I was just into secondary school when the Tom Robinson band released the song “2-4-6-8 Motorway”. It was one of those anthem-like songs that you sang at the school disco. It was one of those penultimate blast outs before you all calmed down to “Three Times a Lady” or “Freebird”.
Of course, being naughty little teenagers, the words were changed and it was all a little risque.
“2-4-6-8 ain’t never too late” became “2-4-6-8 masturbate” and the “3-5-7-9 on a double white line” became “3-5-7-9 little white line” with everyone pointing to the girls’ genital area.
Ho, ho, ho. What humour in adolescent boys!
I can’t remember the rest of the changes to the song but it was along the lines of if you masturbate you will be caught out because you will leave a trail of white stuff in your panties; boy or girl.
Is this really where my concern about leaving a trace of myself on my knickers originated?
I’m not sure.
Move on a few years and I was at college having a conversation with my first flatmate.
My course started before anyone else’s other than this woman, so we were the first people to move into our corridor at the Halls of Residence. For a week or two, we had the place to ourselves and it wasn’t that long before we got talking about sex. My boyfriend at the time came round to spend a few nights a week with me, as did hers. That was how it was.
I remember her telling me how worried she was that her mother knew that she was having sex.
“I wash your knickers, you know” was what her mother had said to her.
I can remember being struck by this and wondered whether my mother too was inspecting my panties to ascertain whether I too was a virgin.
Is this where my concern about leaving a trace of myself on my knickers originated?
I’m still not sure.
Whatever the origin, I was always very conscious of my bodily fluids and the mess that they made on my panties. Without going into too much detail, I suffered enormously as a child with heavy menstruation that lasted an unnatural amount of time. For some years of my life, it seemed that I was permanently having periods, and often there would only be a week or ten days gap between them.
During my time off, I always wore a small pad in case there was an accident.
As time went on and I did lose my virginity, I was conscious that these pads could possibly mask other emissions from my pussy. I have always been rather moist down there, irrespective of the delightful provocation of horniness, and so it was that I became a frequent user of these damn awful things.
Twenty years or more, I kept the owners of Carefree and Always in business, ensuring that I bought the most scented ones possible to hide the smell of my being. Even through legitimate sex of marriage, I still didn’t want to have that smell around me. I didn’t want others to get a glimpse of that part of me. I also wanted to be comfortable myself, and I thought that having damp knickers all day was not a very good idea.
And then I woke up and it was all a horrible nightmare.
Why the hell am I writing about this? Well, the simple answer is that along my pathway to sexual enlightenment, I have had a much needed and much changed view of the produce from my pussy.
I have learned to not only tolerate it but actually revel in the excitement of the female body with all its unexplored and intricate happenings. Emitting fluids, whatever they might be, is perfectly natural. Having them linger on your panties at the end of the day, with a slight reminder that you may have had a sexual thought or too that fragrant them with something quite different than a spot of two of urine, is perfectly natural too.
Too often women hide their sexuality because that is a sort of expectation. It goes hand in hand with so many other things. Men masturbate and that is accepted almost expected as fact. Women masturbate and they are slightly odd or have nymphomaniac tendencies. Of course, I am talking in very general terms and I hope that we are still not at this stage, but there are more than pockets of thought along these lines.
Men have their cocks prominently showing in their trousers. The internalisation of female organs seems to have given people the opportunity to ignore them, shy away from their existence. You can’t do that with a man. It is there for all who choose to look in that direction. When a man is excited, you know about it. When a man is well-endowed, it’s as blatant as a big-chested woman, and people look. With women, their organs are hidden, and the fact that they emit these juices is also hidden. Let’s face facts; the panty liner industry would disappear immediately if women felt different about their bodies and the juices that come from their cunts.
I am writing this so that any younger readers will hopefully decide to liberate themselves from such products that carefully place themselves under the umbrella of “female hygiene”. By the very nature of advertising themselves as such, they are implying that this needs to be hidden from the world.
Don’t do it. Don’t fall for the notion that there is a product that can save you from the horror of being a woman. Do something different. Do the opposite. Look down at your panties after you take them off at the end of the evening. Look at what residue is there and be bloody grateful that you are a woman, that your body is working correctly and effectively, and if you feel that positive about it, go one step further and share this with your sexual partner.
Unless he is an unenlightened dimwit, he too will revel in the fact that you are a sexual being. He too will enjoy the fact that your pussy explodes at sexual thoughts, especially if these thoughts are connected to him.
Last week, I picked up a couple of panties from the floor where I had dropped them. One pair was deliberately used to soak up my juices. I had even worn them on consecutive days to ensure that they were moist and full of my essential fragrances. I intended to give these to my lover so that he could sniff me when I wasn’t with him. I love him being able to reach into his pocket and just inhale me whenever he wants.
The other pair of panties, to my shame, had been there for a little longer. They were a black pair, clearly worn when I was feeling extremely horny but unable to do anything about it. I suspect that I was wearing them during a conversation with my lover whilst I was travelling to work. He was getting me all horny, and as we talked about sex, as we considered our own sexual liberation, as he spunked into his hands as he wanked off, I got the benefit in my panties; a “little white line” of me, all turned on, all desperate to ignore the need to go to work and drive straight to his house where I could arouse his gorgeous cock once more.
I looked down at these panties and smiled as I picked them up. I knew once I saw the immense contrast between the material and the natural juices from my cunt, that these were not going to go into the wash. They were going straight in my bag to be taken over to my lover’s house.
They had mainly lost their aroma but sexuality comes in many forms and attacking each of the senses, allowing and enabling them to work together, increases the sexual being.
He could sniff the one pair whilst he could feast his eyes on the black ones, knowing that I was this sexual woman who now proudly shared such underwear with him.
If this sounds abnormal, then that is a shame. More people should share their underwear with their partners, especially if you cannot be with them all of the time.
More people should liberate their senses to the sexual stimulation that they desire and indeed need.
I have no qualms whatsoever about sharing my ‘soiled’ panties with my lover.
There we go again; the use of language subtly directs us to have certain beliefs. “Soiled” implies dirty. This is not so. This is not right. Do not use the term “soiled” for panties that are covered in pussy juices. It is absolutely the wrong phrase to use. Think of an alternative, and think quickly.
To that effect, I will start this paragraph again.
I have no qualms whatsoever about sharing my lubricated panties with my lover. I appreciate that I am fortunate enough to be in a relationship where there are no boundaries to sexual discussion and sexual intimacy. Not everyone has that but there are many that do.
I adore the fact that he wants my panties, as moistened and as visibly covered in me as possible.
I am massively turned on by him getting them out whenever possible to sniff them. I love to ‘prepare’ a pair or two for him so that he is never too long without the ability to smell my sexuality.
This is invigorating and liberating and I am almost ashamed at my reluctance to accept the fact that my body was working perfectly well for all those years when I was trying to hide it under the false lavender scent of panty liners.
Furthermore, I want his bodily fluids back.
I want him to take a pair of my panties and wear them right next to his skin all day. I want every juice on them, not just his spunk, though I want that too.
I want to be able to sit at my desk and take a pair of my panties to my face and smell the very essence of him. I want to see the “little white line” of sperm. I want to smell where his cock has been, where his lubricant has rubbed off as he drips that sweet, clear fluid onto my panties.
And soon after, I want to dash around to see him so that I can taste it all for real, just as he can dive into me and do the same.
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