I am not sure what look I am going for lately, but I am certain I don’t want “culinary” to be in the list of adjectives used to describe my lingerie collection. Those underwear, in my humble opinion, make every wearer look like they have been prepped for roasting with kitchen twine, like porketta. To combat this, some g-strings are made with ribbon, rather than an elastic and cotton thong. Or a gigantic wad of elastic and cotton wedged into their butt crack. And when you do get used to it, you get used to it the way people might get used to having their thumbs duct-taped to their palms, or their shoes tied together. Whereas most underwear is designed to fight the inevitable bunching and creeping of fabric that results in an ass crack plum full of cotton, g-strings are literally designed to do just that. Muffin top is a problem addressed by relaxing waistbands, and muffin bottom was briefly addressed by removing the sides and bottom of underpants. G-strings were supposed to free your butt from panty lines, so that any butt-gazer would have a pure, smooth booty vista upon which to rest their eyes, rather than, say, the poor butt constricted by the tugging elastic hip openings, those pesky middle parts scooping the natural butt flesh into one central sack of butt, like a cupcake.
The g-string came to popularity in the late 1990s, first on strippers, then on twenty-somethings, and then, finally, on Donna, the 60-year-old cashier at ShopKo who is suprisingly racy and not interested in what you think about her undergarment selection, thank you very much and have yourself a lovely day minding your own fucking business. I’ve got garden-variety skivvies, of course, but I also have floppy and faded high-cut bikinis from 9th grade, ladyboxers whose elastic waistbands announce their brand affiliation, and transparent lacy stretch briefs that make my ass look like a low-rent bank-robber. I know I’m not alone in this, because over the years I’ve shared this fact and discovered that pretty much everyone is stockpiling ancient underwear.Īs a result, I own underwear that is so old that it’s vintage - essentially archaeological artifacts. And it takes a long time to wear out, since I don’t do very many things that would cause excessive wear-and-tear, like, say, a lot of butt-scooting on the carpet or skivvy-only horseback riding. Like, 85 percent of it.īut why? you might legitimately ask yourself. I still own all the underwear I’ve ever bought, probably.
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