In my defense, it was Britt’s fault. All of it. She knew the heavens would open and a chorus of angels would sing when she tweeted the photograph of Anal Whore undies. She knew I would be blinded by tears of joy as I said, “they’re so beautiful.” She knew she was sparking a mad mission to find the aforementioned Anal Whore undies. She also knew I would not rest until Anal Whore was written across my ass. She knew it ALL.
See? Totally Britt’s fault.
The hunt began immediately. I scoured every corner of the internetz for them, but Google was defiant, refusing to give me what I’d asked for. Instead it mocked me with a plethora of links that would take me to anal whore porn, anal whore wearing underwear porn, and anal whore smoking wearing underwear porn. Google hates me, obviously. Mr. K even joined in on the search because hellooooo, ANAL WHORE UNDIES. He looked hard. Heh…hard. *ahem* Even though I’d be willing to bet I totally won in the “Jesus Fucking Christ” department.
Exhausted and dismayed, I decided designing my own was the only way I would own a pair of Anal Whore undies. I scanned Cafe Press for undies– *blech* I perused Zazzle– what do you mean you don’t sell undies? But then I found them, I created them, and hysterical laughter ensued. Sort of like Dr. Frankenstein, but with WAY better hair, according to Heather.
A few days later, I ran past the teen to my bedroom, ignoring her inquiry about the small package I clutched to my chest. I locked the door behind me and kicked my running shoes off as I tore open the plastic with my teeth, dumping my new Anal Whore undies on the bed. I couldn’t help but squeal with delight when I saw them. They were pretty, they were pink, and they were mine.
<more hysterical laughter>
Finally naked except for my Anal Whore undies, I set up the tripod at the end of my bed and shoved the stacks of laundry I’d been folding out of view.
Mom?
What?
I need those pillowcases.
Now? You need them NOW?
What are you doing?
I’m working on, um, something. I’ll bring you the pillowcases later.
I set the timer on the camera and lunged for the bed, stretching out into my best cat-like pose as I waited for the shutter to click. I knew it would be the first shot of at least 112, so I wasn’t terribly surprised when I’d only captured half of my ass in the frame. Hey, taking selfies is hard, y’all. I studied my error and calculated the corrections, moving the camera a little to the left. I set the timer and I dove again.
Mom?
*motherfucker*
WHAT?
We’re going to play basketball.
Okay.
When do you want me home?
I don’t care.
*click*
Huh?
Six.
Okay, bye.
*click*
Logically, I should have waited until the kids were in bed to stage my home photo shoot, but because I have the patience of a gnat, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening. And it was going well, sorta. But with the boys heading outside, there was a very real possibility they would spot me through the blinds, mostly naked and on my knees. I mean, I could have closed them, but the lighting was perfect. After a few (hundred) more shots, I got what I wanted and emailed the final photograph to Mr. K. I believe his immediate response was fuck me that’s hot, or something like that.
Feeling all warm & fuzzy about the smile I’d put on Mr. K’s face and the bulge in his shorts, I redressed, put the camera away, and refolded the laundry on the bed. And when I took one last glance around the room before opening the door, it seemed as though I’d never been there, because I’m a ninja. But mostly because I’m anal. Heh…anal.
Note to self: in the future, wash Anal Whore undies separate from the other household inhabitant’s laundry. <face palm>
