Hidden in a quiet corner of my psyche, it has been one of the unexamined but fundamental tenets of my world view that most women wear brief-style underwear. Some of us may tend toward the granny-drawer category, with acres of fabric covering mid-torso to mid-thigh; some may lean toward the bikini cut, revealing hip bones and great lengths of leg; but I've always believed the majority of us are searching for a certain degree of posterior coverage.

Thongs have always seemed the province of exotic dancers and beach beauties in Rio. The girls I played sports with in school wore briefs. The women I see in those giant dressing pens at warehouse sales wear briefs. All of my female friends whom I've known well enough to be familiar with their panty preferences wear briefs. Sure, we may have panty lines, but when the alternative involves having a strip of cotton embedded in your behind all day, it seems like a small price to pay. Besides, it's been 20 years since mass panty-line phobia was introduced via that Underalls commercial, and we've had a lot of time to work through it.

So I was a little fascinated and mystified when my good friend Nicole (names have been changed to protect the innocent) announced that she wanted to stop off at a department store for a thong. Did she have some wild side I'd never suspected? Was she dancing or modeling lingerie after her 9-to-5 life as a Web industry professional?

"Aren't thongs uncomfortable?" I asked her. Was she currently wearing one? I tried to glance at her sideways to see if she looked squirmy. She assured me that thongs were comfortable, much more so than briefs. She said she wore them so she wouldn't have panty lines, and because they made her feel sexy. And as for the strip up her rear, "I don't even notice it," she told me; "It's like it's not even there."

I felt my skepticism rising: How you could not notice something like a permanent wedgie? There's a dead-panty landfill out there somewhere chock-full of underwear women have thrown away because the rear panel had an unfortunate tendency to migrate. I decided Nicole just had abnormally tolerant butt-cheeks, and put the whole odd incident behind me.

But over the next few weeks, a sort of Thong Mania seemed to be creeping into my life. Suddenly, everyone and her sister were talking about them. An acquaintance confided to me that she only wore thongs. Another friend explained her theory that all underwear was destined to ride up, so wearing a thong was a preemptive strike. Flipping channels one afternoon, I came across Rosie O'Donnell handing out tan mesh Calvin Klein thongs to her audience in celebration of Thong Week.

Before I knew what hit me, I was in the throes of Thong Mania myself. I began to feel paranoid that everyone was staring at my behind; I was seized with a panty-line panic. Was I was the only woman in the country under 60 who was still sporting briefs? I dashed to the department store to purchase my posterior's salvation.

The store's long racks were crammed dangerously tight with a bewildering assortment of options. Beribboned green nylon bikinis fought for space next to fuchsia cotton sports briefs; size XL lace thongs jutted out beside plaid hip-huggers in extra-small. I extracted from the mob the most sensible-looking and substantial thong I could find, feeling a bit self-conscious as the cashier rang it up.

Back at my apartment, thong in position, it took about half a second for me to become acutely, agonizingly aware that I had a piece of fabric lodged in my behind. It took only a few seconds more for me to realize that my cheeks weren't the only part of me the thong left out in the open. I consider the protection of clothing to be one of underwear's most sacred duties. The only region this thong actually covered was a small portion of my pubic hair and a slightly larger section of my lower abdomen, neither of which are parts I generally try to shield my trousers from. Granted, there was no chance I was going to have panty lines, but the urge to pick at my wedgie did not make me feel sexy.

The thong survived a scant ten minutes before it went into the trash. I think of it sometimes, lying limp and quiet on top of a great heap of Epiladys, teal taffeta bridesmaids' dresses, and containers of sparkly purple eye shadow.

Would you wear one of these contraptions? Confess in forum.