At last the familiar light blinds me as the goddess, in all her glory, opens the old wooden dresser drawer. At this very instant begins the habitual sound of my sisters and friends cry out in unison, “pick me, pick me, pick me!” The sound is deafening and the goddess appears to not consider our cries as a means for picking one of us tonight. I feel a rush of giddiness as her warm slightly damp hands reach down around my sides, and feel close to ecstasy when I curl and conform to her body.

She leaves the dresser drawer open and I can hear the envy of my friends. The blood stained granny panties in the very back of the drawer with their insides coming out are complaining about not being worn in weeks. The ditsy thongs hanging out to the right talk smack about me with each other. The masculine boy cuts on the left are the only ones that seem to remain unconcerned about not being picked while my identical twins (we came in a pack of four), are in the middle, a few of which hold back their jealously to wish me luck.

The drawer is looking pretty sparse these days and I know the rest of my sisters and friends are in a smellier place right now, and I will join them shortly. We are all lonely and sad; sitting in that dresser drawer with no one for company except for ourselves, and our longing to go out comes from the fear of being stuck with just each other for all eternity. We are looking for a soul mate, and we are looking for completeness. Although I usually come home depressed and unfulfilled I’m excited about tonight.

We all watch her fix her wet hair and I see the bossy bra I have to work with for tonight. She is bright pink like me and always in competition. The bra tribe in general is constantly thinking that supporting breasts is more important than supporting the vagina.

The low rise pants she puts on allows me a narrow glimpse of the world from the top of my body, and the short tight tank top she puts on does little to hinder this. I watch her finish her make up and talk to my friend Celly, who is a clever girl and seems to be a half-object half-god. She is very well respected in this community because the goddess doesn’t talk and listen to just anything.

After feeling the harsh winds and the coldness of the night on the exposed part of my body I have a new appreciation to be mostly located in the warm south. We enter a crowded club and I see the thongs, generally known as the sluts, all over the place. They are jumping out of their pants as goddesses bend down doing dance moves and the rest. They are all about going out and trying to get with some boxers and briefs. That’s what the boxers are about too but it’s the thongs that get called the sluts. Boxers are just being boxers.

And as this thought enters my mind I see an unusually attractive pair of deep blue plaid boxers coming my way. The sweat of the goddess’s body must be pouring out alcohol because I am suddenly drunk and feel the delightful beginnings of warm wetness. This is almost as good as laundry day. The boxers are pressed up against me and although we can only see part of each other, I see them contorting in response to their god’s body and in response to my goddess’s body as well.

I know it will never work out, we’re too different. We’ll never be in the same drawer but this is what I go through life waiting for nonetheless, maybe he’ll be the one. Looking into the bottomless blue, I have a renewed sense of hope.

After a long night of many more adventures, like going to the bathroom to witnessing a quite gruesome death of a fellow panty, I find myself back at the goddess’s palace with my beautiful boxers. I watch as his pants crumble to the floor and I finally can see without hindrance the extent of his folds and pattern.

“Nice,” I think to myself and feel the increasing excitement.

“You’re a Calvin Klein,” I open, after seeing the waist band label. My expectations go even higher. This guy isn’t from Walmart—he’s the real thing. That’s a good rich family and if things go along well with him that will throw my friends and sisters into the same path of finding other rich boxers.

He in return asks me where I’m from.

“I’m a Victoria’s Secret, you can call me Vicki,” I lied. Victoria just sounds so much better than Hanes.

I abruptly feel not the hands of the goddess but rather of this god, pulling at my sides and almost splitting me in two. I feel an immense pain as my one side is split open letting my entrails dangle outside of me.

I hear the laughter of the gods, oh how they mock my pain!

Before I know it I find myself lying discarded next to the boxers on the same carpeted floor and I become conscious that my middle is now a wet dark pink. As our conversation unfolds I realize he has very little of interest to say to me. We try to find completeness in each other, in sex, but I realized tonight, lying next to this stranger, that there is no such thing as completeness. It’s not even about finding it in you; it’s about getting used to and learning to be incomplete.

We lay there all night, or all morning I should say, and in the late morning I watch the god leave with his boxers. The goddess remains sleeping for a few more hours then when she arises she picks me up, rips out part of my entrails, and throws me into the striped bag where I join a conglomeration of other articles of clothing. And I think to myself, “Maybe it won’t be so bad to spend the rest of my days with these panties.”