Pink knickers and belly dancing

I'm standing in my bedroom staring at a pair of pink frilly knickers that are lying on my bed. Nylon. I just can't believe it. Am I really supposed to be wearing these? Are they seriously expecting me to turn up at the pub wearing these? Why didn't I choose a different set of friends a few years ago? I suppose if I did those friends would be boring. Del and co may be a lot of things but boring isn't one of them. The pink knickers lay there tormenting me. I'm naked and dripping from the shower. I remember Dels words "It'll be liberating Mikel." BASTARD!!!!! I don't feel very liberated. Gritting my teeth I pull them on. I feel such a twat standing there naked apart from pink frilly knickers. I can't even bring myself to look in the mirror.
I wonder if I have deep dark psychological problems that needs to be addressed before I can lead a full and productive happy life. Why have I got such a problem with this? They're uncomfortable and itchy. Thanks for pointing that one out Anni, I promise I'll think twice about buying any loved one knickers made from man made fibres.
I decide to cheat. I put on my regular comfortable cotton shreddies, and put the pink ones over the top. I still feel like a twat but............ they don't itch and scratch so bad.
We all meat at the pub. The man who should not be named (love the horse) is wearing the "Penelope Pitstop" knickers, Dels son (10) is wearing "Boudoir babe" knickers I'm wearing the pink frilly knickers with a little bow at the front, so is Tony, and Dianne is wearing Dels shirt and white knickers. Yes we checked. Debs never said anything about her knickers but maintained her crossing dressing code was wearing trousers instead of a dress.
"There'll be no trying to pull tonight Mikel." says J. "You'll never explain the knickers when you get her home."
So after a quick drink we got a taxi to the Cypriot restaurant, the other side of town. We ordered the Meze all round several bottles of Retsina and some Ouzo slammers. At half past nine the belly dancer came drifting down the stairs, the little coins on her belt clicking away and she shimmied and swayed. Very cute. She dragged me from my seat and sat me down in the middle and proceeded to dance in front of me. That was great until I was told she was in fact the mother of one of Dels sons schoolmates. That sort of took the magic away some. Four courses and plenty vino later we're all smashed, we'd all danced with the belly dancer. Tony confessed he'd cheated as well and was like me, wearing two sets of underwear. Thank you Tony. At least I wasn't the only one.
Then back to Dels for more Sangria and peach schnappes. I left when Del and J decided to play UEFA cup football on the playstation.
Two in the morning and I'm walking up the road back to my place. Drunks stagger past me in the opposite direction. I hope I'm not mugged and then beaten because they found I was wearing pink knickers.
Never again. My roadie texted me from Rome. "Don't throw away those pink knickers. I can't wait to see you in them." Help!! I need a (sex) therapist.