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Life without panties

“You can tell a lot about someone by their underwear,” Marcelle said making a face. We had just discovered that our docile male housemate was the proud owner of leopard briefs. And we were taking a moment. “The fact that you don’t wear any?” she paused. “Well, I don’t even know what to say about you.”

I smiled, thinking of what that did say. Each morning I risked a Paris Hilton moment climbing out of my car to get coffee. I was keenly aware of the sex beneath my clothes. I wore spandex. And you could see my curves. Every one. Even my belly.

Maybe it all started with my reign of freedom in the kiddie pool. Once you’ve felt water against your naked bum, there is just no going back. So when they accosted me with those little ruffled panties I was furious! It was me versus the panties.

And I was going to win.

By the time I reached adolescence I could hardly contain my urge to start undressing. First article removed? The corset of “cultural should’s.” Then my shame. My girdle of family doctrine. My Father’s fear. Slowly I took everything off. Until ruffled panties were just a residual bad dream.

Aaah. Freedom.

We 20th century women are forced to exist in the awkward pause between lady-like and woman-like. We can shave our crotch hair until the cows come home, but it will still grow back. Our nipples have erections despite us. And regardless of what push up bra comes into style, chances are our breasts will always be a little uneven. We are naturally unkempt. There is no getting around it. We can embrace it, fight it, or laugh. Because once we accept that we are going to look like shit after sex, we can actually let go during sex.

Life without panties is not for everyone. There are plenty of moments where I wonder if my purse has pulled up my dress and I am flashing the supermarket. Bending over is a moment of deep trust. But on the plus side, I am always available to make love. Whether it is to the air, my partner, or my life.

I’ll admit that I have grown up to be a far cry from my Mother’s fantasy. I’m not a doctor. I never did buy her that Red Porsche. And she has been left trying to convince her friends that I am not a Stripper. However, I would dare to claim that I am living her deeper fantasy:

A life lived-crotch to the wind.

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