Omg, it’s true! My bra and panties don’t match…sue me!

Before I was a published author, I had fantasies about hiding out in a cabin, off grid, nameless, a total mystery to my readers. I’d sit on the porch, pouring through a bag of fan letters, giggling occasionally, at my extreme care of staying anonymous. Reporters, okay, to be honest -the paparazzi, would hire detectives to find out who was the writer behind the name of Debra Kayn.

The reality of my life is much different.

Take this morning. I was talking to a couple of authors who shall remain nameless because frankly, they do the crazy, anonymous writer thing better than me. *coughs* Freaks!

The subject of panties and bras came up, as it often does. Don’t ask. Us author types leave nothing to the imagination, to your delight. Anyhoo, the talk centered around how we dress/undress our heroines. How much detail is really needed?

He hooked his thumb under the string of her thong, and with better control than a saint, proceeded to strip her bare.

Or

He trailed his finger over the edge of her black, lace boy shorts, relevantly inspecting each stitch with care. Sweat broke out on his brow, and only then did he allow himself to lean forward, grab the fragile material between his teeth, and rip the cloth from her body with a growl of male appreciation.

This is where the conversation turned to where no conversation should go. The topic of matching bra and panties entered the friendly banter. Unable to keep my big mouth shut. I confessed to not wearing matching underclothes, and when I do manage to match, it’s a special occasion. That’s right. Sue me. Today, my underwear is purple with little dots. My bra is black. The consensus is, they must match in a book. Why? Aren’t we told all the time to make the story real? What about believability? What about when you change your underwear at 11:00am, because you’re going to the store, and your mom always made you change your panties in case, horror of all horrors, you’ll crash and the paramedics have to cut off your pants to get to the wound on your leg where the gear shift penetrated your thigh bone? No one changes their bra for such an outing, because there is no way your upper body will be hurt with the new no-shatter windshields and, hello, airbags.

From there the conversation got heated. There is nothing like debating a fact with authors. They’re smart. They’re stubborn. Heck, they take rejections for breakfast. Thongs are so 90’s. Boy shorts are the new hot item. When I think of boy shorts, I think of athletic girls. Do I match them with a sports bra? Excuse me while I go grab me a glass of whiskey to get rid of that memory. No one over a B cup wears a sports bra. No man would ever be able to remove a sports bra from a woman with double D’s without causing some serious damage to the goods. Not to mention, spandex. Have you ever tried to rip spandex with your teeth? I think not. I won’t even mention the Tootsie Roll effect that happens when you stuff an ample breasted woman in the equivalent of a torture device.

The funny thing is, and the reason I wrote this post, I’m going to make sure in my current wip that I give my heroine unmatching underclothes. I’m going to stand up for women everywhere, and make it real. I’ll start now, by never using the word underclothes again. Then I’m going to go sit on my porch and giggle, because no one knows who I am.