My Mothers Panties

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My Mothers Panties
Thanks, Mom, for the Secondhand Panties
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W hen I was a little girl, a trip to San Francisco’s Thrift Town was like a day at a country club. Not that I’d ever been to a country club. But the feeling I got inside that secondhand store? Exponential extravagance — like lobster doused in caviar.
Everything felt possible at my local thrift shop because everything was for sale. Rack upon rack of oversized T-shirts, cutoff jeans, wedding dresses that puffed out like cotton candy, rusted egg beaters, cracked reading glasses, Buster Brown saddle shoes, and bedding that yellowed slightly at the edges.
My mom was made for thrift-store shopping. In the early ’90s, she schlepped my sisters and me to Thrift Town all the time. We’d saunter toward the shop, guided by the Mission district’s unofficial North Star, a large metal sign on Thrift Town’s roof that read “17 Reasons Why!” (a vestige of the building’s prior owner, Redlick-Newman Furniture).
Once inside, my mother would scurry around like a preschooler on an Easter egg hunt. And she always managed to find the brand names. Once she scored me a pair of bona fide LA Gear high tops with pink and white laces (so what if they were a little tight at the toes). Another time she found actual Gap jeans. They were stonewashed and sickeningly suburban, but boy, did they fit me perfectly. (The irony wasn’t lost on Mom. Gap didn’t always symbolize the aspirational middle class. It actually started as a jeans source for California’s broke hippies.)
The poorer we got, the longer Mom hunted. She made it her motherly duty to conceal our poverty, to feed into this fantasy of wealth. She was a hippie, sure. But this hippie had a hard limit. “Damn the man,” she’d say as she saged the house. But, like hell she’d ever send her three daughters to school looking trashy.
I, meanwhile, had my own fantasy world to feed and lots of time to feed it. As my mom hunted, my younger sisters were dispatched to the toy section. Thrift Town had shelves of these sealed treasure bags, a random collection of discarded items from the rich kids of Marin County. My sisters played with the toys through the plastic.
Thrift Town embodied the core values of the city: it was a safe place in which society’s refugees could create and thrive.
Being the oldest, I took more geographic liberties. I’d spend hours of my childhood traipsing the thrift-store aisles, just losing myself in the transience of it all.
For 45 years Thrift Town was the nerve center of San Francisco’s Mission district before closing for good in March 2017. More than two years later, the warehouse is still vacant, a ghostly hulk of the city’s past self.
Thrift Town embodied the core values of the city: it was a safe place in which society’s refugees could create and thrive. The Norquist-family business created more than 9,000 jobs, many offered to locals with developmental disabilities. And the store outfitted the Bay Area’s unique populace—the ravers and Burners, the drag queens and tech transplants, and, of course, countless low-income children like me.
At Thrift Town, I was surrounded by society’s rejects, a two-story warehouse’s worth. But to me, these items were invaluable props, my passport to the exotic. I’d step into a lace wedding gown. Then strap on some oversize ski goggles to complete the look.
“Hey, Mom. I’m a snow princess,” I’d say, waddling up the aisle.
“Take that off right now before I have to pay for it,” she’d reply, repressing a laugh.
I’d put a tie around my neck and take calls on a used rotary telephone, much like a big-city businessman. Never mind that the receiver smelled like cigarettes and my New York accent sucked.
Panties were an exclusive item at Thrift Town. Supplies were extremely limited. There was only ever a handful in the girls’ section, each one delicately strung on a hanger.
I’d pick some used books up from a pile and plop down to read them next to the men’s suits. I remember how strongly those suits smelled—a celestial mix of mothballs, dust, and unmet expectations. It was there, next to the dangling pant legs, that I got my sex education thanks to a hearty collection of trashy romance novels.
“Mom, what’s a cock?” I yelled through an opening of clothes.
Mom gasped and steadied herself on the nearest rack.
“A delicious chicken,” she retorted. The other shoppers laughed (united by some joke I didn’t quite comprehend).
“Oh,” I replied and read on. (In case you’re concerned, I know what a cock is now. And, indeed, it is delicious.)
But the most fascinating thing in that two-story wonderland was the secondhand underpants. Panties were an exclusive item at Thrift Town. Supplies were extremely limited. There was only ever a handful in the girls’ section, each one delicately strung on a hanger. Tiny heart undies swayed next to cotton granny panties.
One day Mom leveled the hanger to my stomach and measured the panties against my pelvis.
“That’s gross,” I said, shooing them away.
“Chill out, Linda. They’re perfectly fine after a good wash,” Mom replied.
And so it began. But there was something about used undies that always irked me. To me, washed or not, wearing another kid’s discarded undies was right up there with receiving an organ transplant. Ethically fraught. Did the panties still contain the soul, the essence of their previous owner?
In case you’re wondering, the going rate back then for used panties was about 20 US cents a pair. A great deal, and one Mom often took advantage of. I’ve worn so many donated panties throughout my childhood that I’ve lost count. But there’s one particular pair of undies that I’ll never forget: the Thursdays.
When I was young, days-of-the-week underwear was a hot-ticket item—colorful pairs of underwear with the days of the week written on the front of them. All the rich girls bought them at this store called Limited Too. And they giggled about them at lunch, like members of some secret sorority I had no birthright to. I longed for these crotch calendars. But I knew better than to ask my parents. Dad barely made enough money as a taxi driver. Having enough food to eat was way more important than those silly panties anyway.
But one day, when I was 10, Mom saw them hanging on a thrift-store rack. Well, one of them: Thursday. I screamed, pulled them to my chest and hugged them tightly. In what possible universe could someone give these away? Had some rich girl actually gotten tired of them? No way. Not possible.
Maybe the prior owner just hated Thursday and wanted the panties out? I mean, I get it. Thursday really is the ugly stepsister of days. It lacks the go-getter appeal of Monday, the party spirit of Friday. What kind of day is Thursday anyway?
Anyway, I loved those panties. They were sky blue (such a happy color) with “Thursday” emblazoned on them in neon-green lettering. At the seam was a tiny green bow made of fine ribbon.
I, Linda Catherine Blake, had arrived. Thursday was my new favorite day. For one day a week, and one day only, I belonged to the skivvies sisterhood.
One Monday morning I opened my underwear drawer. It was totally empty.
“Mom, where’s my underwear?” I shouted through my open door.
“Hell if I know,” she said. “The dirty pile maybe?”
The clock was ticking. I had to make a choice.
“Fine, I’m wearing a dirty pair,” I told Mom.
“Great,” Mom said, distracted by my sisters.
I muscled through the clothing pile and dug out my Thursdays. If I was going to wear a used pair, they might as well be my favorites. On the bus ride to school, I got a tickle in my stomach. Holy moly, I’m a secret underwear rebel, I thought. And boy, it felt good.
I sat in class that day holding my secret close. I smiled so tightly my cheeks burned. While all the other kids were doing math worksheets, I began to fantasize about my grand confession. I’d climb atop my desk and shout, “I’m wearing Thursday underpants on a Monday. And I don’t care!”
I never actually did that. But I really wish I had.
Eventually, I started to wear my Thursdays whenever I pleased. Damn the man, indeed. I was free, and it was glorious.
I started to feel bad for the Brendas and Samanthas of the world, felt bad for those rich kids who had everything all the days of the week. Because in reality, they were stuck with every day of the week, and every choice was dictated for them.
I, on the other hand, with my single pair of Thursdays? I had unlimited opportunity. These undies became my gateway to a life of invention.
So thank you, Mom, for the secondhand panties. Because you were right: they were perfectly fine, with and even without a good washing.
Celebrating the free-wheeling spirit of the Bay Area — one sentence at a time.
Bay Area Girl in Barcelona (Bon Dia), Multimedia Journalist, Aspiring Novelist, Microbiome Nerd, Former Journalist with WSJ

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When I was just a sprout of about eight, I really started noticing my sister’s underwear was different than my own. This was in the 50s, when girls of about 12 or so started wearing ‘big girl’ underwear.
For one thing, hers had no flap in the front and felt like silk, althought they were really probably nylon or acetate. I was also fascinated with her petticoats, which were very full, very frilly and very ‘girlish’.
One day, when my sister wasn’t home, I snitched a pair of her panties. They were pink, with lace across the bum – they later called them rhumba panties. I felt them for a while and decided to feel what they felt like on, so stripping off my trousers and underpants, I put them on. They were too big, but not awfully so.
I admired myself in the mirror for a while and then fell on the bed, giggling to myself. I started bouncing up and down while laying face down! After a while, I got a real good feeling ‘down there’ – I believe I actually had an orgasm although of course there was no ejaculation, just a great feeling). In my childish mind, I attributed this feeling to the panties.
So I proceeded, for the next few years, to purloin my sister’s panties and those of my friends’ sisters whenever I could. I also progressed from wearing just the panties to ‘dressing up’ whenever I had the chance. I got rather bold, since I appeared to be getting away with it!
About the time I was 11, my mum and sister were going shopping and I was to be left alone for a few hours. When they had left, I immediately went up to the attic (where my collection was hidden) and – I remember this like it was yesterday – I put on a pair of blue lacy panties, a petticoat and a white dress that used to belong to my sister. I then went back downstairs to play in the living room for a while before attending to other matters.
My good fortune ran out that day – mum had forgotten her purse and just as I got to the bottom of the landing, the front door opened and in she walked with my sister. It’s hard to say which of us was the more surprised!
My sister gave me the strangest look but mum grabbed me by the neck and dragged me out onto the porch (I fought her all the way, to no avail). She proceeded to bend me over the porch rail and flipped up my skirts, showing my little panties. She gave the most exasperated sound and started to paddle my bum with her hand. After a few minutes, she told my sis to get her the strap. Now, I don’t know if any of you have been struck with a razor strap, but it ain’t fun!
She practically melted the material of those panties with that strap, with me screaming and carrying on. “I only have one girl in this house!” Mom was yelling. Meanwhile, I had gotten to the point where the spanking no longer hurt and weirdly started to feel good. I was getting quite excited by all this and it was probably on that day that I became a devout ‘spankophile’.
Thank God, there were few neighbours on our street and I didn’t know any of them, as they had no children! My sister, meanwhile, was giggling and started to laugh at me. Mom was so mad that she didn’t stop to think and had me stand by the wall while she proceed to flip up my sister’s skirts and show her panties (flowered ones) and started to spank her too, saying: “You think this is funny? I’ll show you its not funny!”
Wow! A real girl’s bum in panties right in front of me! OK, it was my sister, but it was a real bum in real panties! It was almost more than I could stand! Anyway my sister got real mad at me because she got a spanking and to make matters worse, she said she was going to tell all my mates at school that I was dressed up as a little girl, and wearing panties. I begged her not to and we made a deal – she wouldn’t tell but would get to spank me some time in the future!
After a year went by, I forgot all about it and continued to wear girl’s clothes whenever I was sure I wouldn’t get caught. I hid them out in the large storage shed at the back of the house. It had two storeys and was quite old so no-one but me went up to the second level!
Mom, I thought, had quite forgotten the whole cross-dressing incident after I apologised and told her I just wanted to see what it felt like to wear all those frilly clothes! I guess she just wanted to believe me.
One Friday afternoon, when I got home, I discovered I was alone. There was a note from mom saying she would be ‘quite late’ and so would Judith. my sister. I decided to go to the shed and play. I dressed and proceeded to do the things I would do, and was really lost in my own world when I heard a noise behind me – it was Judith.
“I th-thought you w-were gonna be l-late,”, I stammered! “Practice was called off,” she said with a smirk, “and now it’s time for you to honour your part of the deal. I’m going to spank you, just like momma.” “Please, no!” I begged. “I’ll do anything else you want but please don’t spank me!”
Well, begging didn’t help and she made me go back to the house with her, where she got the strap and proceeded to whale my bum until I was screaming like a banshee. I was making so much noise that neither of us heard the front door open.
It was our nearest neighbour, Mrs Smyth. She had heard me screeching and thinking I was alone, came to check. She was flabbergasted. Here was a red-faced boy of 12, wearing a dress and panties, being spanked by a much larger girl of 16 who happened to be his sister, wearing a dress that was far too small for her (it was last year’s and she had grown some) so that every time she bent forward her panties were showing.
“Stop that!” Mrs Smyth yelled. Sis, who until then hadn’t noticed her, jumped about a foot in the air and spun around at the same time, giving me a lovely view of her panties. However, I was in no shape to enjoy it at the time. I think she was intent on literally seeing if nylon would melt if enough friction was applied to it! I jumped up also and both of us said ‘Mrs Smyth!’ at the same time, as if this were a very astute observation!
I was trying my best to shrink into the carpet, wishing my clothing was a bit more masculine in appearance, and trying to pull up my very non-masculine panties at the same time!
“What in the name of the Lord is going on here?” Mrs Smyth asked, looking back and forth at us. Meanwhile, I had got my panties up but unfortunately was in an excited state and the dress got caught in the waistband of the panties, so it was quite noticeable!
“I am going to have to tell your mum about this!” she yelled. “Now, both of you go stand in different corners.” She would brook no arguments, and the strap was clearly visible there on the floor!
Well, about an hour later, mum came home and of course the first thing she saw was a grim-faced Mrs Smyth, and her daughter and son (in drag) standing in the corner.
Mrs Smyth gave mum her impression of what had happened. She said it wasn’t just a spanking, it was something sexual and perverted and dirty and…here she ran out of adjectives. By then, both sis and I were crying, knowing we were going to die – whether from embarrassment or from being thrown in the nearest rock quarry!
Mum and Mrs Smyth talked for a while in low tones so we couldn’t hear. Mum then told us to both come over, which we did and she asked us what was going on! She appeared entirely too calm. We both started to speak at once, saying we weren’t doing anything dirty, and tried to explain about the promise I had made – knowing we were making things worse but not knowing how to fix it!
At that, Mrs Smyth piped up: “How do you explain the fact that you were all excited, then?” “Shut up, you old biddy,” I thought but didn’t say. “Yes, how do you explain that, little girl?” my mum asked.
Now, do any of you know how embarrassing it is to explain to three females – one a neighbour, one your sister and the other your mum – that you get excited wearing girls clothes? I didn’t mention that getting spanked by a pretty young female while wearing those clothes was absolute heaven – especially since the female in question was a very close relative.
After mum listened to us carry on for a while, she observed: “Well, we’re getting nowhere with this. Mrs Smyth, would you care to take a hand in the handing out of discipline?” Mrs Smyth agreed, and it was decided that she would use her hand on me (maybe they felt sorry for me) and mum would use the strap on Judith.
Judith was pushed over the arm of the settee and her dress was flipped up. I was in the same position but over Mrs Smyth’s knee. Looking right at my sister’s panty-covered bum, she got hers while I got mine! I soaked my panties – Mrs Smyth didn’t say anything but she noticed! How I found out she noticed is another story.
I still loving dressing up. No, my sister never got a chance to spank me again. Yes, I got caught again – but not by mum. But I still love giving and receiving spanks. My lovely bride of 35 years is also into ‘love spanking’ and we sometimes play out mum and child, with both of us taking different roles at different times – but I’m always the female!
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