i figured it out my ownself

This was going to be a nostalgia/TMI/Boston-peeps-help-me-out post, but since the answer to my question spontaneously popped into my head while I was bathing, I don't need yous people. So we are left with nostalgia and TMI. Weigh carefully the balance of listening to yet another excruciating story about my life with the promise that we're gonna mention seks, and proceed at your own risk!

On jezebel yesterday, there was a post about bodysuits coming back into fashion, and how the author was firmly saying NO to this. Bodysuits being those leotard-like shirts that snapped at the crotch that were extremely popular and fashionable in the early-mid 90s, in case my male readers are unclear on the terminology. After I had to explain "romper" I take nothing for granted, all y'all. The comments were full of nostalgic fondness mixed with loathing. People who were in college during the said period remembered with horror the difficulty of using the facilities in a bodysuit when you were out drinking beers and women of all ages who ever wore one remembered the aggrevation of your bodysuit spontaneously coming unsnapped and the semi-panic of finding a restroom or other place that you could resnap before the damn thing worked its way up out of your pants or skirt. Plus, people had stories about particularly fugly examples that they at the time thought were the shit, but face it, anytime we ladies discuss what we wore for fashion, there will be those. But one commenter brought up how certain bodysuits with particularly irritating snaps combined with the tight, high-waisted jeans of the period led to a couple of days of needed recovery for one's labia after the wearing. Ha! And thus Andrea went down memory lane.

It's not only the tightness or the high-waisted-ness of early 90s jeans. It's the fact that there was no such thing as stretch denim in those days, and the fact that the denim was usually of a much heavier weight than today's fabric. I hear women these days commenting often about how much more comfortable jeans are these days and how they would never go back to non-stretch denim, but they are missing one important point, to my mind. Those heavy-weight, non-stretch, tight early 90s jeans had crotch seams that were capable of rubbing and pressing upon one's, um, special lady places in a most delightful manner, a manner that could liven up one's dull day when one was in such a mood to appreciate it. The snaps on a bodysuit were too low placed to directly contact that area, but yes, they could rub on one's labia, and if not actually strangling one's crotch, add to the party in one's pants. (Guys, admit it. You had NO idea about any of this, huh?)

And thus we finally come to our story. The question I was going to pose was, "OMG, what was the name of the bookstore that used to be on the corner of Exeter and Newbury in the 90s?" but: Waterstones! I loved Waterstones. I think it was the first bookstore that I was aware of that had the comfy chairs scattered around in which you could plunk yourself down and waste a good portion of a Sunday afternoon that your kid was with his father reading a book you had absolutely no intention of buying. Ahem. And so it was that one Sunday, in delightfully crotch-seamed jeans and perhaps a bodysuit beneath my flannel (shut up, just shut up) I came across a book that I will not mention the name of, but which I will tell you is a famous piece of absolute pornography written under a pseudonym by a well-known author of non-pornography. I had heard about this book, like unicorns, but didn't expect to find it right out there on the shelf of a lovely store where people bought, y'know, literature.

As further background, let's just remind you all that the early 90s were a sad, sad time for Andrea's sex life. Andrea was split up with D's dad and while she would occasionally and regrettably find herself making out with him, that was as far as it went, and she was not yet dating Whatever He Was to Me, or anyone else. Andrea was that other c-word, celibate. The horror! Let's just say Andrea appreciated crotch seams rather more than most people and leave it at that.

So on that fateful day, I took this piece of absolute disgusting filthy smut to a comfy Waterstones' chair and proceeded to have, with the help of, god bless 'em, my crotch-centric 90s garments, the first public and no-hands orgasm of my life. In fact, first and only! I was very sad when that store burned down and was turned into a fucking chain restaurant, lemme tell you.

I will not be buying any bodysuits this time around.

The end.

xoxo

Addendum: Okay, it was a chain restaurant, then Waterstones, then a school (?!?), then another chain restaurant, I believe. But the emotion still holds.