At some point in life, you make a choice between funderwear and thunderwear. Knickers to be seen in or knickers to be yourself in. If you are wearing knickers to potentially please someone else then the wearing of those knickers is giving your power away. If you want to sexually politicise your pants. Which, on second thoughts, we don’t. Too worthy. But the thing about funderwear is, it’s not that much fun. In the end. *picksstringoutofcrack*
There is no shame in big pants. Really there isn’t. Particularly now that it’s autumn and we are feeling chilly and insecure and vaguely dread-ful. Big pants are a cuddle. True, there is something faintly disheartening about a multi-pack of full briefs, but what about those vast cotton numbers that they sell in every single street market (from Puglia to Lincolnshire) for a single pound/euro? Love those.
Big pants not only make us feel held, they often give you the last laugh, being so enormous that they read as largely seam-free, riding so high on the tum and so low on the bottom.
And there is a sod’s law aspect to the larger knicker. Rather like a hairy leg or a big, bouncing bush: somehow you’re more likely to have spontaneous sex when you are not groomed or uniformed for it. Freedom. That’s what big pants give you. Freedom to have a big dinner. Freedom to flirt without (or even with) consequence. Freedom not to constantly adjust the cheese wires digging into your sides. Oh, and for the record, a substantial boy short counts as a big pant. So unflattering. So easy. So the way forward. Leave the floss-smalls in the drawer. And unleash hell.