The thing about the thong

Once upon a time, in a village far far away, there lived a lady with a predilection for thongs. For the uninitiated, these are triangular scraps of material held together with bits of string, that barely cover an interesting bit of anatomy, that we shall call the vajayjay. They are also loosely known as bottom flossers. However, their main attraction is the avoidance of the dreaded VPL.

The aforementioned lady loved her tight white jeans much too much, to wear anything but these under them. She would buy multi packs of them in Marcus and Spartacus, her friendly neighbourhood lingerie store. All was right in the world.

Till, one day, her friend enquired whether she wouldn’t mind loaning her a pair. Loaning? Oh horrors! Who loans bits that cover bits? Particularly her lady garden! No, no. She had spares. She would donate. After all, charity begins at home. And her friend’s home was but two doors away, so technically, it was still home.

Airily, she unfolded one out of the pack. With a benevolent air, she granted them to said friend.

All was right in the world.

A week later, shamefaced friend returned them. Unfolded, unused. Lady was bemused.

“I tried them on”, the friend explained, “But my daughter walked in on me”

“Oh?”, queried the lady.

“She burst into tears”, said friend.

“Whatever for?”

“She said she didn’t think I was one of those women!”

Which left the lady pondering the deeper meaning of the thong.

She concluded: A thong of beauty is a joy forever, but in the end, beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.

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