"What?"
"Bottomless."
I was about to laugh at the suggestion. Was that just a sisterly joke? But the elegant secretary in the impeccable business attire--silk blouse, tailored jacket, black skirt--looks serious. "You heard me, young lady. Panties off, please. Just drop your knickers and give them to me. I'll give them back to you when you exit the CEO's Office."
I give a quick look at her backside as she selects an official-looking folder behind her desk providing me with the thick non-disclosure agreement I need to sign before being allowed to enter the CEO's offices. Her pencil skirt is tight, its fabric is thin, yet no panties' lines are visible. She is following the peculiar corporate dress code herself. But everything else at Quentin Quantum Computing headquarters looks politically correct and cool, exactly as I imagined: glass façade, soft carpets, Norwegian wood.
And my first business meeting with Doctor Quentin Razor--the celebrated inventor of the first commercial quantum processor--has nothing to do with my gender. Nor with my knickers. Nor with my pussy. My hi-tech startup needs faster processors, and he manufactures them. So, ours are complementary firms. We are much smaller than them, but all the same, a business agreement between our firms is a win-win concept. But the man--albeit notoriously tough in financial negotiations--is too clever and politically correct to harass any woman--leave alone a potential business partner.
True, he is notoriously an eccentric and a prominent art collector, and his gaffes when addressing gender-sensitive issues are legendary. But this?
True, panties are a modern concept, especially for women. Victorian ladies went always bottomless. On the other hand, they wore petticoats and crinolines and multi-layered long skirts, almost impenetrable barriers to any introspection. Besides, Victorian society was hardly an example of gender equality.
True, I remember an oldish feminist addressing our self-awareness group with horror stories of despicable alpha men dominating women through bottomlessness.
The gyno who wanted her patients pantyless in his office even if they just needed to renew a prescription, leaving all the ladies looking at the audience with a mixed feelings of embarrassment and naughtiness, as the nurse asked them to slip their knickers off and surrender them right there, in the open of the waiting room, under the leering gazes of the occasional accompanying hubbies.
Or the shrink who insisted on bottomlessness during therapy sessions. Most patients reportedly enjoyed the diktat, the airy freedom of strolling around bottomless under a light summer skirt of their chosen length on a windy day among male passers-by. Without any sense of guilt: doctor's order.
