I went to pee at the end of the work day and cheekily—pun unintended—caught my own eye in the mirror. My gaze quickly trailed down my body. When I glanced at my reflection, I found a thick thong panty line coming through my skirt, a clear cut out screaming “FLOSS” to all who dared to tail me today. I am now consumed by this.
On this day, we gather to mourn the loss of my dignity.
From now on, time will only exist in two realms: pre-panty line and post-panty line.
Don’t get me wrong here, I am not one to shy away from undergarments. I make a point to wear see-through shirts with lace bras. In my early days, I was known to whale tail, but as I grow wiser with each passing moment, I’m leaning more toward the outline of a thong tracing my hips or a black bikini panty line peeking through a white sheer skirt. In short, my ass is something to be celebrated.
But at work, I am a professional girl. A professional lady! I must present this way because I am youth, and therefore thoughtless and untrustworthy and all those other words old fucks use to describe the young workforce telling them over and over again how to convert a Word document to a PDF and vice versa. This workhorse dogged professionalism is something I simply cannot lose. It is vital to my work essence.
Pre-panty line, I was the girl with a phenomenal fashion sense and the fabulous get-the-job-done-with-a-smile assistant. Post-panty line, I am the company harlot or perhaps what my contemporaries might refer to as a “young ho.” Pre-panty line, I felt free, unabashed, welcome. Post-panty line, I feel disparaged, ruined, unkempt.
What will become of me in this post-panty line era? It’s too early to tell. I ask that you please respect my privacy during this difficult time, as I will only harp on this more and more as time passes. Thank you for your patience.
