It’s been a long running joke between my friend Brian and myself that we call eachother and say, “So what are you wearing?”
Thursday, I did my part when I phoned him.
“Hi Brian! It’s Michelle. So… what are you wearing?”
“Jeans and a t-shirt.”Anticlimatic. It’s okay, though. He could be naked in bed for all I care. Not my type.
“What’re you wearing?” he asks me.
“Jeans, sweater, and a push up bra, ” I sass back.
“What kind of underwear?” he asks.
I’m slightly uncomfortable talking about this lest I seem to lead him on. In two short months Brian has gone from turning me down with a “Come on, Michelle. We’ve been friends too long” to calling me three times a day and trying to sneak kisses.
“Pink lace.” I tell him. It’s the truth.
“Not a black thong?” he asks, “You have a great a** for thongs. You shouldn’t wear that granny stuff.”
I IMMEDATELY bristle at his suggestion I wear granny panties. My lingerie collection is exceptional. I have bras that require a PhD in Mechanical Engineering to get in to. My collection is exotic, erotic, and colorful. There’s lingerie I can wear to suit every one of my moods ranging from playful and happy to smoldering temptress.
I set him straight and tell him “They’re low rise boyshorts.”
He digs his grave a little deeper, “That WORSE!”
I resist the urge to describe for him how I look in them. I’m on the verge of telling him my cheeks peek out under my panties on the backside every so perfectly – one of my most provocative poses is laying in bed on my stomach, wearing these panties and a soft Hanes t-shirt. Men melt. And in front, there’s barely enough fabric to cover my bare brazilian wax. The lace is semi-transparent and you can see though it just enough to know that I’m an anti-bush kinda gal.
Instead I tell him, “Clearly you don’t get laid enough or you would have a more refined appreciation of lingerie.”
His response, “WHATEVER.”
Seriously, this man has no women skills whatsoever!
Then, he sends a picture to my phone. A black thong….
… only it’s not a picture like the one here. It’s on a hanger. He’s in a lingerie shop taking pictures.
“Black is sexy. You’d look good in black. Come on. Make tomorrow sexy black thong day,” he says to me.
“You’re sick. Wandering around lingerie shops. Taking pictures of women’s underwear,” I tell him.
“‘I’m horny. So tell me, will you wear a sexy black thong tomorrow?” he asks.
I call him a brat and a goober. “You’re creeping me out!”
Perhaps sensing my anger and repulsion of him at this moment, he changes the subject. Asks to see a picture of my new haircut. The one I referred to as my sexy “Victoria’s Secret haircut”.
“If I email you a picture, will you promise me you won’t masterbate to it?” I ask.
“I won’t. I promise. I need video for that,” he tells me.
And. I. Hung. Up. The. Phone.
So…. have I been friends with a creep for 20 years or was he just trying to get under my skin?
So today I’m wearing turquoise string bikini underwear and not a black thong in protest for having my lingerie collection called “Whatever!”