Gift g-strings and etiquette.
Whenever a guy has bought me sexy, disappears-up-between-your-butt-cheeks underwear, I have struggled not to wince. Those things ride up and the material chafes, it damn well rubs against your perineum and puckered hole and it chafes like a motherfucker. The irritation puts me in a perpetually bad mood, so people are left wondering why that girl has a grimace, thousand mile stare and a tight-stepping gait all the way to the photocopier. I’ll tell you why: my anus is being uncomfortably rubbed into a raw high note that will not stop until I can get home and mercifully yank the high-cut bastards off and throw them into the bin.
I’ve never turned the underpants gift down though, as the guy - always a boyfriend, mind - always looks so damned hopeful. What I really want to say is, “I don’t want any kind of underpants that go up my arsehole unless it is a penis.”
So unless you are giving me a throbbing erection for underpants this Christmas, please don’t stuff them into my stocking, thank-you-very-much.
There’s so much useless bullshit here.