WARNING: Every Friday is Sex Day here at Functional Ambivalent. On Fridays, it's sex sex sex all up and down this blog. That's because I have a hard time concentrating on Fridays, so I decided to write about sex, since I can concentrate on sex no matter what. Plus, it gives me a good excuse to go to a bunch of websites I couldn't go to otherwise.
If you're one of those people who don't approve of sex on the web, and if you don't think a serious and highly respected cultural analyst and scholar like myself can take one lousy day a week to stop whining about politics and crap like that to blow off steam by writing about sex, go here. On the other hand, if you think sex is normal and healthy even when it's perverse and self-destructive, you've come to the right place. If you'll still respect me in the morning, here's a post for you to impale yourself on, and I just know you're going to enjoy it.
Because today, kids, we're talkin' underpants. Specifically, women's underpants. Or, as they are known in the trade, "panties."
Panties are worming their way up the crack of our everyday lives. This is, I know, a terrible metaphor, but I go with my strengths. Women's underwear, once so top secret that it was hidden even from women themselves, is going public in a huge way. How public, you ask conveniently, propelling this amateurishly disjointed opening forward so that we can soon get to some jokes and smutty links? Very public. In fact, panties are going so public that they're becoming a threat to life as we know it.
You think I'm kidding. Ha! I'm not kidding at all. The world is changing all around us, and panties are the reason.
I will give you the secret of sex, without cost or obligation, because I'm a kind and generous man: Everything that has to do with sex is more fun when you're not supposed to think about it, do it, or see it. That's why sex in the missionary position between a happily married couple done with love and tenderness in the bedroom with the lights out behind a locked door with the drapes down in hopes of conceiving a child is just about the most boring kind of sex in the world. You're supposed to do that kind of sex. Even Islamic fundamentalists approve of that kind of sex. So it's like: Why bother?
Conversely, fast, furtive sex standing in an alcove of an tiny, packed art gallery on opening night with complete strangers just three steps away and if they come around the corner you'll be publicly humiliated is the best sex ever. That's how people work. It's the natural order of things.
My wife and I have friends who are vastly more adventurous than we are who had sex on an overnight flight to Ireland. Not cramped, stinky-airplane-bathroom sex. Full-out fold-up-the-armrests and hump-away in the seats sex. By conventional standards, the sex was probably not all that good. It lasted about one minute, and the seats weren't really all that comfy and they couldn't make any noise and when they were done -- when nothing was left of their irresistable urges but heavy breathing and a wet spot -- I'm sure they didn't do a lot of lingering in the afterglow.
Still, when they told my wife and I about it years later over drinks, they got a faraway look in their eyes like they just might go hop a flight right now to relive the moment. Airplanes, which were invented by two confirmed bachelors from Ohio who lived with their mother and never married, had become, to my friends, the ultimate sex object. Funny how that works, isn't it?
Underwear, like airplanes, is really a practical necessity. Underwear is why you only have to send your dress pants out to be cleaned every five or six wearings. Underwear is why you don't smash your balls every time you sit down. And underwear, for women, is the last line of defense in the hopeless quest to keep their private parts private.
Seeing a woman's underwear is so incredibly interesting to men because we're not supposed to see it. As panty model and adult webmistress Kimberly says:
Whatever the outcome of polls and psychological analysis one thing is for certain. Panties are an object of sexual desire and should be readily accepted and enjoyed by those that worship and adore them.
In the old days women's underwear was an incredibly complicated array of layered crinoline and slips and bloomers and leggings and God-knows-what-all. Men looking for a wildly sexy night on the town went down to the local burlesque house, which featured ribald comics and Cancan Dancing, an entertainment consisting of fully dressed women kicking their legs high over their heads so that men could see their billowy underthings, which weighed, in aggregate, about thirty pounds. (There was no such thing as a quickie back then, because it took a half-hour to get undressed.) Men got boners over the sight of a woman covered with what amounted to several layers of bedding, because it was bedding they weren't supposed to see.
American stage burlesque (from 1865), often referred to as "burleycue or "leg show, began as a variety show, characterized by vulgar dialogue and broad comedy, and uninhibited behavior by performers and audience. Later the public tolerated the dance and it became very popular around 1830, mainly because the ladies would wear long black dresses and kick their legs up in the air, thus the men could see the knees and legs of the ladies (at the time was "Oo-La-La!).
Time passed and what was risque' once became less risque'. Today, the Cancan is the stuff of retirement home nostalgia, not cutting-edge smut. No longer does the sight of an ankle or a calf or a knee or an upper leg covered with billowing cotton do much for any but the most dedicated Gold Rush fetishist.
There are those who contend that men do not evolve, but our interest in women's undergarments is proof that we do. We have moved on, through various stages, gradually reducing the amount of fabric between us and a naked woman until there is almost nothing there at all. That's progress. And in the meantime, we havel earned something about ourselves: To many of us, an elegantly if just-barely clad woman is sexier than a naked women. Go figure. In our irrepressible desire to get women naked, we find our maximum joy in that anticipatory instant just before nakedness occurs. If there are two layers that need to be removed -- pants and panties, for example -- we go one layer at a time. The moment between layers is the moment of greatest erotic anticipation.
Don't get me wrong: Naked is excellent. But one thin layer of lace so tight it's almost skin...a whispy little piece of almost nothing that is private and personal and not for public consumption...that's what we, as men, live for.
Well, that and a really long drive right down the middle of the fairway.
It's not because we're perverts, either. It's because we're aestheticians, connoisseurs of line and form and composition. Underpants are now carefully designed to augment the way women are shaped, not simply to cover it. And men, no matter how much women like to joke about how primative we are, are deeply, deeply interested in taking in the subtle the curves and hollows of our lovers.
There's also the matter of supply and demand. When it was rare to see woolen bloomers, we got off on the sight of woolen bloomers. When woolen bloomers became common, we moved on. Every exciting innovation eventually became commonplace, and our ceaseless quest for the new and original would leave us no time to rest. We crave the same thing that collectors of contemporary art crave: Compelling innovation. We want to see something new, something different, something that moves us. Something, maybe, transparent.
Eventually, we came to a point where women's underwear no longer draped and bulged. Post-World War II underwear fit tightly, allowing women to move around in an automated, fast-paced society without getting their bloomers tangled in desk drawers and the clutch pedal. The new, tighter underwear also allowed women to wear clothing that showed off their delightful figures. That was good; as men, we were in favor of that.
But despite our aesthetic leanings, women's underpants remained above all else practical, because women failed to understand the power their panties held over us. They chose underpants that were light, washable, and made entirely of artificial fibers that wouldn't tear. (Tear-proof underwear killed a whole list of good fantasies.) As relieved as women were to have entered the Golden Age of Practical Underthings, there was creeping dissatisfaction among men.
Like the Ford Model A, the women's underpants color selection was limited because women thought of underwear and under-wear: No one was ever going to see it so it didn't have to match anything so who cared what color it was? Women's underpants came in about four colors: White, off-white, pink, and powder blue. Oh, there were black panties and even panties that didn't quite cover everything from the navel down to the top of the quadriceps, but only French and Italian women wore those kinds of things.
Americans didn't go in for that kind of frivolity. We were too busy inventing Levittown and going to college on the GI Bill. American panties were all shaped the same: Medium waist, leg-holes cut parallel to the ground, butt round enough to accomodate a certain amount of growth, triple-crotch panel to make sure nothing distracted us. As if that weren't enough, even thin women wore quarter-inch-thick girdles to eliminate any possibility that they might jiggle provocatively when they walked. The closest thing we have to those girdles today is the back supports worn by men doing heavy lifting in the lumber warehouse at Home Depot.
Somehow, this combination of girlish underpants and heavy-duty engineering know-how stayed sexy to men. Men collected photos of women in industrial-grade underthings, and even I, as a lowly kindergartner, was a aware that something was going on that I should be interested in. One of my earliest memories is of sitting on the floor while my teacher, Mrs. Jetell, read to us from a book. I was positioned on the floor so that I had a straight-shot up to her underpants, a tiny triangle of which I could see lurking back there in the shadows. I believe that was the first step on my long journey to manhood.
Except, of course, that it was not long before underwear like that got old. Once something can be shown in the Sears Catalogue, who cares?
Somewhere in the early 1950s, scientists working on a secret government project discovered female orgasm. I'm not sure how it happened; maybe it was one of those civilian benefits of NASA research, like Tang. Anyway, this discovery changed completely how women viewed sex and, consequently, their own underwear. No longer was sex something to be avoided. Suddenly, sex was something to desire. In search of a way to get men's attention, women changed their whole approach to underwear. No longer did they see panties as clothing that simply contained what needed to be contained. Women recognized that the huge symbolic importance their underwear held for men -- something that had long annoyed women -- gave them power. By cleverly chosing different kinds of underwear, even if it came from France or Italy, they could manipulate and control men's minds. The object of this manipulation: To get men to pay more orgasm-related attention to women.
Women started wearing littler underwear. They bought underwear in many colors. Practical and nearly bulletproof miracle fibers were replaced by lace that seemed like it might burst open at any moment. They bought and wore underwear of fantastically complicated construction, and their men became slobbering dogs.
Women discovered that all they needed to control the world was two ounces of lace. Smart women with big dreams would buy the right kind of underwear no matter what the cost, as these simple and elegantly form-fitting $600 panties attest. Even women who you might not think of as likely users of Panty Power started using underwear to control men, even from great distances. Here's an excerpt from a marriage advice column at ChristianityToday.com that proves, without question, that Pany Power has gone way, way mainstream. Here's a way to keep your husband hot for you even when he's travelling with younger stewardesses:
Madeline, an airline pilot's wife, slipped a note and a piece of lingerie into her husband's toiletry bag and told him, "Don't forget to brush your teeth!"
No man is going to cheat on a wife who does that. I don't care if he's Dean Martin. Of course, I'm assuming that by "piece of lingerie," the author means "panties," since a big underwire bra or some other strictly practical type of gravity-proof underwear would seem more weird than sexy. Yep, it's panties all right, right there on ChristianityToday.com.
Today, everywhere one looks, women are bringing their panties to the forefront, using them openly to bend men's will. They're starting with their airline pilot husbands, but that's not where it's going to stop. No, they're not going to stop until their fully in charge of the whole entire world. And here's the thing: It's going to be easy.
I'm going to admit something here that I've never admitted before: There are certain underpants that my wife wears that render me powerless. They are kryptonite to me. When we're getting dressed to go out and she puts on a pair of those certain panties underneath a dress, I know that I will do whatever she asks me to do that night.
Her: "Let's go see modern dance."
Me: "I'd love to. Can I sit next to you and maybe touch your leg in the dark?"
Her: "Tickets are $10,000."
Me: "No problem. Can I sit next to you and maybe touch your leg in the dark?"
My wife doesn't really know how much power these certain underpants have over me. (Note to self: Don't blog secrets, moron.) She puts them on seemingly at random, and there are a few pairs that she'd never wear at all if I weren't such a desperately convincing beggar.
Think what she could do if she ever really developed a comprehensive underwear strategy. Think what women in general could do if they did that. Terrifying to think about, isn't it?
There are women who believe they can unseat the most powerful man in the world using only the careful application of itty bitty panties. I kid you not, and I am absolutely certain they will succeed.
Axis of Eve is a group of panty terrorists that makes no secret of its desire to overthrow President George W. Bush.
We Eves are gearing up for a shameless summer of panty-flashing to lay bare the shameful tactics of the Bush administration and boldly demand an end to political cover-up. Our campaign for naked democracy will culminate at the Republican National Convention in NYC in September, where we will create a media spectacle b(e)aring messages of truth, accountability, and peace.
The panties they are flashing are tiny and emblazoned with political messages like, "Weapon of Mass Seduction" and "Cream Bush." They intend to stand in the background of photo ops and interviews, flashing their underwear messages via satellite to the whole wide world, which includes many voting-age men.
And Axis of Eve is not alone. There are other groups of women out there, printing messages on tiny panties of their own, preparing to flash men with messages far from subliminal. They're organized and driven and, if the pictures on their websites are to be believed, hot. And on election day, we're going to vote however they tell us to vote, aren't we, guys?
Of course we are, and that will be our downfall. As the returns pour in, those Panty Power women are going to realize that they can do anything they want and we'll agree to it, just as long as they show us their underwear first.
Worth the price of serfdom, I say.
Have lovely holiday weekend. I'll be parked poolside, margarita in hand, hoping my wife will sit next to me and let me touch her leg.
"There are women who believe they can unseat the most powerful man in the world using only the careful application of itty bitty panties. I kid you not, and I am absolutely certain they will succeed."
This threat should not be underestimated. Just recall Monica Lewinski and her thong.
Posted by: Conrad | 05/31/2004 at 05:56 AM
Hey Dude, One of the finest dissections on "Psychology On Panties" I've ever read. Absolutely hillarious, and sure, I'd pay 10.000 U$ to sit next to my wife knowing she was wearing Wicked Weasel "knickers"... ;-)~
Posted by: Trash | 05/31/2004 at 11:02 AM
my gosh did you actually research the history of underwear?!
lots of neat facts and interesting points! :)
Posted by: t | 05/31/2004 at 08:13 PM
a stunning achievment! I no longer feel alone in my slavering lust. Thanks. Oh, here's a link that might help, lusty threads
Posted by: Dave | 05/31/2004 at 09:20 PM
You are a genius.
Posted by: Tim | 06/01/2004 at 01:32 AM
The reason the can can was so risque is that the crotch seam on the bloomers the girls were wearing wasn't sewn shut. Those high kicks were showing more that a bit of leg...
Posted by: wingedcorset | 06/01/2004 at 07:36 PM
In olden days a glimpse of stocking
Was thought of as something shocking
Now Heaven knows
No one wears hose.
Posted by: triticale | 06/04/2004 at 05:16 PM
Well, I came here to say "great post" and all that and I see I have *3* trackback pings here?
Well, I am sorry, I didn't mean to have 3 and I just wrote the post THIS afternoon, so HTH the one is there from the 3rd, I'll never know.
Anyway, great post - fun read!
I'll be back!
:)
~K
Posted by: Kimberly | 06/17/2004 at 11:43 AM
women are dressing more like men there are no more women so crossdressers like me are takeing over more and more women are acting like men seee ya girls
Posted by: andrew | 07/26/2004 at 12:19 AM
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