by Natasha Haining
*This should be kept in a diary, an excerpt from my unconventional young adult mind.
Sex. Sex. Sex. temptation, my body, self control, envy, anorexia, consistency.
I should revise my obsession, which I formerly stated was Coke. I didn’t think of it at the time when we were assigned the free write. Or maybe I didn’t want to think of it. It’s an odd thing to talk about.
I love it, yet
I have no use for it.
Just adore it. Simple. Easy. That’s that.
In high school there was a girl who had vinyl red Steve Madden pumps. I loved them. I wanted them. She referred to them as her, “come fuck me shoes,”
My cousin envied the same pair of shoes and told me that “If it was acceptable in public she would wear nothing but those pumps and lingerie everyday, everywhere.
And so it began
My love of lingerie
It can be hoochy, elegant, simple, overly jeweled.
A friend of mine, in an attempt to stay abstinent until marriage only had ratty whitey-tightys. Every time I see I her, I remind her, at least you have fancy underwear now. I can’t imagine the immediate relief of slipping into smooth satin as opposed to stiff cotton. Whitey-tightys, no more! Unless, that is, they’re fashionable.
“Why do you even have a thong?” The question my mother’s friend asked her before throwing the inappropriate snippit of fabric into the trash. Obvious reason: no underwear line. Sex (her mother thought): NO just for the feeling of feeling pretty.
It’s a secret.
No one knows.
You know that you feel just a little bit more elegant, sexy, sophisticated, naughty because of whatever it is that you have hiding under a too short skirt that you wear to a club or a bland jumpsuit used for changing oil.
When looking at a pair of lacy underwear my cousin, 18, said, “I know what those are for, when you’re married.”
Her older sister and I tried with no success to convince her otherwise. She insisted that they were gross and unnecessary. Such a naïve existence, such sheltered thoughts.
Is it odd to sit in your room and revel in how comfortable you are in the newest Victoria’s secret bra? Or that when I was on Bourbon Street one goal my friends and I made was to get lingerie (from that specific street) before departing. Is it odd that the only thing I bought on the walk of the stars in Hollywood was a few new pairs of underwear from Fredrick’s of Hollywood? The last souvenir I would purchase during my sojourn around the country? *in regards to the trip…everything in the states is secure, we found no evidence of aliens or anything stranger than Bikini Barista stands.
Someday. I’ll get married, I’ll have a use for lingerie. Some day it will bring pleasure to someone else who isn’t me, and for however short amount of time I’ll actually wear it. For now, I’m content to keep it secret, and just mine but, some day it will find a place. Somewhere outside the confines of my dark washed jeans.
I swear. Naked chefs are missing out all over the place. One day, one week, I vow.