The pretty lady's landing strip

2nd and Grant, Denver

Ever since I heard a doctor describe g-string underwear as a bacteria superhighway, I've had a new found respect for such undergarments. Not only are women and men who don the thong enduring the feel of a permanent wedgie (I really hate the word wedgie, by the way), they are also putting themselves at risk for a host of bacterial infections. All this sacrifice, for that special bare-butt look. Admirable. This frilly pink g-string, found on a residential street on an average February afternoon, had high hopes. It thought it was destined to live a long life in someone's butt crack. Perhaps she was an attorney, a dental hygienist. Maybe this was her first g-string, and she giggled when she saw it on a clearance rack at K-Mart. The hopeful g-string was put into a basket, covered up with a pack of toilet paper and a dustpan, until she got it home and tried it on. First she tried on just the panties. Then she added a pair of jeans cut low enough in the back to show it off. Dancing in front of the mirror, she sang--but not loudly enough for her roommate to hear--"Let me see that thong! That thong-th-thong-thong-thong!" That thong was happy. That thong thought it had found a warm crevice to spend the rest of its life in. Little did that thong know that it was a novelty, and it would be taken off in a drunken expression of personal freedom.