Friday, May 16, 2008
How could I explain myself to my boyfriend, or to naive Allie -- who had never really paid her dues? Sixth in a series.
Jul 26, 2001 |
Friday, 2/18/00
Well, I opted for an impromptu sleepover -- at Matt's place -- after hinting that I "just want to cuddle." In preparation for a night of sexless bonding, I showered and changed into a pair of white cotton panties. My Not Tonight Gear is actually more expensive than some of my workwear. Sexy understuff is as rare as bottled water these days. And there's always a special at Bloomingdale's or the local lingerie boutique. But you hardly ever see good seamless Swiss panties on sale. Good-girl undies, like the girls they were designed for, get harder to find every day. One of my millennium resolutions was to pamper my lower body in all its moods and phases, so I've invested in high-quality off-duty cotton panties. In white, of course. It's a mistake to stint. You don't spend a whole lot of time in your work panties -- they're off before you know it -- but your off-duty unders have to stay on, sometimes overnight. The $60 panties I wore last night are comfy and loose but properly fitted. With a demure embroidered flower on the right hip.
I arrived at my boyfriend's bachelor pad wearing my pristine waist-high armor. You know how they always say "Wear something risqué under your business suit -- even if you are the only one who knows about it, you will feel like a sex kitten." Well, same thing here.
Having doped myself up with melatonin, I took to Matt's bed feeling very much like a neutered being. As I was drifting off in one of his T-shirts, I heard him showering, then setting the clock. Then I felt his hands making experimental advances. He slid the T-shirt up to my waist and ran his fingertip beneath one leg of my panties.
"So ... where were you when I called?" he asked in a friendly voice. "What did you do tonight?"
How could I begin to explain my night? Roxana's incense-filled den of activism, a bitchy encounter with a former street kid, that aging dominatrix with her ad in Screw, and his girlfriend being asked to join the Council of Trollops steering committee because she's ... a Call Girl of Color?
"I was hanging out with Allison," I said in a sleepy voice.
His hands delved deeper, and I pulled my lower body out of reach. As I drifted off into chaste slumber, or tried to, he whispered a dirty endearment into my ear. My response was lukewarm. Then I heard him saying, in that hushed reverent tone that boyfriends reserve for pastel-colored underwear: "You should wear these panties more often. They're ... so soft."
Should I bite the bullet and invest in some actively unattractive panties? Stop discarding the old pairs? Life is so unfair! I can't bring myself to wear anything that makes me look bad. Even on nights like this.
This morning, I crawled out of an empty bed. Disoriented, I realized that my boyfriend had forgotten to reset the alarm. Could I have OD'd on melatonin? I dashed home in my hugest face-saving 8 a.m. sunglasses so I could linger over freshly brewed aged Sumatra in my oxygen mask. Then I lost track of the time and was almost late for my 10:30 at the Carlyle.
While Jasmine's client, Roberto, took a business call -- naked -- in the living room of his suite, we sprawled out on his bed, gossiping in our garter belts. It was a bit early for both of us, but more so for me, what with the melatonin hangover. Jasmine snickered with undisguised satisfaction when I told her about the NYCOT meeting.
"It was awful," I complained. "Between Roxana's pubic hair and the cheap incense, I was completely disoriented."
"No kidding!" she said in a low voice. "That feminazi doesn't bother to wax her muff, yet she has the nerve to pass herself off as a spokeswoman for hookers? What's up with that? You should have come to that benefit with me," Jasmine added. "The room was crawling with money. I picked up five business cards! And I met this dot-com grillionaire ... and got a good night's sleep."
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