This was written for my brother’s magazine years ago:
When given the prospect of writing on freedom, particularly the freedom of not wearing underwear, I was elated. Finally, some forum to express my little slice of rebellion , however seemingly mundane, against the repressive bit of binding holding in my holiest of holes. When I was young the thought- the very idea – of me not wearing underwear was as close to sin as taking the Lord’s name in vain (which I also didn’t get because- What does she care?) The first time I didn’t wear them was an accident. When my grandmother found out she obviously didn’t it was as funny as I did. I might as well had been selling pussy for the reaction I got. So after that, I didn’t dare go bare until I was an adult. The era ended when I would ask my two best friends why they weren’t wearing any panties, and their answer was “Why should I?” I couldn’t answer them so off came the drawa’s.
It’s one of my many struggles against social mores. It’s me knowing I’m a sexual being at every moment of everyday. Men find it sexy, but more importantly I find it sexy. There’s a bit of exhibitionism to it. There’s a sense of power that comes with being able to hike up my skirt anywhere I choose and take a whiz. To have to check my sexual thoughts, as men do, to make sure I’m not sitting in a puddle.
But moreover, it’s my little secret. (Well not anymore I guess). But when I ‘m sitting at work listening to these ball-less fucks tell me to do mind numbing bullshit, I know that if I wanted to I could stand up, piss on their shoes and tell them to kiss my ass in one fell swoop. And on top of it all, I believe it’s made me more of a lady.