There is a Colombian tradition, law almost, which states that in order to welcome the new year properly, one must wear yellow underwear. Preferably new. Preferably blinding-sun-yellow (as opposed to pale yellows, or ochre tones). The more absurd and ridiculous, the better (granny panties, for instance), but that is more a matter of personal preference than it is part of the law (g-strings and thongs are allowed). I can't remember the last time I didn't wear yellow panties - that is, the last time before this NYE 2013. For the first time in a million years I failed to wear yellow drawers. I could blame it on the lack of supply of yellow knickers in Germany, but I honestly did not even look. I could say that both my yellow underpants were in the dirty laundry pile, but I'm afraid my nose would grow too big. I will thus only come out with the truth and say that I forgot. And for that, I am terribly sorry and ashamed. May this year be amazing, in spite of my not having welcomed it with yellow undergarments.
In trying to convince 2013 to be epic, I shall share two weird panty stories, in the hopes that the gods of the new year have some pity on me and forget my lack of keeping up with tradition. I might get extra karma points if I tell you that, albeit some artistic liberties, these are both true stories. And you probably know who they belong to.
Weird Panty Story No. 1
The Case of the Red Bloomers
Since she was a little girl, A- always received a special box filled with presents for Christmas from her grandparents. Every year for the past 24 years, A- received self-baked and self-bought cookies, a small token of love and affection, perhaps a book, an envelope with a Christmas card and some cash, a pretty, christmassy container, and a secret inside it. A- seldom opened her Christmas present from her grandparents in front of people, always preferring to relish in her happiness by herself, in the privacy of her room, and then always (methodically, religiously) proceeded to call her grandparents and thank them. It was, so to speak, her very own, personal Christmas tradition. A she grew to be a teenager, the amount of cash in the envelope increased, as did her parents' curiosity regarding the contents of the christmassy container. Faced with questions for so many years, A- had carefully prepared answers that would not raise further questions: empty, she said once; more cookies, she said another time; oh, nothing important, she said. When she was 16 she was forced to open her gift box in public, in front of her siblings, parents and grandparents, but was able to hide the secret gift before anyone knew there was one. When she was 17, the package arrived mislabeled, and her sister opened A-'s instead of hers, but A- was quick and clever and managed to get the right package before the secret was uncovered. When she was 18, during the thank-you call, she actually asked her grandmother (she knew it had to be her grandmother who sent that embarrassing present, not her grandfather) to stop it, to put an end to it, to just let it go because it was no longer funny. Her grandmother answered with a loud laugh, and next year sent the infamous secret gift outside of the secret vessel, in plain sight to anyone who were near A- upon opening the box. A- opened the box, saw the contents sprawled inside, and quickly blushed, closed it, and ran away to the bathroom. When she was 20 she could not celebrate Christmas with her family, so she opened the package in the perfect solitude of her own home, but was still ashamed of the secret gift. You would think, she thought when she opened the box the Christmas of her 21st year, that by now I'd be used to it... but no. Still blushing at 22, still keeping the secret at 23... But on her 24th Christmas, I was with her. And A-, knowing of my humble, non-judgemental, polite and respectful demeanor, showed me that secret which she had been hiding for so long. Every year, her granny sent her extravagant, red, sexy britches. Because that's what we all want for Christmas, right? The knowledge that our grandma wants us to get laid. And a friend who tells the world about it.
B- was never a normal girl, but was also far from being an excentric. She liked her men weird, but with a slight hint of normality to them. Weird, like musicians, but normal, like not foreign nationals involved in dubious extracurricular activities. Weird, like hipstery activists, but normal, like enrolled in a university as full-time students. Weird, like philosophers and stuff, but normal, like still choosing to wear western-style clothing. And one day she met Hans Peter von Deutschland, the germanest German ever, so normal, but with weird thoughts on the meaning of life, the universe and everything else (42), and also a superb bass player. He was the perfect normal weirdo for B-. And she fell in love. It is outside the matter whether he too fell in love or not, whether it was at first sight or not, whether it was meant to be or not - it was outside the matter because B- and Hans Peter von Deutschland, the germanest German ever, could not stand to be apart. However, in spite of the overflowing chemistry, which caused sparks that one could see even from Berlin, or Copenhagen, B- and the object of her affection had never "done it". They were always with other people, or in open, public spaces, or the mood was just not right for sex. Sometimes the music was too good to interrupt it with carnal acts; sometimes the conversation was too deep to deal with shallow bodily pleasures; sometimes the universe simply did not conspire. Until one day it did. One night, rather. B- was in a trance listening to her germanest German ever talk about talking, and the germanest German ever was in a trance talking to her and having her listening to him - and that trance led them to bed. Hans Peter von Deutschland, being the germanest German ever, took two steps back (for her to be able to get a full panoramic view of the deliciousness that was about to happen) and took off his shirt. No disappointment there, thought B-, as she made herself comfortable waiting for her one-to-one show. The germanest German ever approached her, kissed her, messed her hair, caressed her face, loved her almost - and B- let him come closer, kissed him back, messed his hair as well, and then undid his pants. One. Button. At. A. Time. The first one. The second one (no zippers - sexiest jeans ever). The third one. The fourth and last one. His one-eyed snake was about to be set free. Again, the germanest German ever took two steps back to allow B- the best possible view of his manhood trapped in briefs... only that they weren't briefs. With his pants on the ground, the germanest German ever turned around to have his two tiny, poorly-formed butt-cheeks face her, the thin thread of the back end of his camouflaged g-string lost in between the tiny flaps of muscle barely apt to be a derriere. Spiked by what he understood to be a gasp of pleasure and anxiety, Hans Peter von Deutschland, the germanest German ever, turned to face her again, this time scarcely showing the blurred silhouette of a wiener swimming in the camouflaged fabric of his banana-hamock thong. B- fell out of love, laughed and left. Or many she laughed, left and fell out of love. Or maybe she did all at the same time. That was again beyond the point: that was, and will forever remain to be, the time she saw a camouflaged banana-hamock. She hopes it will also be the last time she ever sees one. Or that, at least, the next time she is faced with a guy in camouflaged a thong, that he has the goods to fill in the stuff.
In trying to convince 2013 to be epic, I shall share two weird panty stories, in the hopes that the gods of the new year have some pity on me and forget my lack of keeping up with tradition. I might get extra karma points if I tell you that, albeit some artistic liberties, these are both true stories. And you probably know who they belong to.
Weird Panty Story No. 1
The Case of the Red Bloomers
Since she was a little girl, A- always received a special box filled with presents for Christmas from her grandparents. Every year for the past 24 years, A- received self-baked and self-bought cookies, a small token of love and affection, perhaps a book, an envelope with a Christmas card and some cash, a pretty, christmassy container, and a secret inside it. A- seldom opened her Christmas present from her grandparents in front of people, always preferring to relish in her happiness by herself, in the privacy of her room, and then always (methodically, religiously) proceeded to call her grandparents and thank them. It was, so to speak, her very own, personal Christmas tradition. A she grew to be a teenager, the amount of cash in the envelope increased, as did her parents' curiosity regarding the contents of the christmassy container. Faced with questions for so many years, A- had carefully prepared answers that would not raise further questions: empty, she said once; more cookies, she said another time; oh, nothing important, she said. When she was 16 she was forced to open her gift box in public, in front of her siblings, parents and grandparents, but was able to hide the secret gift before anyone knew there was one. When she was 17, the package arrived mislabeled, and her sister opened A-'s instead of hers, but A- was quick and clever and managed to get the right package before the secret was uncovered. When she was 18, during the thank-you call, she actually asked her grandmother (she knew it had to be her grandmother who sent that embarrassing present, not her grandfather) to stop it, to put an end to it, to just let it go because it was no longer funny. Her grandmother answered with a loud laugh, and next year sent the infamous secret gift outside of the secret vessel, in plain sight to anyone who were near A- upon opening the box. A- opened the box, saw the contents sprawled inside, and quickly blushed, closed it, and ran away to the bathroom. When she was 20 she could not celebrate Christmas with her family, so she opened the package in the perfect solitude of her own home, but was still ashamed of the secret gift. You would think, she thought when she opened the box the Christmas of her 21st year, that by now I'd be used to it... but no. Still blushing at 22, still keeping the secret at 23... But on her 24th Christmas, I was with her. And A-, knowing of my humble, non-judgemental, polite and respectful demeanor, showed me that secret which she had been hiding for so long. Every year, her granny sent her extravagant, red, sexy britches. Because that's what we all want for Christmas, right? The knowledge that our grandma wants us to get laid. And a friend who tells the world about it.
Weird Panty Story No. 2
The time she couldn't see what she was supposed to see
B- was never a normal girl, but was also far from being an excentric. She liked her men weird, but with a slight hint of normality to them. Weird, like musicians, but normal, like not foreign nationals involved in dubious extracurricular activities. Weird, like hipstery activists, but normal, like enrolled in a university as full-time students. Weird, like philosophers and stuff, but normal, like still choosing to wear western-style clothing. And one day she met Hans Peter von Deutschland, the germanest German ever, so normal, but with weird thoughts on the meaning of life, the universe and everything else (42), and also a superb bass player. He was the perfect normal weirdo for B-. And she fell in love. It is outside the matter whether he too fell in love or not, whether it was at first sight or not, whether it was meant to be or not - it was outside the matter because B- and Hans Peter von Deutschland, the germanest German ever, could not stand to be apart. However, in spite of the overflowing chemistry, which caused sparks that one could see even from Berlin, or Copenhagen, B- and the object of her affection had never "done it". They were always with other people, or in open, public spaces, or the mood was just not right for sex. Sometimes the music was too good to interrupt it with carnal acts; sometimes the conversation was too deep to deal with shallow bodily pleasures; sometimes the universe simply did not conspire. Until one day it did. One night, rather. B- was in a trance listening to her germanest German ever talk about talking, and the germanest German ever was in a trance talking to her and having her listening to him - and that trance led them to bed. Hans Peter von Deutschland, being the germanest German ever, took two steps back (for her to be able to get a full panoramic view of the deliciousness that was about to happen) and took off his shirt. No disappointment there, thought B-, as she made herself comfortable waiting for her one-to-one show. The germanest German ever approached her, kissed her, messed her hair, caressed her face, loved her almost - and B- let him come closer, kissed him back, messed his hair as well, and then undid his pants. One. Button. At. A. Time. The first one. The second one (no zippers - sexiest jeans ever). The third one. The fourth and last one. His one-eyed snake was about to be set free. Again, the germanest German ever took two steps back to allow B- the best possible view of his manhood trapped in briefs... only that they weren't briefs. With his pants on the ground, the germanest German ever turned around to have his two tiny, poorly-formed butt-cheeks face her, the thin thread of the back end of his camouflaged g-string lost in between the tiny flaps of muscle barely apt to be a derriere. Spiked by what he understood to be a gasp of pleasure and anxiety, Hans Peter von Deutschland, the germanest German ever, turned to face her again, this time scarcely showing the blurred silhouette of a wiener swimming in the camouflaged fabric of his banana-hamock thong. B- fell out of love, laughed and left. Or many she laughed, left and fell out of love. Or maybe she did all at the same time. That was again beyond the point: that was, and will forever remain to be, the time she saw a camouflaged banana-hamock. She hopes it will also be the last time she ever sees one. Or that, at least, the next time she is faced with a guy in camouflaged a thong, that he has the goods to fill in the stuff.
So glad to have you blogging in English once again! I loved these tails (pun intended)... remind me to tell you the story of the "President of the Panties of the Month Club." But you cannot tell anyone else! LOL
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