photo by jenny downing

A college-student contributor friend of ours, who wishes to remain anonymous, has a confession to make:

Early into the sexual getting-to-know-you phase of my most recent relationship, my then-new beau surfaced for air mid-tumble long enough to exclaim, confused and generally pleased, “Dude, you wear some scandalous underwear!” And, you know what? I do.

My laundry basket often ends up looking like the bargain bin at the Victoria’s Secret semi-annual sale. Hook and eye merry widow with grosgrain garter? Been there. Lace-cupped bra with matching sheer thong? Done that. I own exactly four pairs of cotton briefs that surface on sick days, when I go running, and when I need to wear a pad. I am an unapologetic and long-time lingerie fanatic.

I think my unfortunately pricey habit originated with a trip to Old Navy my sophomore year of high school. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was jeans shopping at the mall, like any other weekend. At the time, I was a bit of an uber nerd and was constantly and palpably aware of boys’ infuriating disinterest in me. But there, among the graphic tees advertising ironic vaction spots and $2 rubber flip-flops, was protest incarnate in a teeny creamsicle-orange thong. Cue the halo of light and angelic chorus.

Somehow, latent in those three strips of elasticised lace, I saw a declaration: “Yeah, I’m an uber-nerd. But I also know I’m sexy. Screw you, under-appreciative pubescent classmates.” I quickly and covertly bought the thong with some babysitting money and smuggled it home in my purse. The next Monday, I sported my new, um, declaration under my camo cargos and Garden State t-shirt and walked with a new spring in my step. Since then, I’ve been hooked.

Why is this thing that is so rarely seen and meant to come off shortly after its audience debut something that I’m willing to shell out for? Wearing something sexy under my duds is a daily reminder of feeling sensual and alive in my own skin, or, on the days that I don’t, faking it ’til I make it. The moment of mindfulness when I put them on — or take them off — serves as an affirmation: I believe I am sexy in my own skin and in my own skivvies.

It’s never been about the guy I was with or hoping to be with, exactly. In fact, all of my long-term partners have been passively appreciative of but generally unphased by all the lace, lace-ups, mesh, and vinyl I’ve thrown at them. Putting on my silly skivvies is a reminder to myself that I believe that I’m as sexy as my underthings, and that translates into a more body-conscious way of thinking and moving. I truly believe that I walk a little taller when I’m wearing a perfectly constructed balconnet or a particularly “scandalous” g-string. And I think that translates to a boost in both decollete and self-esteem, both of which, I hear, are pretty great for sex appeal — a decidedly positive secondary effect of strapping myself into some serious lingerie.

More than that, It’s kind of incredible to get to be whomever I want to under my clothes. I may look like a sloppy college kid in jeans and an oversized sweater, but I know that underneath I am a locked and loaded sex kitten ready for the prowl. Buttoned-down intern by day, nympho nurse by night. It has the faint air of espionage. That duality is kind of thrilling: uber nerdy and uber, well, scandalous at the same time.