My first thong was cream silk with black scalloped lace on the edges. It had a tiny bejeweled bow and I treasured it. I Â hid it underneath my regular bikini style underwear and washed it by hand.
My friends believed  that they were the number one piece of equipment when it came to battling panty lines and seeming more mature to boys. My mom didn’t wear thongs, which meant that I never really got the full rundown when it came to where to get them, what worked and what didn’t, how to buy one and where. I deduced that they were sexy and I was expected to wear them. I was interested in having a sexual experience and cared what my friends thought of me. I wasn’t about to be the only one still wearing striped underwear that my mom had bought me. I wasn’t going to be left behind, a child among teenagers. All of a sudden, everyone seemed to have gotten the memo but me; my friends were naturally progressing into smaller underwear and I was eager to keep up. I was fourteen and faced with a twenty foot high Victoria’s Secret angel. The word sexy was spelled out over rows of tiny g strings. There was really no way to escape, and I didn’t.
I was never a master thong wearer, but I was a dedicated one. I did what my friends did, and they did as their older sisters and young celebrities did. I learned how to put on my jeans without bunching them up on the sides, about which ones were cool and which ones were not, about the way that they leave your body entirely bare and full of goosebumps. I didn’t like looking at myself in the mirror because somehow they just didn’t look right on my body. There was always a gap between where the fabric ended and my lower back began, and they were always too low or too high. Was I supposed to be wearing them above my hip bones, below my hip bones, at my waist? I had no idea, so I guessed a little bit differently each time. They made me feel wobbly and vulnerable. They made wearing underwear seem like being naked; it made taking off my pants seem like I was doing so much more. They were low rise, and I would soon find out that I was a high rise girl.
I wore them until I went to college, without question. Bikini underwear, or briefs, were for children, thongs were for grown ups. I was sure that my high school boyfriend would think that it was gross to come across a high waisted boy short under my dress, or a full fledged bikini under my jeans. I was far more concerned with other people’s thoughts on my undergarments than what felt comfortable for me. Â
Two years out of college, I bought a pair of high waisted cotton briefs, the underwear my mom wears or even my grandmother. They were white and stretchy. I felt like my body was being cradled and protected. I was suddenly wearing more fabric down there than I had in a long time, but was free to run around my apartment with no pants on, to wear short skirts without fear of extreme wind, to sunbathe in the park without the fear of flashing someone unintentionally. I had adopted an affinity for a looser jean, and all of a sudden underwear lines weren’t as much of a problem. My body seemed to settle into the style, the high waist flattering my body in a way the dip of a thong never did. I began to feel strong and powerful in this decision, in choosing something actively different than what I had been taught was the hot option. Why, I would raise my eyebrows when people asked, should I wear something that’s sexy for you but kind of hurts if it goes on the wrong way and doesn’t really fit my vagina? I thrived in the full coverage of the high rise cotton bikini. Everything felt safe and warm. Everything felt sturdy and the underwear felt more like loungewear, something to celebrate instead of hide, a piece of clothing made more for comfort and functionality than someone else’s idea of what’s attractive. Briefs are cozy. They’re simple. They feel like a natural extension of my body, existing to flatter and emphasize my own shape instead of promote the idea that wearing as little as possible is what’s important, that a persons bottom half has to always be sex ready.
Underwear is specific, and first and foremost a personal preference. Thongs are great, but thongs aren’t great for me. I like big underwear. I like knowing that they’re sexy not because they’ll make me more like a billboard, but because I feel sexy in them. This is underwear designed for me, not for a man; the thought process was about a woman’s body first, not what might visually appeal to someone else. Whenever I put on a thong I would think to myself, what would a partner think of this? Whenever I put on a pair of briefs, I think to myself, wow, I feel great. There’s no sign flashing in front of my eyes saying this is sexy, these are sexy, wear them to be sexy. There’s no advertising campaign built into my head. They feel like me, and that’s just how I want to feel.
I threw every single one out, including the white one with the lace trim and the sparkly bow.