Barely There

In summer, it can happen. Skirts are light and airy, fabrics soft and featherlight. Sometimes it really can feel like you're wearing nothing. I've been known to sit here, tapping away at the screen, when I am seized by a sudden panic that I cannot feel a damn thing on my legs. No swish of cloth, no tickle of a hemline. My heart turns to shit as I think, By crikey, I've finally done it! I am sitting here at work in my undies! I've had nightmares about this, except there were nuns and police cars involved. I am almost too afraid to look down. So I keep typing for awhile, a frantic taptaptap, trying to remember to breathe. Then I look down. Of course there's a skirt there. Somehow floating above the epidermis. Even I couldn't be so bloody stupid or sleepwalky to forget to get dressed properly. But it could happen. Lately I am losing the plot.

About Shauna Reid

Ahoy there! I’m Shauna, an author, copywriter and content mentor. I love telling stories about life and helping others to tell theirs.

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25 thoughts on “Barely There

  1. dah!

    i mean, it’s important in case it actually happens and you forget your skirt …

    holiday is frying my brain.

  2. i can’t tell you how many times i have been sitting at my desk wearing nothing but a pair of boxers – even when i’m not surfing for porn.

    course, i work from home so it’s not much of an issue. unless one of my two roommates happen to show up at lunch and i’m wandering around wearing nothing but my skivies and my telephone headset like a pornographic version of a backstreet boy.

  3. Aw, what’s up Graham? Worried that Shauny is stealing fire from the promethean weblogging heights of Albury?

    You should lighten up, you dimwit.

  4. We men are incapable of wearing skirts with any reasonable degree of success — unless, of course, our dicks are stapled mercilessly to the epidermis in question, which causes said skirted man to wear an embarassed and pained expression on his face until the parallel tines of staple are removed from flesh, the bleeding lovebone is allowed to drop down like a reject from an Oscar Meyer factory and a loud cry of anguish, to say nothing of this now noticable, painfully noticable, protuberance, is unleashed upon the world.

    It is only then that the police notice the skirt.

    But we men have an entirely different problem known as the morning riser. This is a physical situation that is best handled alone. If amorous individuals are near by, they will often interpret this prematurely primed sausage as a sign that we are ready to — ahem — perform until sundown.

    In most cases, nothing could be further from the truth. Indeed, it is one of the cruel fates of gender distintion that we men require at least three to five minutes of “recovery” before attempting another round of Load the Musket Barrel. Meanwhile, the lady requires a maximum of 15 seconds before demanding that you connect your body with hers as if Mr. Johnson was some kind of disused grappling hook. Often, the male tries to hide his mild reluctance or, more accurately, the latter stages of his “recovery.” But his expressions are generally as obvious as a blown-up blimp crammed into a two-car garage.

    How does this relate to clothing? Well, no matter WHAT you are wearing, the morning riser will sometimes linger to the point where even the loosest trousers cannot disguise the fact that hey, baby, it’s a hummer. The only proper way of killing it is through a firehose aimed squarely at the scrotum. But this possibility pops into the male mind long after he realizes that the morning riser is a problem. And being particularly sensitive to his lower anatomy, which represents the extent of his manhood (or so he erroneously believes), he is loath to do this.

    And so skirt, pants, even without wearing anything, the morning riser lopes up and down until it eventually goes away, largely without any particular science.

    It is only then that we encounter anonymous Australian weblogging forefathers.

  5. She might steal your fire, Graham, but she’ll never touch your stick-shift.

  6. Don’t worry… I once went to school without wearing undies… and yes, it was unintentional. Okay, it was a long time ago, yet it is a day I’ll never forget – for all the wrong reasons.

  7. If people want to diss me, they might be better off doing it at MY blog, instead of polluting poor Shauny’s comments with their inane baiting.

  8. I’m a little disappointed, Graham – if this were an editorial in The Border Mail, you’d be using your best ten-dollar words about now. Speak up!

  9. Look, Grandad, can you take this out of Shauny’s comments, you think? There’s enough stuff going on in life right now.

    (I once went to school with only scungees, shoes and a tshirt. Somehow I had decided that it was cool.)

  10. Ahhh, I dimly remember having some sort of episodes of paranoia along similar lines when I was at school. But about trousers, rather than skirts.

    More recently, with my tendency to be somewhat underweight, I’ve had two or three episodes of having my underpants fall down inside my trousers, drooping down each leg towards my knees. The paranoia then is whether or not anyone will notice what’s happened. And, of course, the dilemma is whether or not to keep looking down to try to see how visible the signs of wayward underpants might be, even though that could be thought rather odd by anyone who happens to notice the strange man who keeps looking at the area of his loins in public.

    Of course, I could stop to pull my underpants back up, but that would just be such an embarassing thing to have to do in public. I choose the discomfort of underpants down thighs instead.

    I really must put on some weight!

    Anyway, yeah, I know the feeling.

  11. Scungees are sports briefs, ladies and girls where them generally at school under skirts. Usually what u see when Netball players skirts fly up in the air. IMHO i kinda think there cute.

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