I do not like things up my butt. I know, I write about sex a lot, but—much to many boyfriends' collective dismay—my asshole is a one-way street. Hey, don't complain to me, blame the first (and last) dirtbag who went there. He did not leave it the happy place he found it. I wonder sometimes if I should read more Tristan Taormino and loosen my sphincter a bit, but then I have a day like today and know I'm okay with my uptightitude.
Today, I wore these cute little black boyshort underpants. My Special Naked Friend enjoys them because they highlight my ass cleavage. Unfortunately, this afternoon they decided to migrate out of the realm of cute and into the world o' wedgie, which means they must be banished. (No, that is not a picture of my butt.)
As I waited for the L train and gracelessly yanked my underpants out of my asscrack for the 17th time, I pondered once again the allure of the thong. I just don't get it. Never have. In fact, I'll go even further and admit that I don't mind the dread pantyline. (And I am not the only one.) If I'm in a situation where it's going to be an issue, I'll just freebird it.
Anyway, this is apropos of absolutely nothing. Just thought I'd share.