The Best Time I Flashed Someone (or Otherwise Exposed Myself)
by The Hairpin
The Strip is probably just the part of I-10 that goes through Panama City, or “P.C.” as we called it (“PC 2K2!!” was what we wrote on all of our burned CDs), and is a huge traffic jam no sane human wants to drive through. But to the enthusiastic spring breaker this is not a setback but rather an opportunity. You roll down your windows, your sunburned forearm hangs out the window, you wipe some sand out of your eyebrows, rub the eyeliner out from under your eyes, and stare at yourself in the rearview mirror, wondering if you are the pretty friend or just The Friend (you are The Friend). If you have thought ahead, like my friends and I did, all flown down to Florida from freshman year of college in Indiana, packed into my old red Civic, no air conditioner, the “system” my sister invested in when she had it still intact, you thump down the strip. You play Kelis’ “My Pussy” or whatever the name of the song is that talks about licking butt cracks. My friends, my four girl roommates, all grew up as Midwestern / regional hockey tournament / church ski trip spring breakers so it was up to me to mandate the halter tops, extra eyeliner, and nostalgic rap anthems to be studied and then shouted as we sped along the highway, dreaming, I guess, of Malibu Rum and the last guy we danced with at a dorm party. We were all virgins, too young to drink and therefore never had; all of us with that vibe of goody two shoes Catholic kid who wanted to wait ’til marriage and almost did, until someone finally dry humped us and the next day at the dining was all a chorus of, “Oh yeah, nevermind.”
So that Spring Break, the first of its kind for us, we drove down The Strip in the middle of the day, completely sober, and I untied my halter top and showed my mostly-sunburned tits to the first guy who asked. Boys with too much hair gel and what we called ‘wife beater’ tank tops swarmed the car. Some had video cameras. The good ones had beads. There was too much traffic for us to pull away. My friends screamed. I rolled up the window and turned around, excited, as we inched forward and they moved onto the next silly, wanting girl, asking the backseat if they thought I would end up on Girls Gone Wild. The only other thing I remember from that PC 2K2 was getting some free MTV-branded mini frisbees, but I had flung my tits out to some strangers and the thrill of it floated me through the week. Maybe the year.
Now it basically makes me : (((((((((((( — Meaghan O’Connell
Lima, Peru. The social event of the year. A big, fancy wedding featuring one of those weird ice sculptures in the shape of a martini glass filled with appletinis that you release with a spigot. It was 2006 so we’ll let that one slide. A bottle of scotch on every table. Salsa music. So much salsa music. I was in Peru with my whole family for my cousin’s wedding, and a few weeks before the trip I had gotten this super adorable bright blue silk dress from Anthropologie with these pretty pewter buttons all the way down the back. I looked way cute.
My whole family (a.k.a. the awkward-white-people contingent of wedding guests) was staying at the same hotel, so a bus picks us up in our fancy clothes to take us to the church. When it arrives at the church and I stand up to get off, my brother grabs my arm and is like, “UM EMILY.” Evidently all the buttons on the back of my dress had come undone on the bus ride. I’m like, “clearly the reason that all these buttons came undone is because the bus ride was bumpy. There’s nothing to worry about, you guys!” So I get myself buttoned back up and head into the church.
Turns out it was not the bus but the dress. That dress did not like those buttons. The dress rejected the buttons. Every time I sat down every button would come undone and I would flash my be-granny-pantied bum to everyone. If I had only known this would happen I would have worn better underwear.
(Sidebar: it wasn’t quite as bad as the time I was in Grand Central Station and accidentally tucked my floofy skirt into my THONG. But it was still bad.)
So when we got to the reception venue I borrowed two safety pins from a nice lady who had unnecessarily pinned her bra strap to her dress, since I needed them much more than she did, and determined to not let the button situation ruin my night. The appletinis started flowing. I started salsa dancing with my father. The buttons slipped some more, but I decided that you only live once so WHO CARES.
Then I heard some laughing behind me. A table of young Peruvian men were giggling. At me. Because something had slipped and my ass was hanging out again. And the VIDEOGRAPHER pointed to my BUTT and said something in Spanish. Thanks videographer! Glad you were there to catch that. What would I have done without you? Hope this makes it on the blooper reel! — Emily Kaye Lazzaro
Best time I flashed someone: I’d been invited to my friend’s office party for New Year’s Eve. Their office was in Times Square and the building was an old one where the windows still opened. We drank cheap champagne and ate cheese on Ritz crackers, looking down on the madness below. We made use of the paper shredder and made 20 pounds of homemade confetti that we threw on the masses when the ball dropped. At the height of our revelry we looked across and saw two cops waving at us from the roof of the building next door. So without even talking about it because it was the only proper thing to do, my friend and I lifted our shirts and screamed. I mean, isn’t that how everyone thanks men in uniform? — Jasmine Moy
In the summer of 1994 I was 10 and wore huge glasses, paisley tank tops, and high-waisted shorts. This was a conscious stylistic choice, because I was almost an A-cup but refused to wear a bra. And I was definitely an “indoor kid”: While others ran around screaming and hitting each other (“playing”), I sat in a corner reading the latest Goosebumps, and adults often referred to me as “an old soul.” (When I asked my mother what that meant, she said, “it’s someone who’s really smart,” and I was proud.)
And it probably goes without saying that physical activity was and always has been my downfall, so when my mom took my cousin and me to the new Nickelodeon Extreme Baseball Park at Shea Stadium, and I was chosen to take part in the “Guts Extreme Baseball Diamond,” I was not as excited as one might have hoped.
I thought maybe I could get slimed, because it wouldn’t raise my heart rate but could still make a good story, and I was also open to answering a series of history questions, if such a challenge was presented. But instead I had to go through a timed obstacle course.
Marc Summers (yes!) put 10 minutes on the clock, and I tried my best as my mom and cousin cheered me on. I was having an especially hard time going through the “elastic jungle,” which required me to crawl through criss-crossed bungee cords, much like Catherine Zeta-Jones in Entrapment, when veteran host Summers easily caught up with my slow ass, and — forever a gentleman — offered encouragement. “You can do it!” he yelled as I flailed. He turned to the crowd. “Can’t she, guys?! Give her a cheer!”
Then, it happens. I muster all my energy and leap to the end of the HELL PIT, and Marc yells in triumph. I give him a high-five but he abruptly turns away. I look down and see that my young budding breast has come out of my tank top, and my nipple is staring straight at Marc Summers. I feel like a filthy harlot, but say nothing. I vow never to engage in physical activity again, and don’t kiss a boy until I’m 17. — Soujourner “You Can’t Handle the” Truth