I remember a day when I wish I had tied my panties in a knot.
Out of a whole drawer of undies, I had picked the oldest pair; those with elastic that held onto its stretch by a string. You’d think a seventh grader would have more sense. Not me. That string quietly unraveled as I put them on in the morning.
Our junior-high breaks between classes were three minutes long, so I had to hurry to use the washroom before my next class began. As I pulled my panties down, — that’s what we called underwear back then — I noticed they seemed looser than normal. But I was more worried about being quick than being careful. When I pulled them up, the waistband gave one dying elastic gasp. “I retire,” it breathed tiredly. In just one short pull-up, this pair of briefs transitioned from intimate wear to unmentionables.
The bloomers slid down my belly as I left the stall. As I approached the door, I reached under my skirt and pulled them back into place, grateful that no one else had entered the bathroom.
Walking down the hallway, I tried to scrunch my thighs together to keep these untightie-whities in place. With all my focus on my underwear, I tripped over my own feet and dropped a book. The next thing I knew, my bloomers had collapsed around my ankles. I bent over, picked up the book, kicked off the panties, and left them lying in the hall.
The three minutes between classes had almost elapsed. As I looked down the almost empty hallway, I hoped nobody had witnessed my downfall. Nobody did, or at least no one ever mentioned my abandoned unmentionables, and of course, neither did I.
Please share your thoughts in the comments below.
This thread has been closed from taking new comments.