The state of your underwear is inversely proportional to the likelihood you’ll get laid.
-Aphrodite, Goddess of Love
On any given night, when you’re full-on glam, maybe down five pounds, and looking absolutely flawless, boys will not give you a second glance. It’s the laws of nature. Only on the nights when you are least expecting to have a hookup will you end up safely nestled in the bed of a suitor where you’ll be penetrated seven ways ‘til Sunday. This marks part five of a seven-part series, where I’ll prove to you just that. To read Part 4, click here.
As women, there are some undeniable truths that we never admit to. Among them are the hairs that fall from your head and into your ass crack (which sometimes mysteriously maneuver into your vagina) while you shower and perhaps at other times throughout the day. You will pull these hairs from your body later while you’re peeing, or when you get naked and hope the guy you’re banging doesn’t see — but they’re there. I once found one coiled up around my NuvaRing when I pulled it out. Who knows how long it had been there.
Other things include that our bodies are leaking, literally 100% of the time. Everyone knows that you bleed for “seven days a month without dying,” but no one ever told you that it wouldn’t be that big a deal, because the other days of the month, stuff is coming out of you anyway. Gross.
But the very most shameful fact about you is the current state of some of your underwear. I can’t speak on behalf of everyone, but I still own underwear that I purchased in the seventh or eighth grade. That means they’re like 10 years old. I don’t have any other article of clothing that old, but the part that rubs up against the grossest parts of the human anatomy is what I hold onto. I have underwear that is so old that it has literally disintegrated off my body whilst I wore it.
And why do we keep these old underwear? For our periods. We have *special* underwear for that *special* time of the month, because we’re all playing a game of Risk on the last day of our periods, which spoiler, we always lose.
You: I don’t need a tampon today! I think my period’s over.
Period: Lol, think again.
For the most part, you keep these disgusting things for away from any male human, because, well, you’d like him to continue penetrating you. But sometimes, it’s laundry day, and you just don’t feel like putting on something lacy, so you go out into the world in this abominable excuse for undergarment. If you learn anything from me, let it be this — you will always meet a guy on the day you wear these underwear. Always.
I never should have worn a pair of underwear with seven holes and three weird stains on them. I should have thrown them out. They were beyond “period panties.” They were honestly an insult to most period panties. But I wore them anyway. And it was then, I met the lust of my life. He was in a fraternity I didn’t frequent often, and I needed desperately to get one of them under my belt, because like any self-respecting member of society, I set goals for myself — those goals just happened to revolve around sleeping with a member of every fraternity on campus.
We made out, and he was lovely, and it was now or never. He made me feel so sexy that for a brief moment, I forgot that a homeless person would have judged my undergarment situation. Until I felt his hand slide into third.
Shit.
I held my breath and closed my eyes like I was about to go underwater, thinking that it would all be over soon.
Guys don’t even appreciate cute underwear anyway. They take them off in one fell swoop with your pants. They never even notice them. This is fine.
And it was fine. For a little. We did the deed, and shortly thereafter fell blissfully into a blackout slumber.
I woke up the next day before he did, thankfully, and decided I’d scrounge around for my belongings and sneak out. Purse? Check. Phone? Check. Keys? Check? Shoes? Check, and check. Underwear. Underwear? UNDERWEAR?! Fuck. Where were my underwear.
I searched the entire room, practically tearing it apart as quietly as possible so as not to wake him up. I looked under the bed. I looked in random corners of the room, thinking they might have been flung somewhere in the heat of the moment. For fuck’s sake, I folded his laundry in hopes that the virtual rags I had for unmentionables would show up somewhere. It was no use. And he started to stir. I had to get out of there. I’d leave the underwear behind as a casualty. They were lost. They went to the same place that bobby pins and hair ties and one of every set of earrings go. A mere sacrifice to the vodka gods now. So I thought.
Several weeks later, I ended up at the same frat house. His fraternity had a sick little tradition as a means to sort of showcase their conquests. In the grand entrance to the house was a chandelier, that was decorated with lost panties that once belonged to lost souls like me. But most lost souls aren’t quite as lost as me. Most of the trophies were lacey thongs, and cheeky boy shorts, because most girls aren’t fools. The moment the door opened, I knew. And then I spotted them.
Hanging from the center, low, so everyone could see was my biggest regret to date. They were grosser than I remembered. I stared back, horrified. I had two options. I could run away and never show my face at that house again. Or I could purposely miss every cup in beer pong and do a naked lap to redeem myself, because I live in a world where redemption means showing more underwear, not less.
And well? I did the lap..
Read other installments in this series.
Part 1: Wear Spanx
Part 2: Don’t Shave
Part 3: Make A Pact
Part 4: Don’t Boy Proof Your Home
Image via Shutterstock
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