I leaned forward to remove my panties and he
softly cupped a breast in one hand. I hooked my
thumbs into the side-elastic of my knickers.
I wasn’t anticipating the moment she slipped
out of the passenger seat and straddled me.
She was panting and so was I. She unbuckled my belt
and my slacks and boxers were immediately around my ankles.
She started to tease me. She was gently rubbing her wet
panties up and down my shaft. Even in the dark driveway
of her parent’s house, I could see how freshly shaved she was.
My hands were uncontrollable. I wanted to touch every inch
of her body all at the same time. Her ass and thighs were
the smoothest and softest thing I have felt to this day.
As I removed my panties and he started to mount me I had this profound insight. I realised my panties weren’t my own. It wasn’t that they were somebody else’s. They didn’t belong to any individual at all. They were shared.
They belonged to thousands, tens of thousands of women. Millions of women, tens of millions were wearing exactly the same style: white, cotton, thin(ish), brief but comfortable at the sides.
They weren’t mine, specifically. It was me who was a this-style panties wearer. They were my uniform.
I could have coped with this if it applied only to my pants, but it applied to almost all my clothes. My bras too, were perfectly regular in design and barely distinguishable from those of my sisters, my friends, and probably more than half the female population.
If my discarded bra in the laundry basket were thrown on a pile with the boob-holsters most women wear and if I were forced to search through the labels to find my own. Even then I might fail.
The silk blouse, the pearls, the linen suit, how many other people had I seen wearing something almost the same? Maybe a nuance of a different shade here or there, an extra pearl or two, a smaller button, a sleight of cut.
But put us all together in a moonlit room and the chamber could be a pod to our twin-set peas.
It struck me that without knowing it I must have chosen to wear these clothes, not to look like me as an individual, but to belong to a group of similarly-dressed people.
I wasn’t used to revelations and this one had hit me like a brick – that I was wearing a uniform, that I hadn’t really chosen my own clothes.
Not in the wider sense, but simply chosen which group of clothes-wearers I was going to join and made a few minor selections from their basic uniform. It was difficult to face the fact that my personality, my taste, counted for so little.
It makes the individual seem so insignificant. Existential dread because of a pair of knickers.