|Photo courtesy Victoriassecret.com|
Gross teenagers and desperate husbands not included.
And the probing.
And the groping.
First it was the group of adolescent boys, deep in the throes of puberty, huddled over by the flourescent piles of g-strings, their grubby little hands and teenage hormones raging all over the merchandise, their mouths wide open, the drool landing in places you just don't want drool to land.
Then it was the old man standing in front of the lingerie display, his wrinkled and cigarette stained hands man-handling the backless pink apron number, and for some reason I got the impression that that little exchange was about as much action as gramps was gonna see. Ever.
I stood back and took a good hard look around; the place was pumpin' alright, with testasterone-drenched men of every shape, color, and size, sweating, fantasizing, and panting all over your panties.
That's right. Kind of gives new meaning to Victoria's "Secret," doesn't it?
So when your kind, thoughtful, loving man gives you that coveted pink and red striped box this Valentine's Day, I urge you to
accept it carefully (wearing latex gloves, of course)
place it on the nearest flat surface
and then set that box o'nasty on fire before the cooties have a chance to escape and infiltrate your personal space.
*This message was lovingly brought to you by a fellow woman who is gravely, if not a bit irrationally, concerned about your lady parts*