Chapter 1: My Love Affair with Granny Panties
Let me tell you something most people won't admit out loud—true love doesn't always come in the form of a man with a six-pack or a sweet text at midnight. Sometimes, it comes in cotton, lace trim, and a waistband that hugs you just right.
My name is Tubo, I'm forty-two years young, and I am head-over-heels in love with my big black granny panties.
Yes, you heard me right.
I'm talking about those high-waisted, full-coverage, thick-strapped wonders that hold everything in place like a firm, loving embrace from your grandmother—if your grandma had killer style and knew exactly how to treat a woman right.
I know what some of y'all are thinking. "Tubo, girl, you're stunning—why are you walking around in your grandma's undies?" But here's the thing: these aren't just underwear. They're armor. They're comfort. They're confidence. And they fit me—not some Instagram fantasy or flimsy lace thong that rides up like it's trying to escape.
It started when I turned thirty-five and decided I was done pretending to be someone I wasn't—for anyone. Not for men who wanted a Barbie doll, not for fashion trends that said I needed to be seen and not comfortably clothed, and definitely not for underwear that made me feel less than.
So one day, I walked into a boutique that specialized in "comfort-first" intimates, and I found them. The pair that changed everything. Big, bold, black, and beautiful. They hugged my hips just right, lifted where they needed to lift, and didn't dig, ride up, or make me adjust every five minutes.
And yes, I fell in love.
The first time I told Pere—my second ex—he laughed like I was joking.
"You serious? You wear… granny panties?"
"Yep," I said proudly. "And they're perfect."
He tried to hide his face, but I saw it—the disappointment. Like I'd let him down somehow. He said things like, "Can't you get something more… sexy?" and I just looked at him.
"They are sexy—to me."
That was the end of us.
Then came Ebi. Sweet, charming, older, supposedly mature. We clicked on almost everything—except apparently, my underwear drawer.
He opened it one night after we got back from dinner, holding up one of my favorite pairs like he'd discovered contraband.
"Is this all you have?" he asked, clearly stunned.
"Yes," I said, crossing my arms. "Got a problem with that?"
He chuckled nervously. "Just thought you might have something… smaller."
I gave him a look that could melt ice. "You don't get to dictate what makes me feel good in my own skin."
We didn't last much longer after that.
And honestly? I didn't cry once.
Because real love shouldn't require you to change the way you dress underneath to make someone else comfortable. Real love should see you—all of you—and still want to stay.
Maybe one day I'll meet a man who looks at me in my big black granny panties and sees what I see: a confident, sexy, self-assured woman who knows herself better than anyone else ever could.
Until then, I've got my panties.
And honey, they love me back just fine.