I Found Your Pink Thong

Monday, 21 November 2005

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.