Recently, at a press screening for Gia Coppola’s directorial debut, Palo Alto, I found myself feeling physically uncomfortable during a scene in which James Franco’s character, a high school girl’s soccer coach, seduces one of his teenage players (Emma Roberts). The legal implications alone were enough to give any viewer pause, but it was her underwear: a pair of the full-butted variety printed with the word ‘Thursday’ that gave me the sense of panic. Sure, she plays a high schooler—her day-of-the-week undies serving as a visual warning to a lecherous teacher—but I was more appalled by their appearance: the flimsy material, the just a touch stretched out leg holes, the menacing elastic. It was all too much for me. My panties were, most certainly, in a bunch.
I’m not an underwear snob; I’m an underwear eccentric. If I were ever on MTV’s Room Raiders, my would-be suitor might dismiss me based on the neat stacks of Commando boy shorts, Hanky Panky thongs, and lacey Cosabella thingamabobs in my naughties drawer. He’d take those oversize tongs, ruining my handiwork in the process, and be all like, ‘Dude, this girl seems anal.’ So I enjoy a neatly folded thong? Sue me.
All through high school, I’d been partial to Calvin Klein briefs until I learned the hard way (the locker room) that all the adventurous women in the 12th grade were wearing thongs. I was too embarrassed to tell my mom that, based on this revelation, she should feel compelled to buy me a set of cheek splitters. Instead, I secretly stewed over the fact that I was the only ass hat still wearing swaddling cloths under my Abercrombies. I remember being at my friend Anna’s house (Anna, without a doubt, had a much stronger collection of Arden B. and Guess than the rest of us put together) and peering into her drawer of unmentionables. In it she had scads upon scads of multicolored thongs. And then one caught my attention: a maroon high-rise Victoria’s Secret number printed with marigold flowers. Daffodils? Were they daffodils? I’m not sure, but what I do know is that its crotchal region was so long that it curled up in my purse like a fortune telling fish. That’s right, I stole it. I stole my friend Anna’s used thong. As I write this, I can’t help but think of my colleague Danielle, who says that she doesn’t share her clothes out of fear that another’s ju ju might get on them. I don’t even want to venture a guess on her vag vessel swapping policy.
And yes, I wore the stolen thong. During a hook up, my crush, a senior who was departing for college the very next morning, implored me to “put on a thong.” To this day, it’s one of my best friend’s favorite stories. She loves impersonating the way he pronounced it with an elongated ‘o’ and muffled ‘g’, like Mr. Sisqó himself. I went into the bathroom, proudly pulled the contraband up to my belly button and sauntered back into the room. He liked the way I looked. I guarantee it. (I won’t get into the logistics of the hook up, but if that’s your kind of journalism, may I recommend Ruthie Friedlander’s story about getting finger banged by Skylar Astin?)
After that fateful night, I was hooked. I could lie and say I immediately tossed my collection of big booty drawers like a TV tween disposing of her stuffed animals, but it wasn’t like that. Over the years, I just gradually amassed a collection of ridiculously overpriced underthings, which I like to launder in a mesh delicates bag to preserve the integrity of their design. I point some of the blame at the Otte boutique on Greenwich Avenue, where they keep a bouquet of those Hanky Panky rollups at the register. I can’t leave that place without tossing a few $17 candy-colored knots into my shopping bag. And when I get home, I relish in the act of releasing them from their stretchy corsets and folding them into medallion-sized rhombuses. It’s my ritual. It’s my private indulgence. It may be absurd, but if a pervy soccer coach ever undressed me after practice, there’d be no confusion as to whether I was a girl or a woman.
This article originally appeared on Elle.com.
Photo Credit: Getty Images
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