Fridays (Friday Number Three, September 1st, page 4 of 7)


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All during those years I was dressed in dowdy fashion, subject to the torments of my fellow classmates. Underwear became a particular obsession with me; why I don't know. At least that part of my attire was hidden from the jeering eyes of others but it mattered not; I knew what I was forced to wear. Cotton was the only practical fabric in our house and what I wore was usually stained and patched. In colder weather my privates were covered by a monstrosity that came part way down my thighs, a half-union suit, and a throwback to the nineteen-thirties! Unless I sat with skirt wrapped tightly and uncomfortably about my thighs, the damned things might be visible! How I longed to wear what the magazine pictures displayed; things totally alien to what covered my blossoming backside. I suppose I thought some handsome knight might someday carry me away and debauch my innocence, whatever that meant to this newly arrived and confused teenager. Debauching didn't happen to girls in cotton drawers.

Cleverly squirreling away my coins, I finally accumulated enough money to purchase a pair of real panties! I secreted them home and feeling deliciously evil, covered my innocence with flowered nylon! For two days I washed them nightly, dried them beneath my bed while I slept, and wore them in public, alone, except for Amy, in my knowledge of the cool and sexy clothing beneath my frumpy dress. On the third day, in hopes of fooling the washer-lady mother, I wore my tacky old underwear, hiding my treasure beneath my out of season things in a bottom drawer. My treasure was summarily confiscated and I was heartbroken. I should have known better. Privacy was a dictionary word, not a right to which I held title, as my room was periodically ravaged for secrets. No word was ever said of the captured garment but I received a cold you're-a-bad-girl look. And it made me cry, as I am doing now, as I remember.

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