I Found Your Pink Thong

I post­ed this at Craigslist:

I was at the Tremont Laun­dro­mat, which inci­den­tal­ly, didn’t have raw sewage flood­ing out the front door today, and after I brought my clothes back to my apart­ment I found it. Yes, it. At first I thought I’d inher­it­ed a raggedy piece of pink dry­er lint, but upon clos­er inspec­tion I dis­cov­ered that it was, in fact, your thong. Not just any thong, though. Your thong. This one is also, appar­ent­ly, made of cheese­cloth. The lit­tle bits of fab­ric that approx­i­mate cov­er­ing are only dis­tin­guish­able by being slight­ly wider than the actu­al thong, and a less­er shade of pink. Also, com­plete­ly sheer.

Wear­ing see-through under­wear [if one could be said to actu­al­ly “wear” this item, and if a thong counts as “under­wear”] is some­thing of a conun­drum. Roland Barthes’s essay Strip-tease may offer some insight into the para­dox­i­cal nature of cov­er­ing that is, in fact, not cov­er­ing; but I think it is rather obvi­ous that this thong serves as lit­tle more than gar­nish for a care­ful­ly orches­trat­ed rap­proche­ment between var­i­ous and sundry gen­i­talia.

Steal­ing a page from Duchamp, I have tak­en to wear­ing your thong on my head, with the lit­tle tri­an­gle doohicky act­ing as a nose-guard. Thank­ful­ly this under­gar­ment had been washed before I attempt­ed this exper­i­ment. As a nose-warmer, the thong lacks a cer­tain effi­ca­cy that I can only attribute to its screen-door like con­sis­ten­cy.

Cur­rent­ly, your thong is pinned to my bul­letin board, between a pic­ture of my first dog and a polit­i­cal fly­er from the Ward 13 Coun­cil­man.

In any case, Miss, if you would like me to facil­i­tate the return of this sex­u­al­ly charged under­gar­ment you may send me an email and I am sure that an agree­ment can be reached.