If you want to hear a sad story, talk to the sexy underwear compartment of my rolling Ikea storage bin. Boy, do they have a lot to whine and complain about. As far as clothing meeting its ultimate purpose, my next-to-nude companions need some life coaching. A lot of Close But No Cigar tales to tell from the lace and bow section, only rivaled perhaps by the silky vintage boycut variety. So many purchases dropped into this bin of hopeful disrobing, so many sitting on the bench for every game of every possible season of sexual gaming. It's hard to break it to a new pair that its greatest contribution would be by making a typical Tuesday even more glamorous. Or to continue to encourage a veteran matching set in red or polka-dot that its day will come, and when it does, we'll treat ourselves to some new fabric softener from Victoria's Secret.
It'd be a treat for us all if my from the bottom up method of becoming sexy was as successful as Cosmo makes it out to be. See, I'm a self-starter. A believer in making my own destiny and the power of self-visualization. You want to feel good? Look good. You want to pave the way for a great makeout? Bring a breath mint or two. Need some bootay? Wear something bootaylicious. And I follow these rules. So imagine my surprise when I recount the most notable of encounters and realize the dire state of underthings in those instances. Nothing matching, no rhyme to the color schemes, no previous preparation. When I think of the Best Of list, it doesn't add up to all the money I spent trying to look sexy. Actually, it lies somewhere on the Last Pair Before Laundry Day end of the spectrum.
Did my trying behavior derail my efforts? Is it not a coincidence that when I dust myself with body powders, paint my toes and spend a week's worth of groceries on underthings - I go home empty handed? A panel of experts chimed in regarding this topic confirming my greatest fear and greatest comfort: It's not just me. But, in this real world where people are impulsive, my idealistic almost naked look is compromised. I guess I'm just like every other girl, having my own nutty way of viewing romance, intimacy and perfect firsts - but are my principles again too overbearing? Appears so.
Because now, more than ever, with this new Law of Sexy Underwear - I'm seeing the poorest results. See, I've hopped back into the dating scene, and I hate going out on a Saturday night without having every possible scenario covered. Apartment clean? Check. Ear plugs ready on nightstand just in case he snores? Check. Kitchen stocked with brunch foods? Check. Sexy underwear combination prepared for takeoff? OF COURSE. These are all good things - that I care how I look and how I am perceived. But then I take a mental inventory and find that I have few friends who follow this type of protocol and who take their dates home. To dirty apartments, dirty sheets and whatever kind of mess might be under all those clothes.
I care too much. I listen too much. I absorb one person's bad opinion of a woman and develop another disaster recovery plan. I use his likes and dislikes to coordinate colors, hairstyles and percent milk that will be in my fridge. Because I'm trying to help my final score reach as close to 100 points as I can get. That would make me more keepable, right? That my room smells of something earthy rather than floral and that before you see me undressed, I've added one particular layer of Something Naughty? Is that important to you, boy/Man?
Seems not to be. Despite my intimate section scheming, que sera sera. Chemistry is deep in the body or hard on the surface. It doesn't wait for a green light. Or this one particular green lace set that I threw away this weekend on account of its almost lethal impact on my prospects. EVERY time I wore this get-up, I ended up getting none. Zero success rate. Straight to the garbage. Call me superstitious. I just couldn't take them any longer. Just like I can't imagine how letting my guard down might be the key to whatever I seek. If being prepared means I've created some kind of overbearing expectation barrier, it must also mean that by never expecting anything and always feeling comfortable - I will see better results.
Perhaps I sound like some deranged Search and Destroy robot. Like I set my sights on a target and inch away at its defenses until it's eating chocolate chip cookies on my couch and asks if it can just go to bed with me. I'm not an illusionist, drawing up a fantasy woman - wearing outfits completely uncharacteristic of my style, eating foods I hate or watching sports that I'd choose second to another semester of Geometry. I'm just trying to be the best version of myself - the one that has her shit together and looks like a million bucks all the time (but really doesn't in either case). Trying to build the best case in anticipation of a ruthless prosecution. And maybe I take it too far by thinking that if on some whim, a guy I'm dating wants to come home with me - he'd walk out if I wasn't wearing silks and satins under all the rest of my facade.
Deep down I am a romantic who wants to offer up something amazing. I want to be wanted and want to show someone that I want them badly enough to go through all the trouble I'd go through. I'm a confident woman when it comes to speaking my mind and showing my affection, but I've some strange rule that nothing good can happen to a girl with unshaven legs. And cannot function in a sexual frame of mind if my legs are even a couple days past due. After he falls asleep, if by some miracle he makes it to bed, I have a hard time sleeping because I know I may (a) snore, (b) drool or (c) sleep with my mouth open. I try to avoid any route that might lead someone I like in a direction that might cause them to go away. Perhaps this is because I think they will see me the way I see them: itemized. I dock points for bad behavior, bad breath, bad taste in music. Seems fair that he'd use the same criteria about the chunk on my thighs, the bags under my eyes, my unwaxed bits?
I suppose this isn't even the Law of Sexy Underwear as much as it is the Law of Sara Pellicori. Where control is the catalyst for confidence but also the detonator of any kind of explosive attraction. I need a new school of thought. Or to be reborn as a hair-loving, natural-craving, cotton-breathing hippie.
