(Mom, this is your official warning: if last week’s confession didn’t do it already, you will not be proud of me anymore after reading this. But really mom, when you look at it, this is kind of your fault for not raising me better. I am just saying.)
I caught the Craigslist fever a couple of years ago. It was just around this same time of year and I was in a total panic about how we would pay for Christmas and make our mortgage payments and everything, and so to raise a little extra Christmas cashola, I started looking around the house for stuff I could sell on Craigslist.
And somehow—I don’t know how this happened—I wound up cruising the sex stuff for random perverts to laugh at by complete accident.
And I came across this ad:
Looking for a little extra cash for the holidays? I’m a nice, normal guy (good looking) with a panty fetish. I’ll buy your panties for $25.
Deprived of my use of reason for fear that Santa might skip our house, and I’d wind up giving my daughter like, I don’t know, diapers and heat for Christmas, I mulled it over briefly and figured “why the fuck not?”
So I respond to the ad.
I was a desperate woman.
Panties? I have some panties, and I hate doing laundry. Maybe we could help each other out.
And then he requested my picture and that seemed reasonable enough so I emailed an old one that didn’t even look like me.
And then I got this message back:
Did you grow up in [insert town I actually did grow up in]?
A wave of intense nausea came over me, the computer screen went fuzzy, and all I could think was holyshitholyshitholyshit just like that, over and over again as I freaked the fuck out. I studied the initials in his email address and realized that I knew him. Not only did I know him, but he was so cute in High School and very popular and he was on the football team and I had an enormous crush on him. Of course, just like all the other boys, he was a total wanker toward me…
…and now he’s trying to buy my underpanties!
Screaming, I immediately dove to the floor and hid under my desk in a desperate attempt to hide from my email, but that wasn’t a safe enough distance. I ran downstairs and literally rolled myself into my living room rug. Still screaming, I unrolled enough to reach a hand out for the phone and dialed my friend Valerie from high school. I told her the whole story and she about peed her pants (in her defense, she was pregnant at the time) laughing so hard and she was certainly crying tears of supreme glee because not only is her BFF the victim of her own jackassery, but Mr. All-American Boy is a big panty sniffer!
That was probably the best Christmas present I could have given her.
You’re welcome, Valerie.
Hilarity and humiliation aside though?
The next question was WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO NOW?
Naturally, I didn’t want to confirm his suspicions about my identity, so Val and I agreed that the only thing to do was say nothing, send the panties, and never ever speak of this most unfortunate encounter again. That seemed like a Very Good Plan, or, at least it did until he emailed me a description of what he wanted the panties to be like.
As if this whole thing wasn’t horrifying enough, did you know that there are actual people out there who will pay money for DIRTY underwear? With, like, three days worth of “essence of woman” as he called it, dried on them? Eeewwwww!!!
I sure as hell hope my “essence” isn’t smegma.
And here comes the part where everyone is all, “what did you think he wanted, asshat?” All I can say in my defense is that I can be sort of naive about things, and I just thought he was just some lonely fat guy living in his mom’s basement and maybe he never had a lady friend and I don’t know. I thought maybe it was just the idea that someone had been wearing them and so I thought I’d send him some that had been ahem, gently used, and that would be good and that I’d actually be doing something nice for him. They’d just smell of body lotion or something and not be a freaking bio hazard!!!
Needless to say, I backed out of the deal realfuckinquick because sending off my DNA? is not at all what I thought I’d be doing.
What makes this story even more uncomfortable, if that’s even possible, is that I knew the girl he wound up marrying. She was always a very nice person, and I know she would not be okay with knowing her husband is buying icky underpants from strangers on the Internet, requesting they be sent in a plain brown envelope, and doing GOD KNOWS WHAT with them. I mean, what do people do with them? Do they jerk off on them? Do they wear them on their heads? Do they try them on? Do they–oh my goodness–sniff and LICK THEM?
I’m not really sure I want to know.
One thing I do know is that sometimes the universe whispers to you, sometimes it shouts, and sometimes it beats you over the head with your high school yearbook and says “DO NOT SELL YOUR PANTIES ON CRAIGSLIST, MORON!”
I guess the only good thing about this experience is that it’s nice to find out that people who were assholes in school grew up to be even bigger assholes, like the snotty cheerleader who’s now the proud mother of a crack baby, or that Mr. All-American Boy is a panty sniffer who keeps lots of secrets from his wife (who deserves better).
I want to hear your thoughts on this. Tell me I’m a dumbass, tell me if you’d want to know if your husband was a panty sniffer, tell me about something really stupid you’ve done for a little extra holiday cash, tell me you don’t own underwear… Whatever, just speak to me, people!
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