Wedgie

I've had a wedgie all day. I don't get wedgies. Oh I used to get the intentional, pre-pubescent variety in the school hallways of my youth. Violent tuggings by cackling toughs with yellow teeth and bad breath. But naturally occuring accretions of friendly underwear between the lobes of my ass? Never. Notice though, that within days of posting to this blog about panties and ass-cracks, what? I get a day-long wedgie that I just can't shake! It's like elastic- I pluck it out, forget about it for a minute, and then before I know it I'm right back to that squeamish feeling of something trying to gain entrance to my bung hole. My hygiene is good, I think, so it's not a matter of adhesion. And I've worn these particular briefs before, plenty of times. They know me, and they know what I like, and what I don't. Could my ass-dimensions be changing since the last wearing? Am I becoming more woman-like? They're plagued by wedgies, aren't they, if I'm not mistaken? But guys? No way. Ain't right. The label says they're 95% cotton and 5% spandex. Can spandex reproduce? Maybe they're dividing and multiplying, like a zygote, pushing aside the more liberal, freedom-loving cotton to get to a heightened, invasive state of awareness? Maybe someday the whole thing will be spandex, and then I'll have to call them speedo's?