An open letter to the man who stole my underpants by Kristin Hillery, Editor-In-Chief
 After eating dinner the other night, I walked down three flights of stairs and across the parking lot to the laundry room, carrying a wicker basket overflowing with clothes. You were watching me the whole time from your first-floor apartment, pushing apart the blinds with your stubby fingers just enough to peek through the window without anyone noticing. As I separated my whites and colors, you used the Miller High Life–stained collar of your favorite Motorhead shirt to dry off your gray, braided beard — the sight of my stringy thongs, lacey panties and strapless bras caused a waterfall of saliva to pour out from your toothless mouth.
And then you licked your chapped lips, nodding: “Niiiiiiiiiiice. Real nice.”
It was all too much for you to take in at once. A 21-year-old girl with dirty, filthy lingerie, all alone in the laundry room without anyone to share them with.
“We cain’t be havin’ that, now cain we?” you asked, your raspy voice echoing amidst the patio furniture and past due notices that decorate your musty apartment.
Your eyes were still glued to me when I shoved quarters into the metal slots, pushed the start buttons and skipped through the parking lot back to my place, tossing my empty basket in the air and dramatically catching it every few seconds.
“Wait right there, Sergeant Weaselbeans,” you commanded your mangy German shepherd, who took a break from scratching his flea-bitten neck to acknowledge you with a whimper. Tugging on a pair of old Wranglers that had been recently used to mop up a Spam spill on your kitchen floor, you crept out the front door, closed it gently with your greasy hands and hustled to the laundry room, huffing and puffing the whole way there, your braided beard flying from your chin like a kite.
You tried to catch your breath while you stood in front of the washing machines, but the excitement was overwhelming. When you finally opened up the two machines, your eyes shifted rapidly from the treasures inside. “Sweet, three-tittied mother o’ Jesus!”
Suddenly there were footsteps outside; you dropped my favorite Gap T-shirt bra back into the machine and froze, though you couldn’t keep your withered penis from wobbling in your jeans.
Whew! You were just hearing things. “Well, sheeit, I’d better gather all these here lady drawers and take ’em home ’fore somebody really does come in here,” you said while you rummaged desperately through the wet clothes, tucking every unmentionable into your pockets and under your shirt. The coldness of the metal bra hooks against your freckled skin sent shivers all over your body as you bolted out the door to safety.
“Hahahahehaheheeheeee! Sheeit.”
Perfect timing, too — just when you slammed the door and collapsed on your living room floor from exhaustion, I was making my way downstairs with more quarters and a couple of sheets of Bounce.
You got up to look at me through the window again, though, but this time you were wearing my thongs like earmuffs as you peered through the blinds. You watched me frantically searching through the clothes, my face bright red, until I finally gave up and just sat on the dryer, crying.
Seeing me this way started to get to you. “Jesus, maybe I shoulda just taken a couple of ’em, or maybe I should leave some outside her door,” you thought, scratching your tangled, thin hair, as a single tear rolled down your scruffy cheek.
You sat in silence for a moment, thinking. You looked at the pile of my underwear sitting in the corner of your apartment, then back at me, still weeping on the dryer.
Wiping your cheek dry with a pair of my satin panties, you turned to your dog, who was scratching himself again.
“Naw, I cain’t give ’em back, Sergeant Weaselbeans. I cain’t. They smell too good.”
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