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The hardest item of clothing to take off is The Skinny Leg Jean. I am convinced that they were created from left over cloth by the dude who invented the chastity belt. I have defied many people – myself included – to exit the SLJ in an exotic and time efficient manner, but the act always ends up on the child birth end of the sexy meter.

 

The first time I slept with my ex-boyfrielnd was after a Halloween party. I was dressed as Tinkerbelle and he was moonlighting as a rock star, equipped with skin tight, ankle hugging pants. My home-made green dress dissolved in one clean rip (Aside: Remind me to look into buying more clothes of such nature) but he spent the better part of ten minutes falling around the apartment like a chained prisoner trying to get naked. Meanwhile, I sat nude on the kitchen counter unsure whether I should bake something or plot the death of Ksubi designers to kill time.

 

The worst sex injury I have acquired eventuated when I fell onto an oversized stuffed rabbit after spending eight minutes trying to gracefully remove my own SLJ. I pulled my groin muscle and the only reward for finally being released from fabric was a bag of frozen peas resting where his genitalia should have been partying.

Summer is the ultimate solution, and my love of tropical climates has little to do with weather and more to do with easy access. While winter may create the perfect naked-snuggling-in-bed opportunity, getting to that point is the SLJ struggle.

 

Whenever I am in a situation where I know I will want to get naked quickly (I usually call them “Weekdays”), I wear something that won’t hinder the process. A dress, of course, is the most obvious choice. But being the stubborn bitch that I am, I like to put obstacles in front of instances to see whether a boy will want to rip off the always-ready tracksuit pant.

 

(Aside: They don’t).

 

The Skinny Leg Jean looks brilliant paired with a knee-high boot. I mean, would the catwalks of Paris lie? [Rhetorical question]. It is an outfit that was once designed for riding horses but is now a perfect ensemble to ensure that You are going to end up riding something that is only hung like a horse.

 

Preparing for an impromptu date during an impromptu two days of hot sex in a different city, I found myself wondering whether I would be wiser to wear the SLJ and boots I had spent the better part of thirty hours in (and out) of, or resort to the only clean items of clothing in my possession: the tracksuit pant or mini-shorts.

“Do I want to smell good or look good?” I thought while shivering in the winter weather.

The day and a half prior had seen me fall into a cupboard, roll off a bed and form a make-shift chain gang with my date while he pulled and I tried to rip denim. I was one sexual experience away from simply staying naked full time but I don’t yet have the confidence to accept all of the “ Look at the eight-year-old boy!” taunts and so I knew I needed pants.

Acknowledging that I already had a Sure Thing, I reasoned that cleanliness was the best bet to get me to Oh My Godliness within the hour. I was tired and so trying to fit a square (my foot) into a circle (Sass & Bide) begged to use energy that I desperately needed to conserve.

(Aside: Who’s cruel trick is it to make dinner dates last four hours but sex only last twenty minutes?)

 

“Sexy trackpants,” my date acknowledged when I walked into the restaurant sporting fleece and high heels. I did what I frequently do in undesirable situations: I drank myself well dressed.

 

Hours and bottles later, I was ready to blow the restaurant and focus on something much more appealing. I stumbled into the hotel room, excited that there was going to be no challenge in getting me from frumpy to fucked.

“These needs to go,” my date once again acknowledged my attire.  

In one clean move, he ripped them off. Just how fashion intended them to be used [I think].

“Good work, sir.” I like to compliment a job well done.

I went to take a step towards the bed. And fell flat on my face.

“Yeah…watch out for those pants around your ankles…”