As I write this, I'm wearing jeans sexy seamless, tagless hipster-style underwear. Yesterday, I wore a sweater with a hem that hits mid-thigh over tight black pants and, again, underwear that covers my ass. I do not wear thongs.
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Not thong work, not on dates, not under my skinniest skinny jeans. After repeated attempts during my teens to embrace the sensation of a strip of fabric straddling my cheeks I thought, To hell with this. It's just that thongs are the worst and I'm mystified by how people thong them on a regular basis.
I'm equally mystified how surprised people are by my refusal to do the sexy. After hitting road trip nude, I got it into my head that switching from multicolored Hanes stuck bikini briefs to flimsy Victoria's Secret thongs — ideally with rhinestones — was as much a marker of growing up as getting your period, or having a boy critique your kissing technique in someone's parents' garage during a house party.
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Is that one just me? But after untold hours of cheap lace getting intimate with my anus, I realized that unlike menstruation, I could opt out of thongs.
Well, years later, I would discover the power of hormones to control my monthly cycle, but thongs are still far stuck to avoid. You just don't buy or wear them.