The deep secret of the divorce. I stole a pair of my exes jockey shorts. The ones that are actually like shorts. Gray cotton soft, gentle waist band and my ass looks great in them. Even the flap in the front seems to flatten my belly. I love that flap. Like the secret door to a magical mystery tour. I wear them to bed or dance Zumba topless around the house. The naughtiness is in the theft and that they’re the wrong sex for my wide hip need. My friend thinks it’s odd, but I challenge she simply lacks the courage to step out of the feminine box. We tell men to find some estrogen, well I dig the testosterone rush when I slide them on. Sexy and charged is what they give my lazy Sunday’s reading the paper.
They remind me of him, in the way he liked my style. My need to be only me. For many reasons, I needed to let him go, but his jockeys still belong to me. It’s the part of the story of us that still lives in my jeans.
(Work in progress from The Writer’s Church in Boulder. Hosted by Marj Hahne and inspired by “Pink Pantsuit” by Nancy Simpson)