Panty Raid

All was quiet at the Delta Gamma house on the University of Michigan campus. It was 9:30 on Saturday night. Most of the girls were twisting and bopping at sock hops, necking and gum cracking at drive-in movies, or slurping and munching at burger joints.

At 9:35 pm, the Beta Theta Pis crept through the back alley of the quad, across the freshly-cut lawn, to the spiral fire escape at the back of the Delta Gamma house. The underclassmen started climbing the fire escape with Schlitz in their hands. The upperclassmen jeered from the lawn.

“Get Bitsy’s bra; she’s so stacked, you could use it as a hammock!”

“Yeah, and Kaki’s panties; I’ve heard they’re leopard skin!”

The frat guys knew that the way into the house was through the smoker—the room at the top of the house. From the smoker, they could infiltrate the four flours of the house for their panty raid.

Some Betas had wanted to serenade the sororities, but they lost the vote during the weekly house meeting between panty raids and serenades. The cool cats thought the song and flower routine was for sissies. Tink voted against the serenade, not because he liked panty raids, but because he couldn’t carry a tune to save his life.

Tink’s mission, as plotted by the social director of the Betas, was to raid the smoker’s panties. The social director drew a map of the layout of the smoker and its closet with built-in shelves.

Following his orders, Tink ventured into the dark closet in search of bras and panties. Whenever guys chickened out and didn’t get their assigned panties, they were hazed for weeks afterward. One guy was given a knuckle sandwich between the eyes by the social director during the panty loot count. He became a cookin’ panty raider in no time. Legend was that he could slide down fire escapes with dozens of panties in tow.

Tink reached up to grab the lingerie from the built-in shelves, when he thought he heard the panties gasp. Then his arm swiped something warm–like human flesh. As he rummaged through the lingerie, he discovered a leg. He removed the clothes and uncovered the rest of the girl hiding in the shelves. She had been trying to read Sartre in the dark. She looked incredibly uncomfortable crouched on a shelf. All he could see was her face, and her bobby socks and saddle shoes.

“Shh-hh. Don’t say anything.” She held her index finger to her lips.

“What are you doing up there?” he whispered. He sported a red-headed flat-top and a U of M letter sweater.

“Please go away and, for Lord’s sake, don’t take my panties. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.” He stayed. In the dark, she looked like a brunette Rita Hayworth with a bright-white Pepsodent smile.

”Would you like help getting down from there?” He extended his hand toward the shelves.

“Of course not. How do you think I got up here, silly? Guess you fellahs are cruisin’ for a brusin’.”

“Not me. I’m not.”

“If I didn’t just see you going through my panties, then you can call me Jack Rabbit.”

“You’re too beautiful to be called Jack Rabbit. Why are you reading Sartre in the dark?”

“Are you writing a book, or what, mister?”

“Just curious, I guess.”

“I’m a philosophy major.”

“What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ confusing your mind with that stuff for?”

“My mind is already confused. No harm in confusing it more, I figure. Besides, who wants to study home economics with advice like: ‘Take 15 minutes to rest so you will be refreshed when your husband arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work-wary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.’ Home Ec is for old fashioned girls. Me? I’m a modern gal.”

”Right-o.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his dungarees and shifted his weight. He suddenly felt uncomfortable in the presence of a girl, her politics, and her panties.

“Listen, if you’re taking me for fast, you’ve got the wrong girl, mister. Just because I’m hiding in the panties during a panty raid, doesn’t mean that I’m ready for back street bingo. I’m serious about my studies. I just transferred from Smith. It wasn’t that I couldn’t hack it; it was just that I didn’t like those East Coast snobs.” She jumped down from the shelf with ease, as though it were a daily practice. She stood between Tink and the panty shelves, wearing a tight-fitting blouse tucked into capri-length dungarees. She sported a virgin pin in the upper right-hand corner of her blouse.
“S’pose I should mind my manners and ask you your name,” Tink was wondering how he’d get the panties now that he was flirting with the panty owner.

“Just because you ask, doesn’t mean I have to tell you.”

“Ok, then. I’ll just call you…Rita, my favorite actress,” he winked and grinned.

“Oh, that won’t do. Ok, it’s Miss Schirmer, if you must know.”

“Miss Schirmer, do you have a first name?”

“Maybe yes. Maybe no.”

“If you tell me, I’ll take you for a ride in my rag-top.”

“You have one?” Her eyes sparkled as she hugged her Sartre book to her chest. A stirring occurred in the smoker–laughter, smoking, and commotion. Tink hoped no one would track him down. He was hoping for a kiss from a pretty girl, rather than panty inventorying with the guys, by the end of the evening.

He knew the drill well enough to know that once the guys were in possession of the goods, they would exit out the fire escape. Of course, they could
have left through the doors, but it was a more dramatic escapade to climb one-handed and panty-fisted down the fire escape.

Miss Schirmer pulled Tink into the hanging dresses and skirts and they stood eye-to-eye with the hangers, hearts racing. Tink caught a scent of her rose perfume, and wanted to make a pass at her amongst the dresses, but thought she would think he was fresh. They heard some brothers agitating the gravel. That was their cue. She and Tink emerged from the closet into the smoky smoker.

Tink could now see that Miss Schirmer was tall, shapely, and dark-skinned for a white girl. She had cone-shaped breasts and snow ball of fire red lips.

“It’s Marilyn,” she said as she placed Sartre on her desk next to a towering stack of books, and grabbed an indigo silk scarf to tie around her hair.

“Then a convertible ride it is.” She offered him some Blackjack chewing gum, but he declined.

“Suit yourself, then.” Marilyn unwrapped a piece of Blackjack, folded the stick of gum in half, and daintily placed it in her mouth.

“Don’t do that kid stuff.” She rolled her eyes. He produced a Camel cigarette and a lighter, produced a small flame, and inhaled deeply. Smoke wafted through the smoker.

“So, what’s your name, anyway?”


“Oh, I’ve heard of you. You’re the jitterbug guy. Radioactive with some of the DGs.

“Maybe you’ll dance with me sometime.” He did some fancy footwork with an imaginary partner, waving his Camel in the air.

“I don’t dance. I’m too busy studying to twist the night away,” Marilyn turned up her nose.

“I guess they taught you a thing or two at Smith,” he said, noticing the elevation of her nose. He was digging in his pockets for his keys.

“Why, yes I learned excellent study habits there,” she straightened her back and lifted her chin as though the study habits and perfect posture went

“If you can judge a girl’s study habits by her stack of books, I’d say you take the cake.” He noticed the Sartre book placed next to the towering stack of textbooks. “I must say that I’m glad to see that Sartre isn’t coming with us on the convertible ride. It’s a bit too breezy for taking in philosophy. Better for taking in the stars and moon.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But no funny business. It’s just a convertible ride.”

“Just a convertible ride.” Tink imagined himself at the wheel and Marilyn by his side with the summer breeze blowing in their faces. He pictured their wind-swept looks when the ride was over—the moment he would lean down and experience eternity in a kiss.

“Tink, did you get the panties from the smoker?” Tink and Marilyn nearly jumped out of their penny loafers and saddle shoes. Tab appeared from nowhere, a late straggler. Tab was equally surprised to find Tink in the company of a girl.

“Tab! Funny meeting you here. I don’t think it’s proper to discuss panty matters in front of a lady. Do you?” Tink was stalling to give himself time to devise a clever answer to the panty inquiry.

“What harm will it do? Guess what I got? Leesy’s poodle underwear!”

“Poodle–huh?” Tink was sweating; he had nothing to show for himself and he thought Tab’s behavior was utterly inappropriate in front of Marilyn. She walked over to her desk, picked up a book, and handed it to Tink. He took it reluctantly with a furled brow.

“If we could ask the dolly here to divert her eyes, you could show me what you got!” He seemed genuinely flipped about comparing panties.

“There’s no need to divert my eyes, mister. Tink confiscated panties of all sorts—poodle, leopard, Valentine—you name it. But we struck a deal. He did much better than panties; he got Sartre.