Embarrassing Moment #12,363

I wasn't going to say anything, but it happened so long ago that I feel comfortable parting with the story. See, I was the last one to leave my office one evening, and I had stopped into the johnna before the long ride home. I was wearing a cute little sweater dress with black tights and boots. After conducting my business, and by the time I'd gotten myself put back together, including my coat, bags, and purse, something didn't feel quite right.

As a veteran thongster, I can swear on a stack of Dan Brown novels that once I'm in my thong, I don't feel it. Sometimes I have to ask myself, Hey, did you remember to put on panties? But apparently this night, because of the snug fit of my tights and the unusual tugging I'd done to get them up and in place, it felt like somebody was behind me trying to stretch my thong up over my head. Ever done that? Walk up behind somebody, see the elastic band of their undies, and just yank on them till the person squirms? Frankly, there's nothing more gratifying. However, I was on my own here.

I was in a hurry to get home to watch Cougar Town, so I hurried out of the johnna doing a shimmy and shaking thing, trying to reposition the thong via osmosis. I get to our little lobby and hit DOWN to call the elevator. It's so quiet at night on our floor, and kind of creepy when all you can hear are the noises of the building's inner workings—the ticks, the grumblings, the air handlers, etc. And I'm standing there, thinking osmosis is a lame concept and I can't stand one more second of this discomfort cuz the back of my thong could be lodged crackside for eternity. With briefs, you can just tug on the leg band and the annoying clump of fabric between your cheeks is a thing of the past. Not so with a thong—much more complex operation, I assure you. So I drop everything I'm carrying and lift up the back of my dress, grope blindly for the waistband of my tights, and then shove my hand down there—wa-a-a-ay down there. More shimmying and shaking is required, plus a little "spread 'em" action to aid in a successful wedgectomy.

It is at this moment that the elevator dings, signaling the arrival of my ride down. I have time for one last squirm to extricate the recalcitrant thong, when two guys in jeans and tennies appear in the hallway to my right, carrying a ladder and toolboxes. They stop, ten feet from me, stunned and speechless. In one fluid movement, I release the thong, withdraw my hand, and grab my stuff on the floor. I throw myself into the elevator, smack the close-the-damn-door button, and pray the workmen are not going DOWN. After interminable seconds, the doors finally seal me inside—alone—while the muffled sounds of men giggling echo in my brain.

Thus, a proud moment imprints itself into Fragrant Liar's history.

The upside is, I don't think they recognized me. They weren't actually looking at my face.
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