Abracadabra. Hocus Mucus. Giz-zam!


What's this?

It's not my cell phone.

It's. It's --

It fe eels .... like, maybe one of my nylon running tops? All balled up?

I pull it out from under the passenger seat.


Wha-- what the fuck!?!


It's dark. This street has big trees on it that block the lights overhead. It reminds me of a street in Portland's Irvington neighborhood. This, however, is Cole Valley. Another nice neighborhood. Karl and I just got done moving all his crap out of storage. He's repaid my kindness with a burger from Burger Meister. They must make the tastiest burgers in San Francisco. Neiman Ranch, all organic beef.


Whose are these?


I turn on the dome light.


In my hand is a balled up wad of women's undergarments. Not just one piece, but two: a pair of thigh length, Hane's brand panty hose, and, inside the panty hose, one pair of heavily soiled white bikini underwear (tag missing).

Heavily soiled meaning:

There's some definite signs of menstruation and discharge. I would say, in my professional opinion, a scant amount of blood (less than five cubic centimeters). The other discharge would be mostly of the clear variety, as opposed to the bacterial infection, or yeasty variety.

I put them up to my nose and take a whiff. It smells like, well, like vagina, but not bad vagina. Pretty fresh vagina and A LOT of perfume. Tons of perfume.

I look at the crotch of the white panties. I touch it gently with my thumb and forefinger and they seem to slide over the fabric.


Jesus! It's still moist!


Thrown to the floor. The whole ball of it.


Then, I pick them back up. Curious.


Stretching the waistband on the panty hose, I thought about the size. They're about as big as my last girlfriend. We could share jeans.

Would these fit me?

Yes.

They could be hers, but she is way to classy to do this. I never knew her to wear panty hose either. And when did she ever have access to my car without me? Never. When did we ever have sex in the car? Never. When did she ever wear copious amounts of cheap perfume -- near her crotch?

Never.

I wanted to call her. But how? We haven't talked for weeks, and her grandmother just died. How do you ask such a thing?

"I'm sorry about the news. I heard about it from reading your blog. Yeah, well, like I said, I'm soooo sorry."

"By the way, did you leave some skanky menses stained panties in my car?"

Then, I thought about the possibility, nay , the high probability that these soiled panties came from one of the sketchiest neighborhoods in all of San Francisco -- the Mission.

My car was fixed three days ago in the heart of the Mission. Twenty-sixth and Shotwell.


Friends, classy ex-lovers, and loyal blog readers --


the panties were moist.


Conclusion:


Someone pulled a trick in my car.