"Get Those Panties Off!"

Editor's Note: I was reluctant to post this on my blog, because of its obvious lascivious nature. We have a guy telling a series of females to "Get those panties off!" But I shared the whole story to a woman friend of mine, who thought it over and now has been repeating it back to me -- certain aspects of it -- for over a week. When it comes to her I'm afraid I created a monster, since this thing about the panties is all she wants to talk about. As for me, to keep it going, I was rooting in her dirty laundry and had a pair of her panties in my back pocket .... Well, you're probably not interested in what happened next...

We had some serious discussion about it, and for me that's good enough. I'm not expecting any major favors. All I want, frankly, is to move on. But not until I likewise infect your mind ... corrupt it, really ... with the lurid tale of ... The Guy Who Said "Get Those Panties Off!"

What a bastard this guy sounds like, to me. Like the cock of the walk, the man of the house, policing everything they did, the women. Who honestly were doing their level best. Of course they wore female underthings, which then on occasion would need to be washed and dried, the whole bit. You wear panties for a week, yes, they're going to get dirty. That's only logical, to my way of thinking.

They were all under the same roof, and who knows if things started out in a more egalitarian way... But certainly with the passage of time -- and perhaps it had to do with the way the relationships went -- the guy became more demanding, much more demanding, to the point of ... telling them, in no uncertain terms, what to do! Just the sound of it rankles me: "Get those panties off!"

And to make it worse, think of who these women were: One was his own mother! Terrible, but true. He went right up to her and demanded, "Get those panties off!" I know if I'd ever said that to my mom she would've decked me, and deservedly so. But with his mother -- and maybe it had something to do with his demanding tone of voice -- she ran from the room and down the stairs.

The second woman was his girlfriend, who must have had her own reasons for being with the guy. But I don't know. All I know is once he saw his mother running down the stairs, it must've given him a real sense of power. Because he didn't hesitate for a second but went directly to their bedroom and confronted her, issuing the same blunt command, "Get those panties off!" Of course she was aghast, running from the bedroom, leaving him there clenching his fists.

For me, the third one has to be the worst, since this wasn't even a woman, in the strictest sense of the word, but his 11-year-old niece, just visiting for month. Still, he had the same attitude and gave the same brusque order: "Get those panties off!" She must've been frightened, running down the stairs like the others, escaping the big bully. I'm glad she got past him.

He grimaced, one of those very determined grimaces where you get a fat lip, and rolled up his sleeves, heading down the stairs. They would get those panties off or he'd know the reason why! And just as he got down the stairs, here came the women in from outside. Obviously each one had had a hand in the task, what they were doing, but the girlfriend carried the basket, heaped over.

It turned out the big lummox hated to see panties that by then had been dry for hours hanging on the clothesline. Whether through absentmindedness, neglect, or just shear laziness, they hadn't brought them in. And there they'd been, flapping in the breeze. Every time he looked out, there they were, leading to his demand, "Get those panties off!"

I Believe In An America

I believe in an America where a man can start his underpants down around his ankles, and by pulling them up can get them around his waist and cover his ass.

I believe in an America where it's up to each man to tend to his own underpants. Who knows better than each man himself, in the privacy of his castle, where his underpants stand? He can look down without any help from anyone and see whether they're on. And if they're not, he can get them up over his feet, lift them up next to his ankles, then pull them up around his waist and cover his ass.

Be he rich or be he poor, if he has a place to stand, only momentarily, this is a task, a effort, an undertaking, he can accomplish.

The pilgrims and pioneers, we know, were the ones who started it all. They came over on ships, and according to the old world standards, a fact of history to be accepted and, with all due allowance made to varying cultural mores the world over, not to be deprecated, they were bare butt naked. Totally naked but for a kind of smock or tunic or robe, meant for the most part to keep them from being totally naked. It wasn't much, but they called it clothes. It helped keep them warm. But one thing it did not do -- it did not do this -- it did not cover their ass in that total way that underpants does. They could still feel the sway of their natural assets. They were uncomfortable with the chafing, but what were they to do, having grown up with different cultural mores, and totally idiotic ones at that.

Well, when they got to America, some Guiding Divine Providence, perhaps it was God, opened their eyes, that they might realize that except for those smocks or tunics, they were naked. So they sewed the first primitive underpants from leaves and weeds. And from there it was a hop, skip, and jump to the more comfortable cloth underpants we know today.

Boys and men came together around the sacred circle. The chieftain was in the middle with the communal supply. Then, and I know this sounds weird, all the participants ran around the perimeter of the circle, until they were nothing but a blur. One by one, and in some unconscious order, similar to the motions of birds, they spun inward, and accepted a pair of underpants from the chieftain. He made a silent sign to each, and each, individually, performed the ritual of getting his underpants around his ankles, then pulling them up to the waist secure, so they covered his ass.

And evermore may it be. We are not a naked race. We are proudly clothed. We wear underpants here in the America I believe in, in the America I know, and ever shall.