerie stores. In order to keep your expensive knickers pristine you need to a) never wear them, b) only wear them for show for the 3 minutes it takes to seduce your average man, or c) spend countless hours hand washing them in the sink. OK. You could give them to your maid to wash, but really, the idea of someone else hand washing my underwear makes me uncomfortable. I don’t even let my husband wash my knickers from Target.

So, yeah, I’ve got issues. What’s new?

Now that I’ve gotten this off my chest, I can delete that damn email. Unless you want me to forward it to you so you can electrocute your crotch. Lemme know, I’m good like that.