I don’t remember ever liking panties as much, either. Clearly I have a thing for panties—Frederick’s of Hollywood and all—but on someone else—I just don’t remember ever liking seeing someone’s dirty undies. Not dirty—but used. Jules’s little panties on the bathroom floor, crumpled after she uses the toilet and before she takes a shower. That’s her—that’s her artifact. It’s her accessory. It’s—I mean if you think about it it’s her diaper—why we have a fetish for people’s diapers is beyond my ability to think. But—I don’t know I just know that when Jules leaves hers around, it’s like this little part of her. And this private part of her. Or the thing that goes right next to the private part of her. And that that becomes public, becomes casual, in my apartment—it’s more than I could ever wish. It’s more than I could ever expect to hold onto. It’s one of those things that you love every minute that they last, because they’re entirely out of your control.