I don’t understand why anyone wears underwear. I mean, I can conceive of why as a person with a penis you might want to -- it could get stuck in things like train doors or the slats of a beach chair. But as a lady, it’s something I have a hard time wrapping my head around. Because I almost never do. I haven’t for as long as I can remember. I’m pretty sure it started out of laziness, but now as a much-less-lazy adult with a penchant for pretty things, bottom-lingerie is still something I’d rather do without.
“Oh my god,” my friends say when I disclose this intel. “What about when you are wearing a skirt?”
To which I respond, “Whatever man, it’s already a crazy-complex ecosystem happening down there in the bush and beyond -- I doubt a little office-chair-contact is going to fuck it up.”
People also get squicked when they consider the fact that I ride the subway. But let’s be real -- most of the time I don’t get a seat, and when I do, it’s not like I’m wearing a lot of micro-minis (my ass does this things where it extends to basically right above my knee, eliminating the things most of you have called "thighs.") For the most part my shit is covered, protecting my parts and protecting you from any and all juices, because I am a model citizen.
Besides, even if your jeans come into contact with some of my crack/slit sweat, I doubt it’s the worst thing you’ve rubbed up against on public transportation. I once watched a drunk guy pee onto the floor and run so quickly between cars to hurl that he threw up on the door while careening into it and then fell back down into his own pee. Just as a “for example.”
I don’t wear underwear because I hate it. I hate how it makes me sweat, no matter what the fabric, cut, or style. I hate how it loves to sneak into my asshole uninvited. I hate how even the ones that fit right enhance my muffin top. Not to mention, modern underwear doesn’t flatter the bush-having among us. It make me look like my vagina is a wearing a tiny spandex hat.
Sure, there’s underwear with a more generous cut. This also tends to be the underwear that can double as a strapless bathing suit, or even better, serve as a parachute were I ever to find myself in a position of unexpectedly jumping from a plane. I hate feeling so restricted.
What about during my period, I hear you ask? Mostly no! Mostly still no! If anything I’m even more anti-drawers during my monthlies. That shit gets to stankin’, and keeping it hidden away to sweat and bleed in a little nether-tent only makes it worse.
To be fair, at night during my moon blood time, I shall don a pair of the gigantics. But this is only because I am tired of buying new sheets and have a tendency to re-enact both the elevator scene from "The Shining" AND the part in "The Godfather" when dude finds a horse head in his bed overnight. Even so, slapping on a pad to the adult-sized-lady-panties and pairing it with a super tampon seem to simply provide more material for me to bloody. It’s much easier to clean off your ass and legs than it is to haul your private woman shame down to the laundry so that the all and sundry might bear witness.
My parents have tried to intervention me several times. My dad, not a yelling guy, once screamed in a way I’d only ever seen Al Pacino do, when I confessed that no, I was not wearing underwear one day in sixth grade. They probably thought I was a secret sex pervert.
My mom tried to make the prospect of underwear wearing (underwearing, perhaps) alluring to me by buying me a set of blue silk underpants. I hated them and their itchy lace bands with the fire of my soul, and at age 10, wore them only so that they might serve as the hilarious punchline to a joke I’d been working on about “blue moons.”
Admittedly, now that I’ve got some jeans that I have not purchased for less than 10 dollars, I will wear underpants. Because, you know, odors amassing over time. (Oh my god I am a monster). Still, on the days I do this, I am totally aware that I am in a vaguely worse mood than I could be if I were going commando. I’m basically one step away from being Zach Galifianakis in that Tim and Eric Vodka ad, bellow/crying “IT’S TOO HOT!”
You might think I am the most disgusting person on the planet, and that is your right. Having conceded this point, I’d now like to share something that might sway you back toward me on this one: I have never gotten a yeast infection. Never. Not once. Never, never, never. Is this because I am always airing my bits? I don’t know. I am not made of science. But it is a fact, all the same. Don’t believe me? I shall put you in touch with gynos present and past! And verily, do I rest my case.
Note: In an ironic twist I am wearing underwear while writing this. Because of jeans. But now that I’ve completed this draft, I will go remove them and let my fanny run free, as is its true and constant want.
Do you wear underwear? Do you have anything you do that others might consider monstrous in terms of personal hygiene? Share please, because now I’m worried I’ll have to sit all alone on the XOJane train in my shame.