Panties as Exhibition
Inspired by: Slip of a Girl
I want to know something I shouldn’t know.
I want to see something hidden.
And… I have.
Because of women in panties. Women in panties turn me on.
Since my youth I’ve created a game, most likely the same game that nearly every other man plays, which is: the deduction of the kind of panties that a particular girl is wearing – or, does wear. You can make hypothetical deductions – and start with descriptors like body type, hair style, relationship-status, age, style of clothing preferred, and most importantly the X-factor – attitude, and then widdle your evidence down to a panty-type for that particular person.
Still I catch myself in this thought experiment – wondering what the women around me would, and do, wear. I ask myself, what do they wear when they’re feeling sexy? When they go out on the town for the night? When they’re menstruating? In summer versus the winter? With a skirt versus pants? What do their “fuck me” panties look like…
For me the kind of panties that a girl wears is correlative to her sexuality. It spawns questions like: Are they overtly sexual? Are they afraid of their sexuality? Do they hide their sexuality as though they are at church? Are they sluts in the bedroom, but executives in the daylight?
While it may be quite humorous to see a chart: there is no formulaic, axiomatic deduction that can be made. To be true, I have found unending surprise in my assumptions. Time and time again I have found that my hypotheses were wrong. In this, I have delighted, over and over again – that the girl that likes stripper thongs is actually a complete prude and won’t go down on me. Or, no – that girl in accounting? The one who wears boy shorts… she is a tiger when she leaves work and gets a few drinks in her.
I am now at the stage where I am able to answer these questions and make further assumptions about a girl’s sexuality and attitude, in only a few seconds. Whether I’m right or wrong is not, usually, the point.
So, what is the point?
The point is to rile myself up as much as possible. In anything I do, I seek to achieve that kind of frenzied rush that my sexuality is able to afford. And as dropping pills or taking shots is not typically a solid idea in the middle of a work day – I fill myself with the rushes of innocuous sexuality.
But this is not done by only deducing what kind of panties a girl is wearing, but rather, the grand treat: Seeing – actually seeing what kind of panties she is wearing.
Panty lines are one of my absolute favorite sights in the world. Especially with this whole thong revolution. The purpose of a thong, in part, is to lessen a panty line – or at least alleviate any bunching line that is created on the buttocks. And so, in my cursory examination of nearly every woman that I am afforded the opportunity to assess – I look, first at the ass. If there’s no line there, I immediately begin to salivate – as I know that I have additional work to do.
Quickly my eyes go to the small of the back and then, downward. Just above the ass is where the evidence is – if there is any to be had (commando is a tricky, tricky beast to assess, or locate). But any time upon I do spot that tiny triangular stretch of feminine fabric I feel so accomplished that I feel ready for a nap. Or, just some alone time.
Years ago, thongs used to equate to a hypersexual girl for me. No longer is this true. The naughtiness of thongs has worn-off for me. Now I prefer other styles of panties: the boy shorts, the bikini-cut.
That is, if it’s not the stripper-string-thongs. The ones that curl over the top of the hips to meet in her back, just at her ass at one simple point…
Beyond panty lines I absolutely love seeing the actual panty: over the top of pants, up skirts, without any clothing on…
Panties, for me, are the necessary clothing – the one emphasizes the most important part of females – their form; their curves; their lines. Panties accentuate the glistening, brilliant shape that I crave. It accentuates the ass and the hips and my favorite part on a woman’s body: that triangle which is calculated in-between her hips and finalized down at her mound.
This is why I have an unending thirst for the low-rise pant. These may be the most inspired invention ever. Coupled with a cropped-top blouse or shirt and I have little mind, or space within, for anything else. If a girl is walking toward me, I grow lost in reveries of that little sacred space – between the belly-button, on downward…
Because still, the most titillating, for me, is seeing panties peeking over the top – of pants, or skirts. And the low-rise pant perfectly enables this. I love spotting the strings arcing up and over the hips and dipping down the front – back down into her pants and into her hot triangle, or similarly, down the back – with those strings meeting neatly at the top of her gorgeous, voluptuous ass. All of this will stop me in my tracks.
Granted, one skill set I have cultivated, brilliantly – is not letting the girl, or anyone around me, know that I am actually looking. I hate obviousness – in the presentation of panties, especially in regard to these low-rise pants, but moreso in a man’s gaze. For some reason I become turbid with resentment when I catch a man gawking; unable to stop looking. For me, this is the ultimate sign of mental midgetry.
However, back to our wonderful imagery: of she, coming towards you, her hip bones sharp and golden; attracting the sexual eye. Panties peeking slightly over the top of the front of her jeans is something that arouses me with equal delight – the lace tops of panties and their compliment to her skin, her form – like an accent of the most delicious Australian you’ve ever met.
But don’t get it wrong: I am not so tight that I wouldn’t look down the back of a girl’s pants. I do it all the time. Whenever I get an unobstructed, and secretive moment – I will. And do. For me it’s not about how much is revealed. But instead it’s about seeing just a slice. A piece. A part.
For me this is one of the heightened facets of voyeurism. This kind of voyeurism is not two people fucking in front of an open window. This is not reality television and you peering-in to someone’s living room. No, this is more subtle. More interesting. It is the provenance of fantasy and that unswerving desire to know more. To feel more. It is that tingle on the tongue that is begging you to say something – say anything – because I want to taste her. I need to taste her. I have to…
Likewise, I would encourage women to play with this – if they’re not already. For women, this is a gentle, subtle kind of exhibitionism that, if done right, can tease and set the stage for something paralyzing in intensity. At least, for me.
I will never forget walking into a coffee shop several years ago, ordering my drink and then turning around to spot a woman sitting in one of the couches. She was professional, a business woman from one of the office towers. She was wearing a suit: a jacket, a blouse and a skirt. From her high heels up, my eyes followed the line of her legs. Then, to my surprise, when I reached her skirt – my eyes found something: the fact that she was wearing thigh-highs. The lace band at the top created a choreographed landscape boundary that drew an artistic line between the part of her legs that was exposed – and that secret part, the part closest to her sex – which was naked and bare. Alluring and intoxicating.
Standing there with coffee in hand, she caught me staring. But instead of flinching and pulling her skirt down, she simply tilted her head and smiled, her eyes gleaming, seemingly asking me, “Are you enjoying what you’re not supposed to be seeing?”