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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