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About the Author: He wishes to remain anonymous. From 81 Vaginas, A Pillow Blog, “this is a blog about vaginas and the women around them. specifically, this is a blog about 81 vaginas. the blog promises a new entry every three days. these entries will appear in no order."


I’m 12 or 13 and an older neighbor tells me a friend of hers needs a babysitter for her little boy. The girls are going into the city. They pick me up and the friend is blond and wears a pair of jeans with a zipper that goes from the front of the pants, around the crotch, and up the back. I’ve never seen pants like those, before or since. When the girls pick me up, my father looks at the zipper and looks at me and looks at the zipper again.

In the car, the girl puts on prank glasses that give her huge, false eyes and turns and looks at me and laughs. I try to laugh too. When she takes the glasses off, she’s almost pretty.

Hers is a trailer house and the little boy is three or four. He eats fish sticks and I put him to bed. Then I am alone in her trailer. I sit on her bed for a little while and then I go around and open her drawers. I look for a long time at her underwear. I think about those jeans, that zipper, and those stupid glasses. I’m trying to figure out if I’m attracted to her and my first guess would be no but I’m alone in her trailer and there is a power in this I’ve never really known and I’m 12 or 13 so eventually I get attracted to just about anything.

To keep the trailer warm at night, she’s told me, she leaves the oven on and the door open.

In the bathroom there is a wicker hamper and I dig through it until I find a pair of underwear. Everything smells slightly stale. The panties are white and there are dark reddish smears in it. These I hold to my nose and the odor is staler yet.

This is not the birth of my ability to feel both repulsed and attracted. It is just the first time I consider it.

I can’t decide if I want the panties because they’ve been up against some girl’s x, or if I don’t want them because they are stained, or if maybe why I want them more is because of the stain. I am in and out of the bathroom a few times before I decide to lock the door and masturbate with the panties close to my face.

Afterwards, I know I don’t want them. I put them back in the hamper. I go out and watch the little television. After ten or fifteen minutes, I’m thinking about the panties again. It doesn’t take long before I’m thinking about the singular pleasure of masturbating to them again. I go and get them and bring them out to the little living space. Just as I’m about to masturbate again, the little boy comes out of his room. He’s gotten cold and he leans over the open over door, warming his hands.

I watch him, his mother’s panties in my hands behind my back, his mother out with her zipper jeans, her zany glasses.

The boy goes back to bed.

I masturbate three or four more times. Between the second and the third, I don’t even bother taking the panties back to the hamper; I know no matter what I’m going to keep them. Eventually, the girls come back. My neighbor drives me home.

I never see the girl in the trailer again. She doesn’t pay me for my babysitting that night or the next day as promised, and my father gets mad. I lie and say that she brought money to school for me. I’m afraid that she knows I’ve got her panties and so I don’t want my father to make a fuss.

I keep them for a long time, years, even. Where they are now, or where she is, or the boy, who would be at this moment about what we’d call grown up, I don’t know.