Panty raid

SnarkScribe recently put up this hilarious post about some idiot who keeps a 'girlfriend closet' - that is, a collection of clothes that he would dress his girlfriends in. The man should just get a Real Doll, but then, they don't talk back (although for a certain type of man, I'm sure that's part of the appeal).

Right after college, I got a retail job at the local mall with Jones New York. One of my coworkers, Michael, fancied himself a real ladies' man. He thought he was smooth, always telling me about his various conquests or talking up his 'legendary' backrubs. He was the stock sitcom character at the office who's always on the make.

One day, during a slow period, Michael and I were folding shirts to pass the time. I think I mentioned that I still had one of my ex boyfriend's shirts. I had found it in a pile of stuff, and was agonizing over whether or not to throw it out. I was still getting over the breakup, and my ex's shirt smelled like him, which triggered all kinds of emotions and flashbacks to when things were good between us. Ah, young love; it bears such a very close resemblance to complete insanity. Michael, in what was quite possibly the most horribly misguided attempt at coworker bonding in history, told me that he could relate to my conundrum. He had a panty collection, which he felt guilty about, but couldn't get rid of.

You heard that right.

Michael had stolen a pair of previously worn panties from every girl he'd ever fucked; he kept them in a large photo album, each one carefully sealed inside a Ziploc sandwich bag.

Those of you who are twisted enough to read this blog on a regular basis have probably figured out where this is going...

...and you're right. The Panty Filcher would periodically take the aforementioned unmentionables out of the plastic and take a big whiff. It goes without saying that he got off on it.

BARF.

Okay. I do not, do not get this about guys! Granted, not all guys do this, but the ones that do...what is wrong with you? I don't want to sniff my own panties. I certainly don't want to take a whiff of my guy's BVDs. Loyal bepenised readers, help me out here. Yo no comprendo.

Anyhow, back to my story. When I got up off the floor - I was seriously busting a gut from laughing so hard - I told Mr. Smoothie that he might just have a mental problem. I also advised that he move to Japan. To his credit, he freely admitted his own douchery and laughed about it. Perhaps I was being a bit harsh, because he had, in fact, helped me out.

I went home that night and threw out my ex's shirt. I would have burned it in the fireplace if it wasn't summertime.