Thongs: What’s Up With That?
I felt like stabbing myself in the ear on Monday when I walked into an Italian lingerie shop with my mother who could use some new “g-strings.” What she meant was new ass-less underwear, which I was only able to conceive of as underwear sans ass (isn’t that what they are?) because in trying to skirt the issue at hand that a) my mom wears thongs and b) she thinks they’re g-strings, I needed to define the racy garment otherwise.
I know the terms are used fairly interchangeably but come on! G-string? I also know this sounds incredibly immature. My mother is as much a woman as any other, one who can make articulated decisions when it comes to her undergarments that have no place being questioned.
Furthermore, if you’ve dabbled into that dumb book I once wrote you’re aware that she and I have had to share a thong one time in the past. I won’t say more than that lest you dabble more comprehensively, but my ultimate point is this: thongs (both “regular” and g-string) are ass-less underwear. What’s up with that?
Or more accurately, who’s sincerely down for that?
There is obviously a large enough legion of supporters and wearers who keep the business of butt-floss afloat, but for every woman like my own creator looking for g-strings, I like to think there is also at least one woman like myself wondering why any female would voluntarily subject herself to wearing such paltry underpinnings.
Sure, sometimes, like in the case of tight pants or a skimpy dress, they are necessary. But then again, the metric by which I often gauge whether I should or should not wear something reflects the idea that if you can’t wear a full cover over your toilet seat, you probably shouldn’t wear the cover to begin with. (Though Amelia vehemently defends the thong for its ability to eliminate the illusion that she has four butt cheeks instead of the preferred two. She claims full underwear causes the former.)
Some additional defense independent of aesthetics includes not having to worry about your state of wedgie (because, you know, in a thong, you’re constantly immersed) and blissfully feeling like you’re not wearing any underwear at all. “Like you’re free,” I’ve been told. Where I get stuck is in how paradoxical the freedom is.
Can free people feel profoundly vulnerable? Because when I wear thongs, I do, which I can only trace back to my not wanting to appease the male gaze with my bare ass out, comfort level in.
So maybe that changes the scope of my question to pertain not to why women wear thongs but rather, what kind of women fall into the two divisive groups?
That can only be determined if you participate, though, so, get talking, eh?
— Leandra Medine