My Girlfriend's Panties

Just an item of note. My masculinity is not particularly threatened when I find myself folding laundry. No, I don't always do it, but I try to when she lets it sit for more than a few minutes. That's my first clue that she doesn't want to do it, that I should do it because she's the one who's always doing the washing.

My GF and I have an agreement. She cooks, I do dishes, she puts away dishes (I insisted on this because I bump my head too often with cabinet doors being left open for successive trips from the dishwasher). She washes, and I fold (some of the time). I know, I'm lazy and spoiled, and she takes better care of me than Leona Helmsly took care of her dog.

She vacuums, but I'm supposed to be the one to do that. Before parties, I do, though. I always take care of the garbage. So, all-in-all, life is fair at the house of the Idiot Behind the Wheel.

No particular gripes. Today I was folding the whites. Not a difficult task. I separate into clumps. I do my shit first, my socks, my t-shirts. Today, there were a couple pillow cases, and one pair of her socks.

And twelve pairs of her panties, each of which you could stuff into an aspirin bottle. And nearly every one has a pantie bow. Yeah, right in the front, right below where the belly-button goes and right above her.... well, I wonder why that is. Is it a decorative thing? But, I digress.

You can't fold my GF's panties. You could wad them up like a sheet of newspaper for lighting a grill, but she always gets pissed off at me for doing that. Not enough personal attention being given to her garments. Oh, good grief.

So I roll them up like little cloth maps. Her pantie drawer looks like it's full of pink and baby-blue cigars with bows. Cigar pantie bows. Cigar bows.

I ought to smoke one one of these days.