The God Of Panties

There, that’s going to lure a stream of fetishists. Whatever.

What it is, is the most popular, ever, post on this blog, attracting readership over a span of eight solid years, was my tirade and jeremiad about the Betrayal Of Beaucoup Butts committed by Victoria’s Secret in the late oughts. Once upon a time, I could buy the perfect pair of underbritches for five bucks a pop in bulk. I wore them year in and year out. They hit me right where you want an undergarment to hit, at the elusive (you can feel it though no one else can exactly point to it) “natural waist,” they didn’t grab my crotch like a sleazy old perv on a packed subway car, they didn’t crawl into my crack. They were perfect. And of course, when you find that one perfect shoe or bra or pair of underwear, they stop making it.

Worse, they effed with it. They brought it back, but with a stringy elastic that sawed at your upper buns. Then with an even stringier one that fell barely above your bush. Unless you pulled it up tight so that you had anal floss, plus bush escaping from the leg elastic. Sorry, but these are the realities of underwear.

Those of us for whom nothing else would do were reduced to horrible granny panties, or scanty goose-me’s that only look or feel good on anorexic adolescents. We wore our Victoria’s Rios until they shredded.

And no one else in the vast underwear market — count the women in the United States, multiply by a decent number of britches to keep in the drawer, subtract a few hardcore nature types who want a breeze blowing round their privates (cf. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire — prize to anyone who finds the reference) — no one else in that market had the focus to relieve what was clearly a nationwide experience of desperation. Look at the damn comments on that post.

No one, till now.

I have Frank to thank. Late in May, he burst upon this blog with a revelation.

Of all things, American Eagle Outfitters — which I haven’t frequented since buying a pair of cork sandals twenty years ago; I mean, they make jeans, I don’t wear jeans — or at least their girly spinoff, Aeriefinally mammyjamming figured it out.

I hesitated a bit, you know, will the size work, is this for real, and most of all how do I figure out the discount thingy on the website?, but… yesterday I extracted my first pair of Aeries from the plastic packaging and put them on.

Light broke through a gap in the eastern clouds. A distant chorale sounded. There was a release of pigeons, and a soft breeze conveyed the scent of lemon blossom into the room. Confetti fell in drifting spirals around my head.

My ass said, “We are home.”

The headlines make me bang my head rhythmically on rigid surfaces,  and the heat index today was 107 in DC, but for the first time in years, my ass was happy. Trust me. If your ass ain’t happy, ain’t no part of you happy.

Some of the other correspondents had a gripe or two — the waistband creased in the wash, there was Spandex — but the ass does not lie.

Frank, you are the God Of Panties, and I salute your contribution. You don’t even have to model them.

I ordered ten more pairs.

Bite My Ass, Victoria

An actual tomato from my garden.

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.