It had to happen. For years I have been wearing one and only one kind of underpants, to wit, the “Rio brief” sold by Victoria’s Secret. They overprice their daywear and employ a marketing strategy best described as “photos of beautiful slender women without cunts.” But in this one instance, damn, they figured out how to build a pair of skivvies. You could move in those suckers. And they were cotton, so they didn’t give you the Tasmanian Rot.
A nice wide flock-lined waistband that sat up above the hip bones. Front cut right up to the band so you didn’t get cloth and elastic clumping up in your groin every time you swung your leg up, say to a hanging bar or tree branch. Rise length sufficient even for my freakishly long waist. Briefs and so-called hi-cuts strangle you, bikinis dig a groove across your butt and threaten to fall down, thongs — well, can you say anal floss? A lady I hobnobbed with during my British adventures used to say ‘Oi, well, knickers always go up your crack anyway.” But these didn’t.
So now, of course, they’re no longer in the catalog. This happens whenever you find a bra or a running shoe you like. I have a drawer full, but what happens when they hit the point that the elastic peels off in the wash?
(About the models: I’m serious, people. Can you imagine a single one of those women having anything between her legs but a smooth, powdery, faintly convex space, whiffing disquietingly of polymer, like a Barbie doll? Maybe this is why the practical aspects of underwear have escaped them.)
I’d call, but any merchant that disguises its Columbus, OH headquarters location with a voice mail script delivered in a posh British accent has no real respect for its customers.
“Cover your ass” has taken on a new meaning Chez Sled. Oh well. If it’s the worst thing that happens to me all week, I’m good. Just understand that if they come for my Champion sports bra, there will be no warning shots.