THONGS – Why Skimpy Underwear Is Not For Everyone And How it Can Really Spoil A Trip Out To The Coffee House
When women get a bit cheeky and boisterous, by which I mean drunk, they will often try to tease you sexually by mentioning thongs. They are always disappointed, swiftly followed by puzzled, at the reaction this causes in me.
I shudder and then pull a face like an Earl Grey drinker who doesn’t take sugar taking an accidental pull on a tin mug of builders’ tea. They eye me along their pretty noses and accuse me of being some sort of prude. It is then that I have to explain as follows.
I do not have a blanket revulsion to all thongs. They are very nice when sported by sun bronzed teenage temptresses on the Copacabana beach. If my young lady has decided I have earned a sexual treat and I see one peeking demurely at me through her diaphanous negligee, my heart leaps with joy.
But these are tame thongs. Domesticated thongs. They are a rarity that you do not see very often. What you see far too often are the bad, rabid thongs. Feral thongs run amok.
You are walking the summer streets of our beautiful country they are everywhere. Vicious, bedraggled looking scraps of gaudy material climbing over the waistbands of pudgy girls’ jeans. They glare at you, snarling like brightly coloured Rottweilers and dare you to make even a mental comment about their owners’ muffin tops and fake tans.
They are the stained and twisted variety that you catch sight of on a Sunday morning, lying there bold as brass by the path in the park as you stroll out to get your coffee and copy of The Sunday Times.
These items always stop me in my tracks, stunned rigid for a millisecond before I regain control over my legs. Cheap and nasty strips of fabric, made to look even cheaper, and definitely even nastier, by the fact that they have been marinating in the sweaty arse crack of some booze addled disco bunny for an entire evening. Underwear that has been hastily torn off in preparation for post-nightclub alfresco fornication, probably with someone she’s only just met.
Thongs like these are bought in packs of ten at High Street discount palaces for just this purpose. They might as well have a machine in the toilets. They probably do for all I know. I have very little truck with nightclubs nowadays. I’ve seen one draped along the back of the park bench, for crying out loud. In full view if the brightly lit pathway.
Did they do it there on the bench? Or were they running past the bench on their way to a more secluded corner, but she just couldn’t wait to get ‘em off. Had to fell the night air running through her crotch before getting stuck in behind that grassy knoll just next to the climbing frame.
I found one of these flimsy remnants in the street once. Not in a park, but in a street; my street to be precise. That’s drunken chutzpah at its finest, even at three in the morning, to do it in someone else’s street. At least I hope it was someone else’s; I’d hate the thought of sharing a post code with these people. They did it right next to my hedge too; my special lurking hedge. That’s what I thought at the time, but the reality is that they probably didn’t. The more likely explanation is far worse.
Fucking in the streets at least involves some element of adventure and derring do, albeit a rather grubby element. As mental detective work goes, it does at least lend some sort of rough necked kudos to the perpetrators.
But more than likely it was just some young piece of fluff, staggering homeward with kebab in hand. Taxi money all gone, she found herself caught short and needing to spend a penny. But in her state of advanced intoxication, she forgot to remove her nether garments before she squatted down.
Not wanting to undertake the rest of her wobbly trek wearing pissy knickers, she cast them aside. Only for me to tread on their neon pink squelchiness as I began my journey to the coffee house. Damn near put me off my decaff latte I can tell you. Looking my raspberry muffin in the eye was no easy task either. And that ladies, is why I judder and twist my face at the very mention of the word “thong”. For any Australians reading this, I’m not talking about flip flops. I sincerely hope you got point via the medium of context.
©Copyright Michael Grimes 2013