Sophie’s Mum says lingerie is ‘made for speed,’ like you’re not meant to wear it for too long because it’s designed to be sexy not comfortable. I’m not really sure why it can’t be sexy and comfortable.
I get to your apartment and my butt’s burning. It’s a 40 degree day and I’ve been walking a lot, my undies riding up under my dress and chafing the delicate skin between my butt cheeks. It’s cool in your apartment and I take my shoes off to feel my feet flatten against the polished hardwood floors. The smell of coffee and sex and tobacco. I haven’t been home for days. I’ve started leaving a stash of underwear here, even though I like having an excuse to borrow your Calvin Klein boxer briefs so I can feel them gripping my thighs when I’m sitting in lectures. I only leave my sexy underwear here. Even though you must know I don’t wear it all the time, that it couldn’t be comfortable, I want to maintain the façade a little longer and I know you prefer it.
Today’s pair are Kaiser, so I think that makes them sort of the middle step between ‘sexy undies’ and ‘fancy lingerie’ because they look great, but they’re not French lace or anything. The top of them is opaque black nylon or something and then the boyleg part that curls around my front and over my butt is lace. I chose ones like this so they’d hide my pubes, because I don’t want to get rid of them. You say they’re sexy anyway.
I’m thinking about how Australia simultaneously dwarfs and suffocates me, like all its spaces are too far away, too vast for me to reach but all the people live in a goldfish bowl or a stacks-on pile and I can never be really invisible while you eat me out. I feel like I’m gonna go through the roof, or at least writhe around enough to mess up your perfect sheets. You see the welts between my butt cheeks from the lingerie and I am embarrassed and hiding my head under the pillows, writhing and squirming and trying to be as small and invisible as possible, but you fuck me anyway.