A story for you.
The problem, of course, was the sheer number of panties that had attempted to come into their possession. Merle had seen his share of ladies’ underwear before becoming a worldwide rock sensation, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined existed such variety out in the wide world. Polka-dotted, striped, doodled-upon, lipstick-smeared, fucking PLAID ones. Lacy ones, racy ones, holey ones, be-ribboned ones. Bulky, bikini-cut, thongs (which in particular caused an unnecessary pondering of logistics on his part…was it not like inviting a permanent wedgie to reside between your buttocks?), the strange high-cut ones that were evidently meant to improve the tummy line. Knickers knickers knickers knickers KNICKERS. It took away a bit of the intrigue and excitement of perceived devotion when he was informed by a particularly wizened road manager that most girls bought a fresh pair for the express purpose of flinging, rather than being so overcome by the complete sexual energy of the moment that they stripped off their own garments mid-show. Not that that didn’t still happen. Nonetheless, Merle thought, it was odd that they went shopping specifically for underwear that they planned to chuck at the their band. He was positive Heathcote had kept a few pairs for God knew what, and he was utterly certain that he’d seen Julian wandering about after a party in nothing but a pair of purple girls’ knickers that had hit him in the head not a few hours before, as he was about to begin singing the second refrain of “Watch Your Dreamers.”
When questioned, Jules had insisted that the simultaneous softness and snugness of ladies’ underwear gave him a comfortable support he’d never dreamed possible, and that (secretly, you understand), he intended to go out the next day and buy a load of the buggers. Merle had put some of the vehemence to the fact that Jules was decidedly high as a kite. But still.
Frankly, the entire thing baffled him.