OxMuff: Is expensive underwear pants?

Features

This week, I’ll be talking about pants. Your skivvies. Your unmentionables. Your over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. Just to clarify, this will not be a lecture on the importance of good support and proper fitting. Oh no. This will be a diatribe on the wispy, the draughty, and the gloriously overpriced. Underwear glimpsed for a provocative ten seconds of foreplay before it is wrenched incompetently off by your partner. Underwear so flimsy, you could swallow three pairs in one go. Underwear that is, essentially, the ghost of pants.

As we all know, pants have been getting progressively smaller over the years. We began, of course, from something one might quite genuinely be able to pitch a tent with, vast expanses of cloth reaching practically from thigh to ribcage, snugly encasing one from bottom-pinching, inclement weather and those lecherous virginity bandits our mothers warned us about.

These may endure today in the form of your full-coverage ‘period pants’. Now, however, women are expected to don something seemingly constructed from spiders’ webs and dental floss, so diminutive it risks being sucked in and quietly devoured by your outer labia, powerless against the gravitational vagaries of your vagina. That’s to say nothing of the bras.

They hoist your breasts up to your chin, leaving you with the beguiling ‘tit-arse’ phenomenon so beloved of Ann Summers campaigns. I’m all for a little extra oomph, but the “Two Sizes Bigger” Bra from M&S leaves me cold. The promise of rocketing overnight from a 32D to a 32F, to me, does not imply sexy. It implies that you have some sort of tumour.

For the initiated, though, gravity-defying bras and invisible pants are just the basics. For those who find hoicking down their underwear to knee level too time-consuming for the pre-tute quickie, we have crotchless tights, crotchless knickers, and crotchless bodystockings. A bodystocking, right up there with a little black dress or crisp white shirt on the list wardrobe must-haves, is essentially what a onesie would look like if Jodie Marsh had thought to design one. It is undeniably a wholly titillating piece of equipment, particularly when one’s flab begins to bulge through that ever-classy fishnet diamond pattern.

Whilst spending all day clambering into a nylon, 25 denier sheath holds a certain charm, I have to admit a covert and unexplored preference for the latex and rubber bondage-wear so beloved of the Fifty Shades brigade. However, I think I can put this mainly down to the fact that, being wipe-clean, the sartorial principles of BDSM fanatics are simply much more practical than hand-washing silk thongs with every wear. My scout is a kind, long-suffering woman, but even she has tired of the make-shift washing line that adorns my room every time I get lucky.

For most girls though, whether your pants are from Marks and Spencer (Rosie Huntington-Whitely’s high-waisted silk briefs, bordering on the burlesque granny vibe on anyone over a size 10) or La Senza (neon floral dig-a-hole-in-your-breastbone bras), all that effort and expense will often be something of let-down.

Having carefully chosen your intimate accoutrements, there remains every likelihood that your chosen audience will merely fumble with your bra clasp, squash the delicate silk trim and unceremoniously chuck your cherry-picked offerings on the (somewhat grubby) carpet. When, in the course of my usual tireless research for the OxMuff, I asked a group of boys for their thoughts on thongs, the deafening consensus was, “DEPENDS ON THE BUM”.

 

PHOTO/ Pschemp

So there we have it. If we’re choosing lingerie, it shouldn’t be to impress someone else, in spite of what women’s magazines would have you believe (I maintain that I do not need any help to ‘spice up’ my sex life. I am nineteen and getting plenty). Selecting underwear for our partners is by and large pointless – they want the body, not the inch wide strip of lace giving you VPL. The human race managed to procreate before we made it necessary for women to be rigged up like cakes.

If I want to look like a French Fancy, I’m not doing it for anyone else. I’m doing it either because an appropriate bop theme has arisen or because I felt a bodystocking was my only means of properly expressing myself that morning.

 

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