He Said/She Said: Why Our Undergarments Shouldn’t Matter
[He Said/She Said is a series designed to help all our wonderfully confused readers figure out what he’s really thinking. So every week we’ll be throwing out a topic for debate…and unlike our fave dude, these guys won’t be sugar coating anything for you. But before you jump into their heads (which seriously will make you feel like you need to shower), check out what we think!]
I can vividly remember buying my first thong. I was at the mall with my BFFs and they were going on and on about how much guys love them and “OMG, they are SO comfortable!” I started thinking about my crush Joey (aren’t all high school crushes named Joey?) and how he’d fall madly in love with me once he saw me bend over and my hot pink thong peek out over the top of my low-rise jeans. The next thing I knew, I was at the Victoria’s Secret register, arms full of 5 for $25 lacy thongs.
And the next thing I knew after that, I was waddling around my high school, my butt jiggling, with the constant urge to yank that thin strip of fabric out of my ass.
A few years later, after giving up on thongs completely and resigning myself to panty lines, my BFFs starting singing the praises of boy shorts. Thongs were out and now guys couldn’t get over how great a girl’s ass looked peeking out of a pair of boy shorts. So, once again, I gave in (this time thinking about my crush Dave) and stocked up.
And then I spent the next 4 weeks running to the bathroom every 5 minutes to smooth out my undies that had bunched up under my jeans. (I now totally get what it means when people talking about getting their panties in a bunch. Ouch.)
Finally, in a moment of clarity (or a moment of picking my wedgie and discovering a group of boys walking behind me, laughing), I made a conscious choice: no longer would I choose my underwear based on what random guys claimed to like in Cosmo. Who are these guys, anyway? And regardless, they’re not wearing it (hopefully), I am, and I’m gonna wear what I like, dammit!
And so it went. Out with the painful torture devices and in with the supportive, full coverage, comfy bikinis!
It was liberating! Freeing! My first ever feminist moment. Or my first ever realization that at the end of the day, it really doesn’t matter what sort of underwear I’m wearing. Not because I go months between boys seeing my undies (sad, but true), but because when it’s all said and done, guys really don’t care what kind of underwear we’re wearing. Sure, they have their fantasies (played out month after month in Maxim), but is a guy going to kick you out of his bed because you opted for a pair of boring, black cotton undies for your romp in the sack? Uh, no. And if he does, he’s a moron. With blue balls.
Really, why do we care so much about what guys think of the undergarment designed to protect our lady bits from rubbing against our jeans? Do you think guys put they much thought into their underwear? No. They wear what they like, be it boxers (for some breathing room), briefs (for some penis support) or boxer briefs (for the guys who think tightie whities are weird but can’t handle having their junk just flopping around in a loose pair of boxers).
And why don’t they care? Because it doesn’t matter. And they know that.
Let’s be real here: the only thing we should care about when we’re gettin’ down with someone is that their underwear is clean. Well, that and their sex parts are clean, but that’s a different issue for a different time. When it comes down to the moment of
hot, steamy passion truth, the rest doesn’t matter. If someone wants to get freak nasty with you, a pair of granny panties isn’t going to change that. That ish is gonna be strewn over a desk lamp in .5 seconds, anyway.
So forget about what boys like and wear what you like, even if this is what you like.
At least that’s my feeling on the subject as I sit here in my comfy bikini style undies. Alone. Let’s see what he has to say on Coed Magazine.