By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Several months ago, I grabbed a pair of black-cotton short panties while picking up a few things at the store. I thought they would be flattering and didn't bother to take a close look at them. I later discovered that the phrase "Sexy" was emblazoned on the rear panel with silver foil hearts. I call them my "sexytime" panties.
Thursday evening, I decided to stop at a bookstore prior to hopping the freeway for my hourlong commute home. It was raining, and I parked my truck next to a minivan a good distance from the store. Needless to say, I got a pretty good soaking on my way back to the truck. It was dark, and I wanted to get my wet pantyhose off before the drive home. So I opened the truck door, hiked up my skirt and pulled them down to my knees while facing the driver seat. Trust me, this isn't attractive in any way. Then I turned around to lean back on the front seat so I could get the rest of them off. As is typical with my luck, I ended up staring into the astonished faces of two boys in the back of the minivan. I remember blinking a couple of times, thinking, "Sexytime boys!"—then pulling up my hose without any acknowledgement of what had just happened. I laughed like a psycho as I drove away.
You'd think this was the first time this had happened to me. Sadly, it's not. I'd like to think my ass is like a sacred comet, mooning on only the most precise Mayan calendar, coaxed by human sacrifice to ease plague and grace harvests. But who am I kidding? I'm practically unstoppable now!
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