I don't like wearin' panties. Not when I ain't onstage. That's ironic, ain't it? Or is it? What's the correct definition of irony again? Someone once told me that irony is smoothin' out the wrinkles in the fabric of your baby-faced reality. I replied, "Shut the fuck up. I don't like gents talkin' while I'm blowin' 'em."
Back to knickers. I hate them. The only proper panties are a g-string. Anything else and you might as well be in grammar school. But when I'm flossin' a g, I tend to feel like I'm bein' bookmarked for future reference.
So I go commando, as you American birds say. It's quite nice. My last trip to the bikini wax place, I had a nasty little ingrown hair. My lady, she's real skilled. She pulled out a number of rather medieval lookin' devices and went at it. That's commitment, when you willing to cut someone open in their private area so they can shag without feelin' self-conscious. Thank God for the waxin' lady.
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