An Open Letter to the Man Who Stole my Underwear
After dinner last night, I walked across the parking lot to the laundry room, carrying a wicker basket overflowing with clothes. You watched me the whole time from your first-floor apartment, pushing apart the blinds with your stubby fingers just enough to peek through without anyone noticing.
As I separated my whites and colors, you used the stained collar of your favorite Foreigner shirt to dry off your gray, braided beard — the sight of my panties and lacy bras caused a waterfall of saliva to flow from your toothless mouth.
Your eyes were still glued to me when I shoved quarters into the metal slots, pushed the start buttons, and skipped through the parking lot back to my place, tossing my empty basket in the air and dramatically catching it every few seconds.
Tugging on a pair of old Wranglers you recently used to mop up spilled Spam juice, you crept out the front door, closed it gently with your greasy hands, and hustled to the laundry room, huffing and puffing the whole way there. Your braided beard flew from your chin like a kite.
You tried to catch your breath while you stood in front of the washing machines, but the excitement was overwhelming. When you finally opened up the two machines, your eyes shifted rapidly at the delicate treasures inside.
But suddenly you heard footsteps outside.
You dropped my favorite thong back into the machine and froze, though you couldn’t keep your withered penis from wobbling in your jeans.
Whew! You were just hearing things. To play it safe, you rummaged desperately through the wet clothes, tucking every unmentionable into your pockets and under your shirt. The coldness of the metal bra hooks against your freckled skin sent shivers all over your body as you hobbled out the door to safety.
Perfect timing, too — just when you slammed the door and collapsed on your living room floor from exhaustion, I was making my way downstairs with more quarters and a couple of sheets of Bounce.
You got up to look at me through the window again, but this time you were wearing my bra like earmuffs as you peered through the blinds.
You watched me frantically search through the clothes, my face bright red, until I finally gave up and just sat on the dryer, sobbing.
I never did get any of my underwear back. If you liked this story, I’d love it if you recommended it. Wanna get in touch? firstname.lastname@example.org is the best way to do that.