Commando Tactics in the War Between Thongs and Panties

The comment thread from  this post, which was the direct result of  this one caused me to think about underwear.

These are my thoughts: it’s a war out there, people. We have the Thongs versus the Panties. The Thongs are younger, thinner, brighter, snarkier. The Panties are older, bigger around the middle, and set in their ways. They can be snarky too, but it’s sarcasm born from maturity and experience.

Thongs are looking to engage in procreation and the continuance of life. Panties have been there, done that. Panties are built for comfort, not for speed. Thongs use the old ruse of “panty lines” to cover up the fact that they secretly feel sexy wearing their stringed things. Panties don’t give a rat’s ass if anyone can see their lines. Panties see no enjoyment in the irritation of flossed nether regions.

As brought to light by one comment, there is another option. This would be the Commando Option.

For me, the Commando Option would be the option of last resort. This option should only be taken if all of your undergarments should be consumed in a fire, and you are in the middle of Mongolia or the Canadian outback and have no other options.

Let me tell you why. Because it can be very embarrassing, that’s why!

I did it once, as a Catholic school girl. It was on a dare. My so-called “friends” dared me in 7th grade, telling me that we would all do it on the same day. Unlike my friends, I was a rube. When I arrived at school, I was the only girl without panties. The other girls got a good laugh out of the situation. Thank God (and I mean that in the worst way) my little plaid and pleated skirt didn’t flip up in the brisk breezes that constantly blew where I was raised.

The second time I had the occasion to go commando, I was in my late teens. I had spent an entire night at a house party, dancing frenetically in some unknown boy’s room to Led Zeppelin and Mountain. When I’d first arrived, I had all of my clothes on, including my panties. About four a.m., a cute boy caught my eye and we headed to a couch in an enclosed porch downstairs, where I lost most of my clothing. Okay, let me amend that. I didn’t really lose my clothes.

About eight a.m., we heard the boy’s mother making eggs and sausages in the kitchen. I hurried to put my clothes back on, but in the heat of the moment of those passionate hours before, I couldn’t locate my panties. They were not in the couch or under the couch. They had mysteriously vamoosed!

Two weeks later, I was visiting this boy at his house and his mother handed me back my panties.

There’s a moral here. In the war between the thongs and panties, keep your panties on at all times. Those commando tactics are too sneaky for civilians.

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