The Life and Death of Me Underwears

Friday, 06/27/03.

I never asked for this.

I take a moment to write a special entry in this journal -an event I'm certain I will not forget in the near future – still, I must write this now or risk losing the words to describe the essence of my feelings that marked my being on the hour of this very tragedy, so vividly embedded in my imagination as I write down these words.

It all happened on an afternoon: I was with Michelle, making out outside Johnny's flat. We meant to pay him a visit but things got heated. I drew her closer, in my car and on our way there, wrapped her around my arms, kissed her on the lips when we were outside.

We snuck in casually when no one answered the door. Sat ourselves on Johnny's sofa and exchanged cheesy lines like they were straight out of a bad romance movie while I was fed an assortment of chocolates we bought from a convenience store on our way there (they were meant for Lisa)– nothing out of the ordinary yet – though it was clear that this was a build-up for something more. Johnny doesn't mind – he tends to be very open about the subject of sex after all —this is not where the tragedy begins, though the truth is I detest getting fed chocolates before making love. Whoever thought that was a good idea? Ow, Michelle, she's such a romantic (for better or worse)!

She started taking off my clothes and, like I said, things started to heat up. Thankfully we skipped the whole chocolate bit at this point; It was getting cheesy and I think she started to notice. We engage in passionate kissing, a night to remember at Johnny's apartment – his couch, a memoir of our lovemaking... or so we hoped.

Then everything goes to hell. Lisa and Claudette come in and catch us there, naked. I guess we finally realized that this wasn't such a good spur-of-the-moment thing to do after all.

So we get our stuff and leave as quickly as we snuck in, but while I was halfway out, something finally clicks with me, and my face goes blank in horror. Michelle gives me a jab with her shoulder,
"Come on, what are you doing? Let's go!", she says, emphasizing that last word while making one of her 'faces'. I don't answer at first, my mind continuing to process the entire situation. I let out a "Wait."... "I can't go. Forgot my... undergarments", I explain.

"Well then go and get it back!", she places a heavy accent on those key words while giving me 'the look' again.

What I find on my way back is the horror of every man's dreams – I see Claudette, Johnny's mother-in-law, a vicious harpy and no doubt a former bad influence on her daughter. She's the kind of woman that would feign having breast cancer just so she could steal some attention and sympathy in her old years. I'm relieved when I think that Johnny managed to pull Lisa away from her influence in the end... though sometimes I wonder. Old habits die hard, and so do the lessons that come with them.

But that covers an entirely different diary entry. So I try to behave casually, tell her I just forgot my book (a pretty stupid explanation since she just saw us naked a while back), fumble around and try to put the underwear back in my pocket hurriedly, as if I were trying to stuff my off-the-mark comment together with it, too.

And that's where the beginning of the end comes. Claudette notices. I just freeze, and she just grabs me underwears out of me pocket in disbelief (that's one thing we had in common at the time).

My underwear is hanging from her grip like a mousetail from a cat's mouth. She grips the tighs region, then the crotch, folding it; her hands sharing for a moment in time a firm, indirect grip on my crotch with me, before leaving it hanging from a couple of fingers again – only this time, raised high up in the air, for everybody to see. She's showing everybody me underwears (more people had come by that time, I don't wanna get into it)... and I. Just. Can't. Believe it.

I got this underwear on my birthday, from Michelle. With money that came out of my pocket, and a great deal at that. I don't think I'm ever going to get over this ... I just... can't wear me underwears after an old woman in her 60's has had her way with it.

A part of me died that day. I suppose I'll have to tell Johnny about it. He'll understand, I'm sure. He wouldn't scoff at something like that. Oh, Jesus... *sigh* I never asked for this.