In the pool hall, my sweetheart and a close friend tease me one night: “unimpressive,” “pure luck,” “you aren’t that good.” They were trying to get my ire up so that an hour later when I told them to stare into each other’s eyes as I fucked my sweetheart’s body, I would mean it with a snarky competitive vengeance, I would mean it with power and control, I would be pushed to take what I want.

It’s because of the real-life women who took enormous risks to their personal safety, and who physically fought to wear whatever undies, clothing and footwear they damn well pleased that we can have underwear week at all.