Tuesday, August 26, 2014

The Day My Granny Panties Tried To Kill Me

I finally bought new bedroom furniture and as I was cleaning out my old chest of drawers, my underwear was splayed out on the bed, exposed for all to see.  I had no idea my husband had asked my 20-something year old nephew to come by and help us move the furniture.  To make matters worse, my 18 year-old daughter declares in front of everyone, “Mom, your underwear is so old! We need to go to a decent boutique and buy you some new ones.”  I’ll admit defeat.  It was time to step into this century.  To say I was a bit embarrassed would be an understatement but what happened next took me from pink-faced mom to eggplant purple with a side of “let me die right here”.

The adventure to the lingerie store started out fine enough.  My daughter decides she’s going to educate me on the styles that she and her contemporaries wear. Because you know, all teens think their parents live in a shell and have never heard of a thong, unless it’s worn on your feet.  Sure, I know what a thong is.  I personally prefer not to wear this type of butt-floss because I find them insanely uncomfortable.  Aside from those, my imagination was limited to the full brief (hi Granny) or basic bikini underwear usually found at any large major discount retailer.  Don’t ask me why, but I have always hated the word “panties”…it’s like the word “moist”. It just seems like a term that creeps out of a dark corner.  My mom called them underpants so I went ultra-modern and called them undies at our house.

Meanwhile, back at the lingerie shop, as the sales clerk approaches us, my daughter says, “My mom’s undies are so outdated.  It’s like she still has underwear from when I was born.” Ok, like I said, she’s 18, so possibly a bit of an over-exaggeration, but probably not that far off to be honest. The salesperson, let’s call her Jess, chuckles at this but, gratefully, acts unfazed.  She breaks her code of silence by asking me four little words that bring most women to their knees.  “What is your size?” Uhhhh…crickets here…uhhhh…size? “I have no idea. What sizes do they come in? Are they like S-M-L or are they in numbered sizes like 6-7-8-etc?”

“We carry both types of sizes” Jess says, “to make it easier.” Hmm, right, easier.  I must still look dazed and confused, standing there biting my lip, trying to figure out what my size is.  My sweet daughter, in her infinite wisdom, tries to help and explains: “Yeah, I doubt my mom is wearing the right size anyway and the size is probably so faded from too many trips through the washer and dryer, it’s not like we can just look at the tag to check.”  (Insert visible eye-roll by daughter and possible twinge by Jess here.)  “Hmmm, not wearing the right size” she says. Vertigo sets in.  What does she mean by this statement? Is Mom wearing undies that are swimmingly too big or are they too small, since, yes, I may have gained a few pounds since buying my last pair of (dramatic pause) panties… there I said it! Either way, I am not enjoying where this conversation is going, either is the salesclerk.    We get the size figured out, basically I am a size 6 or 7 depending on the style.  Success!

She then asks me what I usually wear and leads me over to a display of different styles.  Great, another decision.  Style choice.  It’s not getting any easier folks. Although I don’t wear large granny panties (Ooh, I said panties again! I am getting better at this), I do like my butt completely covered. Maybe it’s because I grew up in cold weather and the idea of having my butt cheeks hanging out makes me shiver. “Maybe it’s time for something new?” she goads.  I’m sure she meant style-wise, but all of this decision making was raising a hackle or two. “Yeah, that’s why I’m here, wasn’t looking to buy old underwear.” Hey, I thought it was funny.  Jess didn’t.  She’s starting to lose her patience with me, but thankfully she continues because it is painfully clear that I still need help.  The mannequins displayed in front of us are loaded with choices: Bikinis, V-kinis, Boy-Shorts, Hipsters, and Thongs in a variety of cuts like T-back, V-string, and G-string (in case you forgot, no way).  And all of those come in rise options like Low Rise, Petite Low Rise, (yeah, not on my end), Original Rise, Midrise, and Retro, which is a polite way of saying “Your Nana Never Saw Her Naval” rise.

As my head begins spinning like plates balancing precariously on a pole, I realize I am going to have to try something on to be sure.  The boy-shorts felt just like thongs to me, invading their way into the crack of my butt with ungodly force. The hipsters felt like they were not on all the way and I would want to keep tugging at them to pull them up, like a strapless evening gown beaten down by the inevitable gravity of the situation. Hipsters were out too.  I didn’t like the feeling of them clinging desperately to my thighs.  Disheartened, I slipped on a bikini style and discovered it is still one of my favorites.  Relegating myself to the same-old, same-old, I went for one last pair, the v-kini.  For those unfamiliar, it’s like a v-neck t-shirt only in bikini style.  I like the v-kini style because it rides higher on the hip but still has some style to it making me suddenly, triumphantly feel like this excursion had not been for naught.

Then, Jess drops the next question.  Sigh. More choices. “Do you prefer cotton, silk, lace, seamless or barely there panty so you can wear it under tight clothes?” Of course, the paranoia sets in. Is Jess inferring that my panty-line is showing?  Grappling with my mind to formulate an answer, in one breath, I squeeze out an incredibly pointed set of questions that is sure to bring Jess to just the right pair for me.  “Is there something with like a cotton-crotch area that is still pretty, some lace maybe or a waistband that has leopard print that would not have too many seams,  or at least a little sexier? But I don’t want silk, they just feel too slippery to me, like my butt is swimming in a pool.” My daughter glares at me with that ’Mommm’ you’re embarrassing me kind of look….HEY KID, I am still a woman too you know! “You started it” is all I have to say to her.

Finally, I end up with a set of cotton v-kinis, one in every color with a bit of lace trim.  I am sure Jess was relieved I had finally made a decision and a sizable purchase.  Although this trip was a bit rough at the beginning, I didn’t die after all. And if I had died of embarrassment, at least I would have been buried in my new, fresh, clean, sexy, fun panties!

Lori S. Choi, Blogger for Wet Personal Lubricants 
Learn more at www.stayswetlonger.com  - See more at: http://wetlube.blogspot.com/2014_05_01_archive.html#sthash.gSgCpOfn.dpuf
 Lori S. Choi, Blogger for Wet Personal Lubricants 

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Monday, August 25, 2014

A Man And His Member by David M. Matthews

Lately there has been a proliferation of bad news: Deadlocked Washington legislators, corporate insolvency, war, famine, natural disaster, and the final airing of “How I Met Your Mother.”  Thus, rather than deal with anything too serious in this column, I decided to be a little more light-hearted.  The following is the result - an ode to the bond between men and their “manhood,” aimed primarily at our female readers.

To say, “Penises are attached to men,” is to simply state a fact.  But saying, “Men are attached to their penises,” is to proclaim an absolute truth.

As you may already know, nothing is so prized a possession to the average male as his own penis.  And while straight men have little or no interest in the external plumbing of their brethren (other than as a supporting character in a porno), they can become downright sentimental when pondering their close relationship to their own equipment.  To put it bluntly, most men consider their penis to be their best friend.  Sure, we are hugely attracted to women.  And yes, we enjoy the hell out of spending an evening of football, hot wings and frosty brews with our buds.  And true, our slipper-fetching Fido is among our favorite companions.  But our true BFF is that roll of flesh we keep sequestered in our shorts.

And why is “cherish” the word we use to describe our penis?  Three reasons: Loyalty, reliability and shared common interests.  As long as we can remember, our penis has been there for us.  Before we even understood its function as “party central,” we appreciated it as the visible symbol of our masculinity, the release valve for our bursting bladders, and a dandy way to practice our cursive in the snow.  Then when puberty hit, and all our hormones executed a blitzkrieg of our nether regions, our penises were there to rise to the occasion.  Suddenly the whole world of sexuality opened up for us, and it was our trusty tumescent friends who led the way.  In times of loneliness, frustration or insomnia, it was our penises that helped us relieve our pent-up tensions.  Participation in sports was a fine source of stress relief, but sadly not always convenient or available.  Our trusty wieners, however, were ever-ready for action, even late at night and in inclement weather. 

As I’m sure some of you are well aware, our affection is so great, that many of us even endow our endowment with a nickname.  These monikers can run the gamut from whimsical (“Mr. Happy”) to blatantly boastful (“Sasquatch”).  And so concerned are we about our units’ continued good health, that we faithfully endeavor to make certain our “little soldiers” get regular exercise.  That’s just how considerate we guys are.

Now you may be asking yourself, “What about his testicles?  He hasn’t even touched on them.  What are they…chopped liver (I shudder at the very image)?”  Well, the truth is, as much as we love and respect this secondary erogenous zone and sperm manufacturing facility, our balls are the “Achilles heel” of our genital compound.  They are our weakest link; our most vulnerable spot.  Truthfully, we are barely even cognizant of their existence until they are the unfortunate victim of a blunt force trauma.  Then, however, their presence drowns out our awareness of virtually all the rest of our anatomy.  So, while we wouldn’t want to part with them, the periodic pain associated with our family jewels prevents us from rhapsodizing about them as we do their neighbor to the north.

So you see, our fondness for our own penises cannot be overstated, and our allegiance to them should not be underestimated.  And why would you be interested in any of this (optimistically hoping, of course, that you are - and haven’t been “put off” by my dissertation on “a dude and his dingus”)? Because despite our dogged devotion to our penises, there is an anatomical accoutrement over which you have exclusive dominion that we are even more obsessed with.  I am referring to, of course…the vulva. We’re absolutely nutty about it.  And luckily, so are our little pals.  In fact, this popular destination is the top-rated gated community in which ten-out-of-ten female-seeking penises prefer to reside.  Be it ever so warm and cozy, there’s no place like home.

© 2014 David M. Matthews.  All Rights Reserved.  When he’s not telling people how to live their lives, this Emmy-winning composer works extensively in Hollywood as a writer, producer, and director for features films and network television.

Also by David M. Matthews: 10 Things Men Like About Breasts By David M. Matthews
10 Things Men Like About Breasts By David M. Matthews - See more at: http://wetlube.blogspot.com/2014/06/10-things-men-like-about-breasts-by.html#sthash.KGydPkXf.dpuf
10 Things Men Like About Breasts By David M. Matthews - See more at: http://wetlube.blogspot.com/2014/06/10-things-men-like-about-breasts-by.html#sthash.KGydPkXf.dpuf