The Ass Menagerie: Sadie Stein’s Archive of Unmentionables
My boyfriend and I have called it quits, broken up. The breaking-up part is done, but I am still living daily with an unshakeable sadness, which is only increased by the knowledge that there are practical things I need to do to disassemble our seven years together—buy cardboard boxes, empty his closet, separate our books. But I haven’t done any of it.
Here’s what I have done: gone through my underwear drawer and sorted my lingerie.
There’s No Sex in Prison Showers
Let’s talk about turning gay in prison. I feel like I’ve written about this before, but let me repeat myself, ’cause the gay/rape question is frequently brought up when discussing jail. Basically, everyone I know thinks I did some gay shit in jail, or got raped or something. It makes me chuckle, ‘cause I never saw rape and rarely even heard rumors about gay hookups. Maybe there are a lot of rapes in the big, scary, maximum-security federal pens where they put the real insane hardened criminals. I don’t know about any of that though.
The average guy in jail is so scared of homosexuals or people thinking that he might be gay that we all wear our underwear in the shower. It’s pretty funny—we’ve all seen the jail shows and heard the endless “don’t drop the soap” jokes, but in all the years I was locked up, I was NEVER NAKED except when getting strip-searched by the cops or during my time in Shock boot camp, where they make you get naked on some psychological belittling bullshit. It was so nice to get out the slammajamma and just be naked. In fact, I’m naked right now, letting my ass and nuts marinate on the couch. I’m naked whenever I can be to make up for all that time I spent clothed in jail.
I Sold My Used Panties for Heroin
All photos courtesy of the author. These are some of the images she would send to her potential customers.
I started using heroin when I was 16 years old. I had played with every other drug at my disposal, but noticed an affinity for opiates in tenth grade when a friend suffering from cancer gave me some morphine. Within one year, I was shooting up in the parking lot while other kids were decorating the gym for pep rallies. My addiction continued for nearly ten years because, simply put, heroin made me feel fucking great.
Heroin addicts are constantly in need of money, and I was no different. I had heard people talking about the dirty panty market in Japan, and wondered if a similar demand existed in my northern Virginia suburb. After a quick Google search I found that this market was indeed real and thriving in Old Dominion. The need for money overcame any inhibitions I might have had, and I started responding to ads on Craigslist almost immediately.
My first customer offered me $100 for a pair of my panties. Not sure if you’re plugged into the going rate for old underwear, but that is on the high end of the spectrum. During our first meeting, which took place in a parking lot, he hopped in my car and handed me the cash. I removed my lacy black panties and let him slap my ass a few times. He didn’t even take the panties with him, as he was afraid his wife would find them. I drove away and laughed hysterically. I was $100 richer, and was about to get high. I had opened up the floodgates to a whole new world of possibilities. I didn’t feel exploited; I felt like the greatest hustler on Earth.
What Your Underwear Says About You
Congratulations, you have convinced some poor fool to come back to your house from a bar/party/awkward OKCupid date and tricked them into thinking it’s a good idea to have sex with you. (That’s the reason we call them “tricks,” btw, because there is always some sleight of hand.) Now it’s time to take off your pants and immediately reveal everything your prey needs to know about you. While we all know dick size is really the only thing that matters, first impressions are pretty important too, and anyone who takes home a male lover is going to first judge him by the style of his knickers.
So, what exactly do different types of undies tell us? Listen up, broseph. (I said that ironically.)
If you wear boxers, you are one of three types of people. 1.) You never left your dorm room without wearing a baseball cap—probably white and most likely with the brim all frayed. You wore those baggy bloomers under your “relaxed fit” jeans from the Gap (or Old Navy if you were on scholarship) and now they’re under the pleated pants of a cheap suit that you wear to your job in finance, real estate, law, or something else that has to do with money; 2.) You’ve eaten sushi off a naked woman before; 3.) You live in an urban environment, wear absurdly baggy pants and miraculously belt them somewhere around your mid-thigh so that you can show off what lies beneath. You are especially proud of your choice in underwear and enjoy the fact that no one wants to sit next to you on the subway. You wear a backpack.
If you are none of these people, then you are my dad.
The state of your briefs says just as much about you as the fact that you wear briefs. If they are new, clean, well kept, and without stains or holes, then you are the kind of guy who takes pride in his appearance. Perhaps too much pride. And speaking of pride, you’ve been to at least one Gay Pride event, possibly showing off those briefs of yours. You’re not gay, necessarily, but gay guys like you. This is especially true for briefs that come in colors or patterns. The louder they are, the more likely you’ve done CrossFit. If your briefs are tighty whiteys bought at Target or Walmart and are holey, worn out, and a total mess, then you are a momma’s boy who needs to get your life together. Dump that girlfriend you’ve had since high school and give up chew. Also, get some damn OxyClean already. No one calls them tighty vague-bodily-fluids-y. So you either care too much or you don’t care enough. Hooray for you.
You’re just all things to all people, aren’t you, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch? But no, really, you’re just average. This is what you are, just a bland person who does what the media and fashion industries tell you to do. You’re the kind of person who bought a Wii and played a few rounds of tennis, but now that shit just collects dust under your television. You like mashed potatoes, football games, beer, pussy, and everything else that everyone else loves. You will never be rich, but you will never be poor. You’ll die working on a home improvement project in your garage. Speaking of your middling boring life, you are also average in the schlong department, and this is the best way to hide it. You also need a haircut.
The laws of Saudi Arabia are based on strict Sharia principles, which require genders to be segregated and forbid women from driving, traveling alone, and achieving the same professional status as men. Of course, the effects on civil rights are a total bummer, but perhaps the most awkward Sharia by-product has to do with lingerie. Strangely, almost unbelievably, most of the Saudis selling women’s underwear are men. And in a country where a man and woman dancing together is the Western equivalent of having anal sex in the middle of a nursery, many ladies find it uncomfortable to speak with a dude about panties and bras.
I am usually a pretty heteronormative kind of guy, especially when it comes to undergarments. I buy boxers from the dollar store in packages of six and refuse to purchase additional pairs until I lose a couple, or they get so worn out and stained that it would be more hygienic to let my genitals flop around in my trousers like the Velveteen Rabbit.
Lately, however, I’ve been feeling very undesirable and wondering things like, “How come ladies and gay guys get to have all the fun and sexy undies?” Then I realized, hey, there was nothing stopping me from slipping into the leg holes of some lacy unmentionables or leather briefs with a removable codpiece.
After a bit of internet underwear research, I became very excited and treated myself to seven pairs of the most elaborate, esoteric, and erotic skivvies to ever grace my hindquarters. Over the next week, I kept a little diary of the proceedings as an intimate keepsake and rated my new underclothes on a 1-5 glitter-dong scale.
Read the rest at Vice Magazine: HANGIN’ OUT IN MY FUNDERWEAR - The Delicate Touch Means So Much - Vice Magazine
There are many reasons why being a girl really blows sometimes. A couple of the main culprits are the objects that sprout on our chests once we hit puberty. There are quite a few names for these bothersome bits: boobs, melons, titties, headlights, knockers, fun bags, dirty pillows, milk boxes, jugs, etc. The scientific name, however, is “breasts.”
Read the rest at Vice Magazine: BRAS THROUGHOUT HISTORY - Viceland Today