I was the youngest of eight. My parents had two boys first, then five girls, then me. My brothers were out of the house by the time I was a year or two old, and my dad worked across the country as a construction superintendent for a very large general contractor. That left my mom, my five older sisters, and me. I knew I was a boy, and mom dressed me in blue jeans, corduroy pants, and normal stuff; but under that I always had panties on. I didn't know there was a difference; I thought all the boys wore the same thing. I didn't know that boys wore different underwear until junior high school; the summer before 7th grade, mom bought me some tighty whiteys and told me I had to wear them to school. After school, I would come home and take my bath and put on panties under my clothes. This went on until she told me that I had to wear the boy's underwear now. By now, I had figured out that other boys didn't wear panties, and I was a little curious why but I didn't ask. I liked them, soft and nylon, some of them stretchy fabric. I never have quit. I love my panties.
— Lance, 50