Aloha!
I was at the gym the other day with my friend, Maggie. We were getting ready for a high-intensity body sculpting class, something we both dread and anticipate. Something which we both desperately need.
We weren't really speaking very much as we got out of our street clothes and into our workout clothes. I had my jeans off, and as I stripped off my shirt, with my back to Mags, she started giggling. I paused, my shirt collar still around my neck, the body and sleeves up around my elbows; "What?"
Giggling, she said, "Really!"
"What?!" I reiterated, peeling the shirt the rest of the way off.
Mags pointed at my butt. I arched an eyebrow, asking for the third (and hopefully final) time, "what?"
"Do you really?" she asked, a smirk on her lips, and a gleam in her eye.
"Fuck me; what are you talking about?"
"Look. Look at your shorts."
By "shorts," Maggie means "underwear." She cannot bring herself to say "panties," and I can't blame her, and we both hate the word "underpants," as it conjures up images of old men in tighty-whities. Usually, we say "shorts" or "draws." When we say "draws," people look askance because, frankly, we're the sort of people who say "look askance," and not "draws."
As I cannot see the back of my draws when they're on me, I took them off and looked at the ass. "I [HEART] SURFERS!!" my underwear flirtatiously proclaimed. There were surfboards on either side of the screened words.
"Holy. Shit." I marveled. There were words on my ass, and I'd had no idea. Words, no less, that I would never utter in one thousand billion years. Words I would never knowingly put on my body.
I don't ordinarily wear underwear. I wear a bra, because I can't stand my breasts flinging around, whapping innocent passers-by in the head, but I seldom wear panties. My body is not that of a lingerie model. I am a size sixteen, and while I am what can be called "voluptuous," I am not curvy. I am lumpy. I know plenty of women who are larger than I am, but who have these gorgeous, sweeping curves to their waists and hips and, even amidst a roll or two of fat, are proportional and sexy.
Because I don't look good in the underwear, I haven't traditionally worn it. I don't like pantylines on my ass, and I refuse to wear a thong because they look ridiculous on me. However, recently, I have discovered boyshorts. I love the boyshorts! They cover up the problem areas but they're still sexy. I bought about a dozen of them a few days ago, in colors I thought were fun and cute. Obviously, I didn't thoroughly examine them.
After body sculpting, I went home, flung open my dresser and rifled through the new shorts. "ALOHA!" exclaimed one pair. "DANGEROUS CURVES" arced across another. Ladybugs pranced around a third. The rest were ok.
I am not one to have my shorts announce my moods. By and large, I seldom greet people ass-first, in my undies, so "ALOHA!" seems a bit silly. If someone is in a position to see that cheery greeting, "Hello and welcome!" is probably a foregone conclusion.
Fun and flirty is all fine and good, but Jiminey Christmas, people; please don't make my shorts talk to me.
We weren't really speaking very much as we got out of our street clothes and into our workout clothes. I had my jeans off, and as I stripped off my shirt, with my back to Mags, she started giggling. I paused, my shirt collar still around my neck, the body and sleeves up around my elbows; "What?"
Giggling, she said, "Really!"
"What?!" I reiterated, peeling the shirt the rest of the way off.
Mags pointed at my butt. I arched an eyebrow, asking for the third (and hopefully final) time, "what?"
"Do you really?" she asked, a smirk on her lips, and a gleam in her eye.
"Fuck me; what are you talking about?"
"Look. Look at your shorts."
By "shorts," Maggie means "underwear." She cannot bring herself to say "panties," and I can't blame her, and we both hate the word "underpants," as it conjures up images of old men in tighty-whities. Usually, we say "shorts" or "draws." When we say "draws," people look askance because, frankly, we're the sort of people who say "look askance," and not "draws."
As I cannot see the back of my draws when they're on me, I took them off and looked at the ass. "I [HEART] SURFERS!!" my underwear flirtatiously proclaimed. There were surfboards on either side of the screened words.
"Holy. Shit." I marveled. There were words on my ass, and I'd had no idea. Words, no less, that I would never utter in one thousand billion years. Words I would never knowingly put on my body.
I don't ordinarily wear underwear. I wear a bra, because I can't stand my breasts flinging around, whapping innocent passers-by in the head, but I seldom wear panties. My body is not that of a lingerie model. I am a size sixteen, and while I am what can be called "voluptuous," I am not curvy. I am lumpy. I know plenty of women who are larger than I am, but who have these gorgeous, sweeping curves to their waists and hips and, even amidst a roll or two of fat, are proportional and sexy.
Because I don't look good in the underwear, I haven't traditionally worn it. I don't like pantylines on my ass, and I refuse to wear a thong because they look ridiculous on me. However, recently, I have discovered boyshorts. I love the boyshorts! They cover up the problem areas but they're still sexy. I bought about a dozen of them a few days ago, in colors I thought were fun and cute. Obviously, I didn't thoroughly examine them.
After body sculpting, I went home, flung open my dresser and rifled through the new shorts. "ALOHA!" exclaimed one pair. "DANGEROUS CURVES" arced across another. Ladybugs pranced around a third. The rest were ok.
I am not one to have my shorts announce my moods. By and large, I seldom greet people ass-first, in my undies, so "ALOHA!" seems a bit silly. If someone is in a position to see that cheery greeting, "Hello and welcome!" is probably a foregone conclusion.
Fun and flirty is all fine and good, but Jiminey Christmas, people; please don't make my shorts talk to me.