Lingerie Jungle

July 8th, 2010 by Harrumpher Leave a reply »

Girdles, panty-girdles, pettipants, slips full and half, stockings, underpants and of course brassieres…

Those were my daily teenage jungle. They were vines in the family bathroom, but not even of any utility for swinging from place to place.

In apartments with two females, I moved or pushed aside curtains of lingerie to shower, use a toothbrush or shave. I was the minority adjusting the the nylon tyranny of the majority.

That meant heaving the foldable wooden Rid-Jid drying rack (carefully so the dowel structure didn’t collapse) from the tub to the floor to get to the shower or tub. That meant pushing aside the shower-curtain rack of stockings and white wear and moving it to someplace obvious and safe.

It’s good I didn’t have a fetish for women’s undergraments. Perhaps the daily dealings are what kept me from fixating on them. I never understood the guys in college who sat at student union stairwells hoping for glimpse of what I had seen far too many of, thank you very much.

The amusing part though was not my daily bra bushwhack. Rather, my busty sister and flat-chested mom kept a regular banter about their contributions to the jungle. There was never a doubt about whose bra was whose.

They’d laugh about their respective attributes, feigning jealousy.

I ran into that again a few years later in my first job after journalism school. As editor of the black weekly in Columbia South Carolina, the Palmetto Post, I was usually the only white person around. Other than ad sales reps, the two always-there office staff were black women who had been best friends since first grade. They even went to the two neighboring black colleges there before starting working for the paper together.

They knew each other very well.

Part of that was play like I grew up hearing. They had the two stereotypical African-American women’s bodies. One was was slender with no bottom or top to speak of and the other short and heavy top and bottom. The slender one, Ida, would not let a day pass without lamenting how much she wanted big breasts and a substantial rear. Jackie would counter with how chubby she was and how much she wanted Ida’s right bod.

Here again, I was outnumbered and on their turf. They remained the best of friends and used body talk like too many of us go through riffs on the weather. Plus, I think they enjoyed watching me blush.

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2 Responses

  1. Uncle says:

    Good job it was roommates.This sort of thing gets even more complicated with teenaged daughters. You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. This totally leaves out the 14 swimsuits.

  2. Harrumpher says:

    Well, we’re incapable of manufacturing daughters here — three sons. My lesbian minister with partner, two daughters and two female pets referred to her place as the House of Estrogen and to ours with three sons, mom/wife, dad/hubby and male cat as the House of Testosterone. I had had my prolonged hazing of underwear as well as occupying the husband seat in stores while mom and sis tried on clothes over many years.

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