There are some things that we just cannot do. We can learn to walk in heels, we can perfect our make-up, and we can pad out our bras until we look like Dolly Parton. But we just can’t get on with G-strings! They are the one item of ladies’ clothing that we cannot ever make our own. We can buy them, we can put them on but we could never really say that we were wearing them any more than we could say we were wearing a ball of string tangled around our left foot. When all is said and done, there are two paths that we can take in life: we can choose G-strings, be confronted by the harsh, unavoidable reality that we are men and give up in tears, or we can quietly lay G-strings to one side, pretend that we have never heard of them and embrace the higher forms of ladies lingerie that offer more potential and, frankly, more fabric.
I have to admit that I have only ever once tried a ladies’ G-string. It was so skimpy that when I bought it I at first thought that I, in fact, hadn’t: when I looked in the shopping bag it was empty. I must have dropped it in the shop! But then I looked again and there it was hiding in the corner of the bag under the receipt. I held it up and was reminded of that game of ‘Cat’s Cradle’ I used to watch girls playing in the playground, the one where you wrap elastic bands around your fingers and try to transfer it to your friend’s hands. The G-string and I looked at each other and we could tell that we were not going to get on. It had been sold to me as a piece of ladies’ underwear and, standing in the lingerie section of Marks & Spencer, I had been prepared to believe that it was, but now that I had got it home I was not at all sure. It was a black triangle of fabric smaller than a beer mat, with thin black elastic sewn to each corner. It looked like a pirates eye-patch or a mask that people wear over their mouths in polluted cities, or like something you could use to fire stones at birds. Oh well, I thought. They make and sell tens of thousands of these every year – there must be something to them.
Then I tried to work out how to get into them. I know that sounds ridiculous, for the world’s simplest garment, but it took me forever to work out which way was up. There was no label conveniently stitched into the back of the ‘waistband’ – it would have been bigger than the G-string – and no obvious waistband. Eventually, I realised that the triangle of fabric was slightly tapered: the longer point must indicate down. But even though I now knew this crucial fact it didn’t mean I could simply step into them. I held them up. The triangle was pointing down. I lowered my arms to put them on and found the triangle was now pointing to the left! I tried again. Yes, the tapering point of the triangle was definitely pointing downwards. I lowered my arms again and, dammit, the triangle was now pointing to the right. To make matters worse I had unwisely put on my high heels first, and every time I went to put a foot through what appeared to be a perfectly large enough hole the elastic got caught in a buckle, or around my heel. Eventually I had them up around my knees. I pulled them up but, no, no, no, this just didn’t feel right at all. There was absolutely no sense of enclosure, of support, of sliding into something that would be comfortable, and fitting. Instead of feeling that I was ‘in’ something I felt that something was ‘on’ me – like my wrist watch was. There was no feeling of support – it didn’t feel as if I was wearing anything at all. I looked down and that was a mistake. No, I could definitely not say that I was in them and I could barely say that they were on me. I had discovered the world’s first quantum panties, panties that, despite Newtonian Laws of physics, you could be wearing and not wearing, at exactly the same time! They were like some strange new sub-atomic particle. You could just about detect that they were there but you could not work out their purpose or what they did.
Now, as a cross-dresser, I am pretty adventurous but I took that G-string off there and then and I have never put one on since. It was ridiculous. To see it down there, pathetically stretched across my manhood just made me want to laugh and that was not the reaction I was looking for. The thing didn’t look feminine, it didn’t feel feminine. It had cost me £5 and I would have been better off just wearing the £5 note! And even if, by some distortion of the space-time continuum it had fitted me I know that I could never, ever, ever, ever have gone out in it. If my own super-particle, obeying the laws of Nature as it is prone to do, became super-excited and expanded exponentially into a hardened state, it would surely have broken the G-string’s covalent bonds so that it decayed into even smaller, fundamental particles, the previously unknown ‘elasticon’ and ‘trianglon’ and a stream of energy would be ejected that mankind could not control!
To be honest i’m so unconvinced by G-strings that I severely doubt whether women, for whom they we’re actually made, fare any better with them at all. Why would you wear a little plain black G-string that tries so hard not be there that it fails in its most basic task, when, instead, you could relish a gorgeous lacy thong that shouts out its femininity and lets you know its there with every twist and bend.
So let’s sling the G-string out into outer space where it belongs. I’m sure that Newton would have approved. Had they existed in his day (and I’m sure he was one of us) he would have tried one on and been moved to set down a new Law of the Universe: A heavenly body cannot be contained by something that is smaller than itself!