Washcloth and Panties

Washcloth is tired of being used.

Once there was a washcloth that disliked being used. He didn't like getting wet, he didn't like scooping up crumbs, and he didn't like wiping things, especially mouths and hands and floors and tables, well, anything really.

One day, after an aggravating episode of getting used to scrub some dried oatmeal from a table leg, he was tossed into a pile of other "used" things like pants and other washcloths and socks. Then he and the whole pile was lifted up and carried some distance. He could see clearly where they were going...the washer.

He decided to use all the strength he could come up with and wiggle himself loose from the pile. He did this just as the rest of the pile was being tossed into the washer, and he fell behind the washer with a puff.

He sat there for a long time. He tried to stay as still as he could.

Dust gathered around him. Some balls of lint fell near him. He had done what he set out to do...he was being forgotten.

He had lots to think about, mostly about how great he thought not being wet felt. He was dry and wrinkled and the dried oatmeal had flaked off long ago.

One day, something just beyond the corner of the washer caught his eye.

The washcloth froze.

"Hello?" said a sweet little voice.

The washcloth dared not move. But he could see the object perfectly. It was very pretty. With flowers and ladybugs.

"Hello?" came the little voice again.

Washcloth was curious. What harm would it be to respond and see what this thing was?

Carefully, he said, "Hello?"

"Oh, hi," came the voice again. "Who are you?"

"I'm a washcloth," he said. "Who are you?"

"I'm a pair of panties," she said.

"Oh, hello, panties," he said.

"Hello washcloth," she answered.

"How long have you been here?" he asked her.

"Oh, long before you dropped out of that pile," she said.

"Really?" he said. "Was it an accident?"

"Oh no. I wiggled out just like you did," she said proudly. "I was tired of being stretched and tugged and being wrapped around bottoms."

"Sure, I can see that," he said. "Me too...well, except for the "bottoms" part."

They laughed.

"I'm glad you're here," she said.

"Oh, me too," he said back.

They became good friends, talking all the time, only stopping when the lights turned on.

"Oh," she smiled, "I remember once I was taken off in the back yard and thrown in a tree. I was free as bird, flapping in the wind...until someone snatched me down with a stick and put me back on."

"I remember once,” he said "I was full of chocolate syrup and yogurt and honey, but they had laid me down in a way that I looked clean. Well, the baby sneezed or something and I got snatched up in a hurry and got used to wipe the nose, but instead of cleaning off the boogies, the honey and chocolate and yogurt got wiped all over the baby's face and hair and they had already taken off the bib, so it went down onto the shirt and pants. Oh, it was a mess."

They both had such great memories.

After a while though, they ran out of stories from the past, and they talked less and less.

"You already told me that story," they would say. Or "That didn't happen to you, that's my story."

Both of them were beginning to feel sad. They couldn't talk about what was going to happen to them, because no one was looking for them. Nothing was going to happen to them. They had both long been forgotten.

They spoke less and less every day.

It may have been the panties, or it may have been the washcloth who said it. It doesn't matter, really, but someone said it.

"Do you think we'll be found again?"

This got them talking like they've never talked before.

The washcloth began to talk about how good a washcloth he was, and how he held on to the water and the crumbs, and that he was the best at wiping. He wanted to be a good washcloth again.

The panties began talking about how stretchy her elastic was and how well stitched she was, and she even thought she might be longing for the smell of bottoms again.

From then on, when the lights came on, the tried their hardest to sit up and get noticed.

But it never happened.

The End.



No, just kidding.

One day, a broom handle came knocking around and snagged the washcloth and whisked it away.

The washcloth began to be used again. He was wiping, scooping, drying and just being helpful. He was happy. He sure would be happier if he knew what had happened to the panties.

He tried to get a glimpse behind the washer whenever he was getting tossed in, but he had to be careful. He didn't want to accidentally fall back there again.

He hoped she was ok.

One day, the washcloth was thrown into a pile and smelled something awful. Wow, he had never wiped anything up that smelled so terrible. As he was holding his breath so he wouldn't smell it anymore, he thought he heard singing.

He wiggled himself a little, and out from under a bath towel, the panties came tumbling out.

"It's you! You're out!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, washcloth! It's so good to see you!" she yelled.

And they hugged as the pile they were in got picked up, walked over to the washer, and tossed in.

"Isn't this wonderful!" they both agreed.

The End