I think we both know this has been a long time coming. I tried to love you; I really did. But– and I know this is harsh– I really don’t even like you at all. And it’s not me; it’s you.
I tried for years to pretend things were okay with us– I went about my business, usually with other undergarments, and you turned a blind eye, keeping to yourself in the back of the underwear drawer. But we were never really okay, were we?
Sure, I’d turn to you when I felt like the occasion really called for it– you made me think I needed you once in a while. You made promises that you could never keep, and I kept trying to believe them because I wanted them to be true. But only a fool keeps believing what she’s seen disproved, and I’m nobody’s fool. Not anymore.
You held the shame of Visible Panty Line over my head, but you failed to mention that you show lines of your own, didn’t you? And these, much more egregious in their tell-tale signs than a modest panty line because they don’t just show that I’m wearing underwear– they show exactly where I’m not. You thought you had me captive with your threats of VPL, but you underestimated me: The surest way to not show panty lines is to not have any at all.
How you like them apples?
That’s right– if I can’t go with a cute, butt-covering pair of undies, then I’m going commando. I just don’t need you anymore. I don’t need to worry about your popping mortifying whale tails at the most inopportune times (you never did care about being decent in public, did you?), and I certainly don’t need your massive discomfort.
Oh, I know what the other girls have said. I’ve heard all their declarations of how comfy you are and how they just looooove you and how they could never go back to anything else. I’m not here to judge– their underwear choice is between them and their jeans. But I don’t buy that “comfort” bullshit, not for a minute. Maybe you make them feel sexy. Maybe they’ve bought your insidious VPL lie. Maybe they just looooove the feel of a perpetual fucking wedgie. I don’t care– they can have you.
I am done.
I need underwear that make me feel like an attractive woman, not a strung-up marionette. I need underwear that are there for me in a very real way– in a way you could never be, never even wanted to be. I need underwear that will cover my ass, not ride it.
So this is it for us– we’re over. You can leave, and take that hussy of a push-up bra you like to cozy up with in the back of the drawer with you on your way out.
You are never getting in my pants again.