I always thought, when it came to formal occasions, that underwear was for the weak or the menstruating. Running bareback, going commando, being an Eve in the garden of Eden – whatever you wanted to call it – gave me the excitement of exposure.
It was the breeze you felt in every step that made me feel so sexy, that look you got when you whispered in your partners ear to inform them – and of course, the fear of pulling a “Britney” every time I stepped out of the car.
It quickly turned into a euphoria I’d become intoxicated by.
That was until an evening in crotchless panties.
Don’t get me wrong – despite the tendency to leave the lingerie at home, there was always something intimidating about crotchless underwear. I mean, my knickers already were so scant, I couldn’t bear to think of what I’d do with even less fabric?! I had an all or nothing mentality. There was no in between – I could rock a thong, do the booty cut, but essentially, my undergarment ethos had been limited to a strict granny panties, or G.I.JOE commando philosophy.
As I dangled a pair of black lace underwear before me, I was struck with the curiosity of what ‘crotchless’ really meant.
Porn had conditioned me to believe they were a series of strings, engineered to connect in a way as intricate as it was ‘easy access’. I thought so much detail would be poured into making something for women that simply screamed to men ‘enter me HERE’. But how mistaken I was.
The silky flexible folds on the crotch of the underwear concealed an almost trap door like opening – one that had to be teased open, guided, pushed, encouraged to let anything enter it. I felt like a black widow about to ensnare her man in a web of love, or a Russian spy who could conceal any one of her gadgets within these mysterious panties.
All this intrigue tantalised me, and engorged my thoughts with an unquenchable sexual wanderlust that inevitably led me to try them.
I also couldn’t resist satisfying a constant need to culture my wardrobe.
Cue: a candlelit dinner with plenty of red wine.