This past Sunday, my sister walked into my room, in her maxi dress, turned around and asked me straight out: “Can you tell I’m not wearing any underwear?”
She caught me off guard. Not because she asked me; my sister and I do a lot of examining of each other’s bodies, but because she decided to go commando… to church. For a moment, I had to ask myself, “Is that sacrilegious?” And then I immediately rationalized, “No, it’s Republicans who have problems with vaginas not God.”
But I still had another question.
“I’m just…will you be ok to go without underwear?”
“Yeah, girl. My vagina just needs a break that’s all.”
I completely understood that. Truth is, I had been thinking about doing the very same thing myself that same morning. I almost never sleep with underwear on and this particular morning I was dreading this part of the routine. But I know going commando is not a life I’ll probably ever be able to lead. Unfortunately, I learned long ago that things are just too juicy down there. There would be no way for me to live and move about pantyless without looking like I had just participated in an intense workout. There would be swass… and it wouldn’t even be sweat. And then everyone would know my secret scandal.
Then there was that other issue.
I remember once when I was still living at home with my parents, I was walking around the house without underwear when my mother, looking at me, asked suddenly with wonderment, “Are you wearing underwear?!”
I said no, how could you tell?
“Your booty is eating up your skirt.”
Well that was it. If my own mother lost all chill at the sight of my underwear being gobbled up, there was no way the men on the street were going to let me live— or hell, even get home safely. Going commando, outside of the house was a world I would never know.
But that didn’t stop me from wishing. I was reminded of my ailment when my guy friends, in moments of candor, would announce that they had neither showered nor worn underwear that day. Must be nice.
I read a story about a woman who never wore underwear not even on her period and thought ‘Incredible! How?!?’ You should read the story but the short answer is she doesn’t have my uterus or vagina that’s how.
And thankfully, in the comments’ section there were other women like me who said even if they wanted to ditch their drawers there was just too much juice to make that a safe, non-embarrassing option.
At this point, you might be wondering what’s the point of this? This is a public service announcement, loves. For far too long women have been fed all types of disparaging messages about our own vaginas. They’ve been regarded as unclean and something to be used solely for the pleasure of men and the population of the planet. Some of us have such negative feelings about this part of our bodies that we’ve avoided even looking at or touching our own precious vaginas. And that’s a problem. What better way to show you vagina some appreciation than to treat her to a nice cool, summer breeze?
To those of you who would like to let your lady bits breathe and don’t have the type of issues I do, I’d encourage you to do so because I can’t and for those of us who would love to go commando but can’t… I’ll arrange a support group.
