I Don't Love My Husband Enough to Wear a Thong

I woke up this morning tired after having a very crappy day yesterday. I decided I wanted some attention from my husband so I pulled out my sexiest pair of undies, lace, thong, boy shorts. Surely, tonight when I see my husband, he will have been thinking of me in my super panties and I'll be a very happy wife! I'm no supermodel but I have the right attitude for those panties, or so I thought. You see, today is the first day I've ever actually worn them for more than just recreation.
I knew my undergarments choice was a bad one about ten minutes out of the gate. I was in the car with my oh-so-lucky husband, minding my own business when all the sudden we hit a bump and elastic in my panties stretched a little and then gripped the inside of my crack. OUCH. As gracelessly as possible I reached back and adjusted. My ultra-fortunate husband was laughing at me while he was driving on the 101 as I reverse Homer Simpsoned myself. He's the luckiest.

I stopped for a cup of coffee and to check my email at a local coffee shop. I go to this place enough that I know all the people there's name and they know mine. We know what is going on in each other's lives. I was trying to be cool, to ignore the chaffing and pretend nothing was wrong. I felt like a wounded animal avoiding a predator. I would sit down, no one would know and I could be comfortable. My favorite girl asked "Bad day?" I said, "You have no idea!" I gently lowered myself onto a chair in the back of the restaurant. In my attempts to gingerly lower myself I miscalculated where I was and sat directly on the corner of the oak, non-childproofed, unpadded chair. I have never given such a loud internal yelp. I rocketed upward with blazing speed. As I did my sex-pot undies reversed their earlier direction, giving me a new, equally unpleasant sensation. Who knew rug-rash could be duel meaning?

I had a screening in the city today so after an uneventful drive, I got to the BART station and had to face the stairs. To get down to the station, under the train tracks you have to go down about forty stairs. I'm a fat girl so stairs are never really fun but I looked at those stairs like I was seeing a Freddy Krueger in real life for the first time. Each shift of my weight, down the stairs felt like a nail file in my nether regions; forty strokes by Miss Kim of Kim's Nails but in my na-na.

Now contrary to what the rest of the female world has been telling me for years, lace in your cracks does not feel good. YOU ARE LIARS! Trust me, the ridges are not for her pleasure. It's the sensation of having an Andre the Giant's handful of sand between points A and B. I'm tempted to take a pair of scissors to these things and make them a garter belt!

I'm definitely going to get some action tonight, Desitin application! There is absolutely nothing sexy about lace, thong, boyshort panties and I hate you Victoria for lying to me and saying they are hot. Yeah, my crotch is hot, like an Indian Burn. Even though I'd love to get some on a bad day, you should know, I don't love my husband enough to wear a thong!