I have resurrected an old habit.
My love for silly underwear. No, it's not the kind you can jackoff to later. (i.e. a man wearing a lacy red thong with an even racier, silkier read top, under his suit. Not like that.) Just silly underwear.
My favorite underwear was a pair of plain white cotton briefs that had red, orange and yellow flames around the top, with a crudely drawn beaver with a chainsaw in a big circle, at the crotch. I bought those at a fundraiser for a local radio station that needed money to survive. Eons before satellite radio. I do hate space junk radio. It freaks me out, and makes me think that I need a aluminum hat to protect myself, or something. Plus, I just don't like the idea that we're going to be seen by our space neighbors as the planet with our cars up on blocks in the front yard of weeds with all our satellites, etc. But, the underwear, the beaver, they were very special. When I put them on, the cotton always felt so clean and refreshing. Of course, we all know that cotton is so cottony absorbant; which is important when you're running and hopping fences, and important when your hot with lust and you know you shouldn't sleep with them, or aren't drunk enough to sleep with them, but you're still hot for and need to just go to the bathroom, wipe and get back to drinking your beer. Yes, our bodies place cruel messy tricks on us sometimes.
The beaver drawing, somehow made me feel like my body, my soul, my personal space was completely my own; that it was in lockdown, and if anyone neared me without permission, they would get the chainsaw. Ahhh, the chainsaw.
It was just very nice, at the grocery store, in the big giant lines. At the DMV, the big giant lines. At the frigging bar, just trying to get my drink on, the big giant lines. Or, the people fucking with me at work because they were bored, stupid, didn't have a life. But, simply no bother, I had the flamming beaver panties on. Safe, secure, tough.
Those underwear have bit the dust. I think that I still have them, but they are at the bottom of the underwear drawer, in a dark corner, by themselves, only to be seen in the awe of memories, so worn out with holes and stains to really don them. But, to fucking awesome to every throw away. Maybe to be found, once I'm dead, and someone would scratch their head in wonder, and never know they had just touched greatness.
I was also partial to a silver lame thong that I once had, when my ass was perky and smooth. Oh, how I loved to put those on, and do my hair and make-up, put on my silver velvet six inch heals, turn on some kickass music, make myself a drink, and clean the house. And no one, I mean no one was in the house for that. It wasn't about the sexiness of it, so put your hands where I can see them for the duration of this blog. It was about looking and feeling good while doing something that was boring and stupid, but simply had to be done. I would dance with the mop. I would sing with my drink in one hand. I would scrub with my cigarette in my mouth, and my rag in the other hand. It was so much fucking fun. It was awesome. I highly recommend it. Even for the guys. And if your a guy who doesn't wear heels, that's fine, just put on your going to church shoes, the really nice ones, with the fancy socks.
I can remember a time with the flaming beaver and my friend Chanda. She's very tall and has big boobs and long, flowing blond hair. She wasn't single, but I was. I drawfed in comparison to her beauty. Men would come to her with numbers in hand, weiners out, eyed glazed. It was costly going out with her if my intent was to get laid. I had to buy the guy I had my sights on, way more drinks to get him refocused on me; rather than her. Focus, I'm buying the drinks here....and if you're a good monkey, I'll buy you a drive dinner after I'm done with you. Focus!!!!
She's a looker for sure. And I love her. She's my friend. I could tell you all about her personality, but after the discription above; what's the point, you've already lost your focus, too. I'm sure.
Chanda and I would go out to the bar order drinks, and keep them coming. We would get twenty dollars worth of quarters, maybe each. We would position ourselves in front of this gun game, usually in some darkly lite corner with the smell of old spilled, rotten drinks and carpet/floor burns from cigarettes stamped out in a hurry. We would proceed to masacare aliens and get our drunk on. We would laugh, kill and drink. So good, so wholesome, so fun.
Ocassionly there would be some guy, with an attitude, who would try to show us up at the game by placing his two quarters on the plastic of the game consol, next to the start buttons, signaling that he would be next. Oh, two quarters? That's it? Do you not see the fucking fourty some odd dollars worth of silver next to us? The humongous pile of silvery promises that we're here to stay forever?!? And you come over here with two?!? You walk over here with that cocky attitude, slamming down hard, what?!?, TWO?!? What exactly do you think your two quarters are going to do?!? How far do you think your 1999 and 1776-1976 are going to get you?!? Are you fucking kidding us?!?!! Just look at our score, our empty shot glasses....do you not feel the flurry and fury of sweaty underwear, smeared lipgloss, and booze?!? And you walk over here with that?!?
We would always just look at eachother and laugh and laugh. With big grins on our faces, ok, one of us would step aside for the next round and let the poor sucker put in his two, tiny, dull quarters in the slots, and try to have a go. Okay, okay. He wouldn't make it very long. It was over once he heard the clink, clink of the machine taking in the money.
We were never sure if the guys who tried and failed were really just that bad, or if it was the silly, violent, loud female energy that just overpowered them and sent them packing. We're not your sister. We're not your mother. We're not your ex-wife or ex-girlfriend. We're not here to fuck you. We're not even here to hear you fucking name said by anyone. We're not your fucking friend. We are here to kick ass...be it alien or man....just here to kick some ass.
They would always leave with their pee-pee tucked between their legs. Nope not sure if they were really that bad, or the girls just sent them packing. Hard to make that call, we were never sober enough for that. And didn't really care. Just bra wearing, video game junkies out for the thrill of the hunt. For hours we would commandeer that game murdering the evil species and drinking deliciously intoxicating drinks.
I could try to redraw the design on a new pair, or spend a ton of money getting a shiny new one; though, but it wouldn't be the same. One has to seek new pairs, and retire the old ones once their service of duty has been completed. That's just how it is. You cannot reclaim the feeling of memories or a time past. We all know what a person going through a mid-life crisis looks like....I shudder at the foolishness of it. Eek, Yuck, Icky. Yes, one just has to find new ones.
I did find one new pair. They are cotton briefs, and their very loud hot pink and royal purple strips, with silver lame lettering on them. I wore them. The feeling on just having them on and if I needed their super powers, I could just run to the bathroom and stand in the stall with my pants down for an extra moment. I have taken great comfort in them, their cottony comfort absorbing all the bad. Everyone noticed my new look, my new confidence....some even commented, asked what I had been doing. I didn't tell them about my secret weapon underwear. It would be highly inappropriate and totally ruin my underwear high. It is secret underwear after all.
I'm not quite ready to clean my house in them. Not quite ready to go out and drink in them. I have to create new meaning for my new underwear. I am sure that whatever it is, it's going to be simply fantastic. I may even tell soemone about, minus the fact that I was wearing my super strength fun britches.
Yes. It's a new dawn and it smells like fresh new cotton briefs.
