Boxers With Bouquets
by Jonathan Tasker Rich
I don't consider myself a pervert, even though I used to steal women's underwear. It was the flowers, not the panties that mattered. You see, I'm a florist by trade. And, I've got a thing for flowers. For me, women's panties are flowers that don't fade.
My name is Charlie Sullivan, second-generation owner of Sullivan's Florists: Cleveland's finest since 1898. I quit lifting undies recently, but have managed to collect a Guinness Book record of 3,169 pairs. I'm 72 years old now and started when I was 12. That's 60 years of panties. I've followed the fashions from cotton-only ones, just available in pink and white, to today's skimpy, multi-colored, synthetic thongs.
And even though I hid my habit all these years, I'm not ashamed. Particularly since I finally found a wife ten years ago to share my interest. Finally, a partner to enjoy my secret world of pinched panties. It wasn't easy. I was always worried my passion for panties would rule out any normal sex life.
I'm not quite sure how it happened, but somehow my appreciation of flower shapes, smells and textures got all mixed up with my sexual desire. I can see them in my head: graceful, hip-like callas lily curves, lavish folds of a new peony, stamens inside a tulip spread wide open , eye-lash-like pussy willow blooms and rounded, hanging, mounds of new white lilacs. Even at a young age I couldn't resist sticking my nose deep inside a white, milky cluster and inhaling a perfume sweeter than anything money could buy.
I can only compare my feelings to how other guys are aroused by particular parts of the female anatomy. There are all types of guys: breast men, leg men, butt men, long silky hair men, big pouty lip men, crystal-blue eye men. But for me, my gaze falls not on the female anatomy but on flower anatomy.
I know it sounds odd, but once I watched a bee inch its way slowly up inside the drooping bell of a white, scarlet-spotted foxglove blossom. I felt a growing heat between my thighs.
Or, take a newly opened bearded iris. The little cavity of delicate tissue between the upright and falling petals was so tempting. As an adolescent I would just stare inside the opening and sigh.
I once asked an iris grower to show me the pollination technique to make a new generation of uniquely colored, ruffled hybrids. I watched him take the stiff, pollen-covered anther of one iris plant and tickle it inside the waiting, parted lips of the stamen of another plant. I drew a deep breath as I watched the anther being rubbed inside the stamen. To me the act was, I know it sounds weird, like flower porno.
Ever since marrying I feel normal, even though most guys don't have over 3,000 pairs of panties they share with their wife. I have to tell my story to help other floral-fascinated men realize that panty pinching isn't a sickness.
It all started when I was an adolescent, sliding into sexual awareness. I felt too stark in my white Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs. I felt cheated as a boy. Why couldn't us boys have a little color? Have a few pink petals covering our maturing bulges.
I didn't realize how much of a problem my floral fixation would be. Shortly after my 12th birthday I dreamt about Lisa, a big-busted, earlier bloomer in my 7th grade class. In my dream fantasy she stroked me while I lay in a flowerbed of pansies. I awoke with a hardness in the middle of the night and tried to finish things off. But nothing much happened.
At my dad's florist shop the next day, after everyone had gone home, the results were more satisfying. I retrieved Lisa and the pansies from my memory and tried the same technique while hiding below the potting bench in the glasshouse. This time it was different. Kaboom! It was like warm hair conditioner.
The next time I had another testosterone-driven dream featuring my former kindergarten girlfriend, Jackie Goldstein. Her curved butt brought to mind the smooth wave of the milky white callas lily. I tried it again at home. Again, nothing came out. But the next day, after work, in the hothouse, I exploded like a volcano.
It happened every time. I couldn't finish things off, the explosion part, unless I was inhaling the flower-filled workplace aroma -- in the hothouse, under glass, protected. What could I do? It was just an odd quirk in my make up. It was shortly after this discovery of my peculiar sexual life that I had my first temptation with women's panties.
It was January, 1940. I was still wearing my boyhood virgin-white jockey underwear, but longing for flowered patterns. Printed pansies on boys underwear were no where to be found in the department store. I had to stumble into the women's section to fulfill my desires.
I can still recall my first lifted pair -- pink, covered in white roses, and silky, a size 8. They sort of looked like baggy boxer shorts made of silk. Enough material to make 10 of today's thongs. It happened on a shopping trip.
I went with mom on one of her seek-and-save dress-shopping missions. She wanted a deal on a dress and I wanted a new knife. At 12, the knives in the scout section of the downtown Alexander's department store really excited me.
I took a detour, zig-zagging through the ladies underwear section as a short cut to the knives. I didn't intentionally cut through the section just to get a look at those erect, sharp, plastic nipples on the undressed mannequins. As I glanced nervously, I thought: if real-life nipples were like these plastic ones, you could cut your tongue.
I rushed around a rack of slips too fast, trying to escape my embarrassment and plowed directly into a sales clerk. She was loaded with a pile of pink, silky, sexy undies. We collided. The pile of underwear squirted out of her arms and shot into the air. I felt my face flushing -- a color slightly paler than the pink underwear.
She gathered up the pink swirl and moved toward the checkout counter. I smiled weakly. She rushed away with her pile of undies obscuring her chest. She had recovered all the panties, except one. It was trapped below my foot, hidden under the rack of slips. I saw the escaped pair, but she couldn't.
And then, I heard a voice. The one they tell you about in Sunday school . . . the Devil. "Well, Charlie, there's a flowery, lacy, delicious pair of underwear. It's yours for the taking." The lace was peeking out from under my Keds sneaker. For some reason, my hand reached down, snatched the panties and stuffed them in my pocket. My heart was racing. I made a beeline for the Scout section.
The Cub Scout promise kept going through my head. "I, Charlie Sullivan, promise to do my best, to do my duty, to God and my country, to be square, and to obey the law of the pack." I was obeying the law all right, the law of my animal pack -- a pack of horny adolescents. It must have been those newly surging hormones tempting me to add women's panties to my floral fixation.
After this accidental theft, I decided to try and steal a pair on purpose. I just wanted to see if I could do it. I biked down to Alexander's department store after school one day. It was easy. When all the clerks were folding and fluffing, I was filching. It was all in the wrist, one quick snap and the pair was up my sleeve. My panty theft became an almost weekly habit. My scout meeting was after school on Wednesdays. I just swung by Alexander's on my way to Scouts every week. I came a tiny bit late to the meeting.
Between my women's panties interest and my greenhouse requirement for complete sexual satisfaction, dating during high school and college was difficult. I usually could get a date to agree to a few kinky flings after hours in the shop, but when my dates found out the truth that's when most relationships ended. They wanted to have sex in just any old place, like in a bed, or in the back of a car. Sorry, I told them, I'd like to but Mother Nature just doesn't cooperate.
One ex-girlfriend I dated during mid-life told me to see a shrink. I knew I was different, but I just figured I would have to live with my difference. I was a florist. Flowers were my passion. I couldn't help it. And, what's wrong with a man who's in love with jewel-like blossoms? I just couldn't get their beauty out of my mind or off my underpants. Men had so few choices. So, I stole.
Since I couldn't get free sex on my terms, I had to buy it.
The prostitutes in downtown Cleveland, Ohio, whom I paid for decades, went along with my odd floral interest. They visited me at the florist shop after hours. Once, I asked one of my favorites, Scarlet, if we could do it on a bed of women's panties. I took out some of my collection and covered the table with a soft layer of stacked panties. It was heavenly. But, she wanted to see the entire collection. What would she think if I showed her thousands of pairs? She might suspect I stole them and turn me in.
During all those years before I found my true love, I kept stealing. But, I had a bit of help. My earlier sexual fantasy involving Jackie Goldstein must have been a premonition because, not long after high school, she went on to become manager of the women's department at the downtown Alexander's.
She was my childhood girlfriend. We played "doctor," exploring anatomy, at the age of six together behind her garage. In fact, her white, pristine girl's underwear was probably the first pair I saw that wasn't on a rack in a store.
I ran into her by accident one Friday. I was right in the middle of the act. I had a feeling like someone was watching my hand sample the possible textures. I knew I was in trouble. I had to decide if I should keep it or drop it on the floor. I decided to keep it and stuffed it up my coat sleeve. I turned to face my accuser. It was Jackie. I remembered her in high school, she was a real sharp dresser. Her sexy body hadn't changed a bit. She had a pink, silk blouse, cleavage for all to see, and an almost above the knee, tight, black skirt. Everything about her was class.
We both smiled and carefully approached each other. She must have seen me. I wasn't sure.
"Hi, Charlie. Oh my God. It's been years. The last time I remember seeing you we had a 'doctor's appointment' behind my garage. Remember?" Her face lit up with a devilish, sexy smile.
"Oh, the garage." I couldn't help but smile.
We chatted a few more minutes. I felt my heart pounding in my chest; my hands were clammy.
"I got to go now," I said, as I felt the smooth undies material bunched up inside my coat sleeve.
"You come here often, don't you? I thought I saw you last week. Shopping for someone special in your life?"
Jackie's arm went around my lower back and I felt her hand slip in my coat pocket.
"Just a little reunion present from the head of the department." Jackie smiled and her bust jiggled as she laughed.
I ran out of the store as fast as I could. When I got back home I went to put my coat in the closet. I almost forgot. Jackie's hand in my pocket. I reached in and felt around and slowly removed them. In the light of the closet I could see a pair of bright red panties with a print of light pink impatiens flowers.
Her gift was a sign she knew. And, I knew my weekly habit was safe as long as Jackie was manager. She kept working there her entire adult life.
In the '90s, I moved on to the malls. Much easier. More stores to choose from. Less chance of getting caught. Jackie went to her grave without seeing my entire collection. She might have really liked exploring my selections. After all, she loved fashion.
So, that's how I kept up my habit. After stealing weekly, for years, I had so many pairs I couldn't keep hiding them under my mattress in my bedroom. I needed some place safer. I lived with mom after dad died of a heart attack, when I was sixteen.
Back then, I had found the perfect place to hide my stash of stolen lace and silk "flowers." In the very back of the storeroom of my dad's florist shop, where no one went often, I had discovered a large, 4-foot-high, Chinese vase. My father, before he died, told me it had been used for a fancy wedding. It had been in storage for years. I like vases almost as much as flowers. Those drawings in health class of the female reproductive system looked like a vase with two flower-stems protruding.
The vase had a circumference of two feet at the mouth. Six inches inside the vase was an insert used to hold up large flowers. This left the bottom hollow. Just enough space to store all my panties. The undies layers in the vase were like one of those archeology digs, where you see different layers of dead cultures the deeper you dig. The vase was a record of underwear history -- 1940s and up to the new millennium.
I can just see some of my specimens -- those full size ones from the 40's that covered lots of flesh with a faint rose print, ones with snaps from the 50's for attaching stockings, high cut blue ones from the 60s with a lilac design to show off thighs, g-string ones from the 70's lined in lace like a feathery iris, synthetic ones in the 80's with exploding pink lace in the crotch area that reminded me of a freshly bloomed peony, ones with writing on them (the days of the week, Monday, Tuesday . . . but no Sunday, never on Sunday), ones with transparent creamy white lace that looked like Queen Anne's Lace flower heads, and in the 90's those edible ones. I never tasted any, but banana split sounded best.
I can also recall the feel of my collection. I just touched the collection. At 225 pounds I couldn't fit into any of the sexy ones. I was happy to just feel the slippery nylon slide through my finger as I massaged each pair. All men get for texture is bulky cotton.
I used to play a little game with myself and my vase. I would stick my hand in the center of the vase and close my eyes and fish around. As my hand explored I was like a blind man reading the "Braille" of each pair. I "read" what I thought were the red lycra pair edged in lace, a series of raised ridges that outlined the petal shapes. I pulled them out in the light to see if I were right. I almost always was.
Yet, I was not completely satisfied by feeling around in the vase every now and then. All the fabric was cold. It was meant to be worn and warm. I never had the chance to feel nylon and lycra backed by radiant skin. It was a lonely love of textures.
All of my efforts amassing the historic collection would have been really a waste. I suppose I would have taken my collection to my grave. I even fantasized about being buried with all those undies tucked underneath the velvet casket insert.
But I didn't have to die alone, going to the grave with my secret. My panties collection was shared by another who loved flowers and fabric as much as I did. Lily.
When Lily Lake first walked into Sullivan's florist shop looking for a summer job at age 17, I thought of one word -- plain. She was like a field daisy. She looked like she didn't care about her appearance. On interview day she dressed in worn, faded blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Her breasts were tiny.
"Excuse me, you have any jobs? " Lily asked shyly. She looked beyond me at a point over my shoulder. She was peering into the refrigerated case where we kept the roses. She was particularly fond of roses. Later, I learned she could name and describe over 100 varieties from memory.
She looked 12 years old. At just under five feet, with a narrow girlish face, straight, dirty blond hair that hung limply down her back, she looked almost unhealthy. After I hired her, I learned that Lily was quiet, shy and read a lot, thick Russian novels mostly. I caught sight of a title once that she read at lunch, Brothers Kara ... something. A real egghead.
But what really got me, and the reason I hired her, was her passion for flowers. There were 20 years between us; I was like another father to her. She had also lost her father as a teen. We worked well together.
Lily was like a walking flower encyclopedia. She taught me a thing or two about unique varieties. Her best find was the pale blue poppy that came from Iceland that she first saw on a garden tour. She propagated some from seed and brought the blue beauties in and we sold out in hours. I just had to get them. What a find they were. And, after 20 years of working together, I realized what a find Lily was. It didn't matter what she looked like.
Lily and I slowly learned to appreciate one another from a distance. At first I was uncomfortable working so closely together on arrangements. She was my assistant, pulling out the stems of Baby's Breath and pink miniature roses. There were days when I stole looks at Lily when she was intently selecting the next flower. Our creations felt like, I know it sounds odd, like making a child together.
"Charlie, I don't think this shade of red goes with the blue asters," Lily would comment as I asked for a selection.
"All right Lil, what ever you say," I responded. She usually was right in altering my selections. I called her Lil, whenever I felt an affection for her daughter-like role in my life.
About 10 years ago I noticed a shift in our work relationship. When we worked on arrangements she would lean gently toward me. Our shoulders and hips touched. It frightened me, but I didn't pull back. But that was all. I didn't dare make a move. After all, she was an employee and I had my problem. But, Lil knew more about my problem than I thought.
Once, Lil almost caught me bringing in my weekly "catch." She revealed this story just a few years ago when we started to tell some of our personal secrets.
About 15 years ago, I thought everyone had gone home. But I was wrong. I had stayed late preparing arrangements for a big wedding. I saw you duck into the back storeroom. I didn't know if you saw me. I stayed out front, but heard you rummaging around in the storeroom for a few minutes. I quietly went to see who was there.
But all I saw was you getting in your silver van with the Sullivan's Florist name. You were wearing your work clothes, dark blue cap, a light yellow v-neck sweater, a white button- down shirt, and your khaki work pants. You opened the van door and I saw the profile of your little paunch as you opened the van door and the light shown on you.
I must have scared you off. You didn't see me and left by the back door. In a rush you left the door to the storeroom slightly ajar. It normally was locked.
As I opened the wooden door I smelled damp cinder blocks. I tugged at the string. The naked bulb's weak light filled the room. I noticed some things had been moved to reveal a large vase in the back.
It took me several minutes to clear away the other pots, boxes and green florist wrapping paper that still blocked the vase. Finally, I reached the huge wedding vase. In the dim light of the storeroom I couldn't tell if it was red or black.
The vase was nearly as tall as me. I got closer and could see the vase background color was a Chinese red dotted with white chrysanthemums.
I peered into the center of the vase. I noticed a wooden cover about 6 inches inside. I tugged at it, but it wouldn't move. I noticed what looked like a rose petal wedged between the side of the vase and the cover. I went to pluck the " petal" from where it was stuck. It didn't move. And it wasn't a natural petal -- it felt like one of those fake silk flowers. I couldn't believe you would have had anything to do with artificial flowers. I pulled harder and the rose " petal" began to stretch. I wondered, "What kind of flower is this?" The more I pulled, the more I realized this was no flower.
I finally pulled the plug out and sank my arm into a mass of underwear all the way up to my shoulder. I couldn't believe the number of panties that filled the vase. I figured you must have spent a fortune on your collection.
I smiled. I had an idea. I was too shy to buy these kind of things for myself. Charlie, its hard for me to admit now, but I became a thief. Sorry. I began to steal from your collection. I reached in deep and took my first pair from the middle of the bunch. I checked to see that it was my size. Lucky draw. The random pair was a size 6. I tucked it into my cotton bra. I liked the feel of the lace against my skin all day. I couldn't wait to get home.
Once I was home, I took off my plain jane cotton undies and slipped on your lacy, sexy, pair. Standing and looking in the mirror I felt like a poppy in bloom. I felt my cheeks flush and I lay down on the bed and raised and spread my legs. With a hand-held mirror I examined my new self -- folds and folds of blue silk lace covering my privates.
From that day on, I may have looked plain on the outside with my jeans and T-shirt, but underneath I was a new woman. I picked carefully each day from your collection, just like I selected the perfect shade and shape of flowers when we did arrangements together.
That was it; I was hooked. I only wore each lifted pair for one day. I thought you would notice if I took more than one. But each day, at lunch, when you were out making deliveries I was prying the vase open and plucking out my next day's panties, and returning the used one.
That's how Lil told it. But I also found her out. It was by accident, fate, just like my first stolen pair.
It happened in the bathroom. We only had one small john for all the employees to share. About 10 years ago I just had to pee wicked at closing time. I rushed to the toilet at the back of the shop and didn't notice the light was on and forgot to check if the door was locked.
I shoved the door open. There was Lil, with her faded jeans around her ankles, and her white T-shirt pulled, modeling her panties.
" Charlie! " she shrieked, grabbed at her jeans and slammed the door shut. Over the next week I kept imagining Lil's panties I had spied. They looked familiar, white poppies on a peony red background -- a see-through material. I couldn't bring up my suspicions to her, of course. But something changed. We stared at our floral creations and at each other. I was smiling every day, both inside and out. The greenhouse staff must have thought I took one of those newfangled pills to lift your spirits. Lil was not the same. It was almost like she had a new personality, singing tunes while she arranged.
I just couldn't get that pair out of my mind. I had to have another look. The next time I noticed Lil going back to the bathroom after all the other employees were gone I followed. I quietly knocked.
"Who is it?" Lil's girlish voice inquired.
"Who else? I got to go bad. Almost done?" I said.
"Just a minute; I'm not ready yet." The door opened a crack and I felt her small girlish hand wrap around my index finger. She gently pulled me into the bathroom.
She placed both hands on the sides of my cheeks and planted the wettest kiss right on my lips. It was a beautiful kiss. It was soft, not forced, warm and gentle. I wanted that kiss to last forever. It wasn't like how I felt with hookers.
My hand drifted to her behind and we continued to kiss and I felt around some more to get a sense for the texture of the ruffles down below. My index finger ran over the little bows all around the top waist band.
And then it hit me. I knew this pair! I had just put them in the vase yesterday. Shocked, I pushed Lil away. How did she get to my stash?
I stood a foot away, staring into Lil's now-moist eyes. I closed my eyes, turned away, opened my eyes and was surprised to see my face in the bathroom mirror. I was smiling too, a smile of a delighted child. Finally, a woman who could understand me. I look softly back at Lil.
"I know." Lil smiled and gently took my hand and pulled me toward her again. She directed my hand back toward the silky, orchid-like, ruffles between her legs. We stayed in the bathroom for over an hour. Luckily, every one had gone home. We locked up the shop together, and went home to our separate houses.
The next morning we constantly gazed into each other eyes. I guess you could say the night before, in the bathroom, we fell in love. Right around lunch Lil reached over and grabbed my hand, leading me back to the bathroom.
"Not again! We'll be found out during work hours," I said. Instead, she took me back to the storeroom.
"Charlie, I have a little something for you to celebrate our love." She handed me a long rectangular florist box that usually held long stemmed roses.
"It's a little something from my own collection," she said with a shy smile.
Slowly, I pulled away the green florist tissue. I looked in the box to see what looked like a quilt made from women's panties. I picked up the fabric and shook it out. Men's boxer shorts covered with little triangles of women's panties material.
"Lil, boxers with bouquets!" Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes. I reached over and pulled her toward me for a hug. The one-minute hug seemed to last for an hour. It was then that she told me how she came up with the idea.
After I found your collection, I felt sorry for you. I just knew your love of flowers attracted you to flowery undies. You weren't a pervert. It was just your love of nature, Charlie. Why couldn't I buy you flower designs on real men's underwear? Real men wear men's underwear. You just needed some flowers to admire.
Certainly, men's underwear comes with floral prints, I guessed. But I was wrong. Nowhere could I find flowers on boxers. I searched everywhere in Cleveland. I even asked Victoria's Secret at the mall. I had my librarian friend search the web. Nothing. Not even on the gay web pages.
Then, I realized I could quilt the boxers. I could give you the shape of real men's underwear with a touch of the female. I went shopping again for the kind of panties I was "borrowing" from you. I hit every store in Cleveland.
I bought all types -- ivory carnation lace, violet prints, and a gentle pink rose pattern. I cut them in 2-inch squares. I sewed them carefully together in a "crazy quilt" pattern, using the boxers as a backing.
Quilted undies. I couldn't believe my idea worked! I've been making them all these years for you, but never had the courage to show them to you.
Well, now you know why I don't consider myself a pervert. And, my story has a happy ending. You might remember my little problem with fulfilling sex and the greenhouse. Well, no longer. Lil, or the quilted undies or something broke the spell. We moved in together several years ago and even married. All the staff from the greenhouse had suspected it all along. They helped us celebrate at the wedding.
Just last night I was making love to Lil. Me in my floral boxers and Lil in one of my new paid-for collection. As she slipped out of her jeans and T-shirt she revealed a matching, sexy, light carnation pink chemise and panties. I could barely remember the old days. Now, I had a wife. I was no longer alone with my lingerie.
And, best of all, my days of fondling cold fabrics in a greenhouse storage room are over. Finally, fabrics and floral designs, warm beneath my touch. Now, it's more than flowers on panties that matter. Now, it's who's wearing the panties that matters the most.
