No, I did not BUY the thong underwear.
The thong thingy was actually a rather peculiar present, quite some time ago. I was living with Max and the Creature at the time, and Max had just broken up with a girlfriend. Max had a bad habit of instantly becoming emotionally attached to beautiful women in social situations.
No, really. Most men simply walk up to a gorgeous babe and spout a line, or perhaps a whole paragraph, solely to get laid. Max was not like that. He was an actual physical mutant, an adaptation to the Age Of The Sensitive Male. He could actually fall in love with beautiful women, clear across the room. Women would then pick up on this vibe and either ignore him… or fall into his arms.
Unfortunately, Max tended to fall OUT of love as quickly as he fell IN. Some of the most torrid affairs he ever had lasted less than a week. Furthermore, he had no failsafe mechanism that kept him from falling in love with women all over the place when he was already committed to one in particular. It was kind of sad, but wonderfully entertaining to watch. I have only known two males that got laid more than Max did, and one of them was a gay exotic dancer.
Anyway, Max was utterly, totally, completely in love with the Lady Galadriel for almost, like, a whole month, right? And she’d run out and ordered him some neato stuff from the Adam And Eve Catalog, back during the full effect of the Pink Cloud, during the first week of their relationship.
Naturally, it arrived after they’d been broken up a few weeks. She’d had it shipped to his place, which by then was MY place…
…and Max didn’t want the stuff. It brought back too many painful memories. He just gave me the box and told me to keep it or throw it away.
So I opened the box. It contained a bottle of massage oil and three pairs of… underwear. It took me a minute to realize what they were. My first thought was that they were little drawstring bags of some kind. Then I thought perhaps they were G-strings… although why would women need a pouchy thing, instead of just a little strip… of…
…ohmyghod.
When I finished laughing, I tried to give them back to Max, but he wasn’t having any of it, no, no, too painful, you just throw it all away or something, take it away, away.
So there I was with a bottle of overpriced baby oil and three pairs of men’s thong underwear (leopard print, tiger print, and silver lame zebra print). Plainly, Galadriel had had her own little fashion show in mind, but hadn’t lasted long enough to take advantage of it. I stuck the stuff in my sock drawer and forgot about it.
…until the next Underwear Crisis.
Any unmarried man can tell you about Underwear Crisis. This is what happens when you have the juxtaposition of two events:
- Forgot to do laundry.
- Dress affair that demands the wearing of underwear of some sort.
In my case, I had to show up for a staff meeting at my job, wearing a suit. I owned three suits at the time, two of which were at the dry cleaner’s. The third was a tweed number. NO WAY was I going to wear tweed without underwear.
Socks, of course, can be temporarily refreshed with a quick blast of any good aerosol deodorant, but this trick is NOT recommended for underwear… and all my underwear was a funky mess in the bathroom. I ran in to do the whiff test, to see if any of it could possibly pass muster… only to discover that the Creature had dumped his laundry on TOP of mine, and the Creature NEVER did laundry except when his clothing situation became critical. No way was I even going to TOUCH his stuff.
So I went back in my bedroom and began rooting around in the sock drawer… and I found the Special Undies that tortured poor Max’s soul, so.
I didn’t wanna. They didn’t look comfortable. Were they even the right size? Shit, how were you supposed to TELL?
On the other hand, were they likely to be any worse than having one’s bare genitals encased in tweed for an hour and a half?
I slipped on the tiger-striped ones, and got dressed, and went to work.
Oddly enough, it wasn’t bad. In fact, it provided a terrific basis for comparison, because my package was snug and comfortable, no trouble at all… whereas my ass felt like I had parked it on some kind of well-upholstered cactus, all through the damn meeting. When I got home afterwards, I ditched the suit, naturally, but left the underwear on when I switched to T-shirt and jogging shorts…
…and, over time, I just got used to wearing the thongs from time to time. They really looked much more uncomfortable than they were, y’know. Not bad at all.
…and, one night, when I wore a pair of them on a date, I got a reaction that was TOTALLY out of proportion to the amount of time and care I’d spent on my appearance. Hey, maybe there WAS something to this silly-assed underwear! Rowf!
…and for quite some time after that, the Beast Thongs were simply an accepted part of my wardrobe. I didn’t wear them THAT often – I did have underwear that was more comfortable – but between dates and Underwear Crises, they got plenty of Wang-Ka Time, if you know what I mean.
…and then, one day, while I was at work… the right hip cord snapped.
I felt it, too. I was in the process of closing the deal with a guy who wanted to order 30 units of Crystal-Kleer Purified Drinking Water at $28 per unit, which came to something like $200 commission for me for twenty minutes’ work, when suddenly I felt a (twung) sensation and a sharp pain, as if some small rodent had suddenly run around my waist clockwise and bitten me on the butt, and had then run around my left side and was hauling on a rope tied to my nuts, for some reason…
I smiled grimly and closed the deal, got his signature, and headed to the bathroom.
Miss Sharkley intercepted me to ask for help dealing with some people in Conference A who wanted to deal with a MALE salesman, and I owed her for sugaring some people the week before, and don’t forget who gets the commission, right, W.K?
All right, all right… and all through the conference, the sensation of having my nuts dragged to my left is driving me crazy. After the meeting and the closing of the deal, someone asked me if I’d been boating recently, because I was walking like someone was trimming the sail and the floor was tilting to the left. I skipped lunch and ran like hell to the men’s room… but, by then, I’d figured it out. My neato sexy underwear were history… and I wasn’t going to be able to go home and change for another three hours.
They were a long three hours, too. I don’t think I spent that much time busy working while simultaneously thinking about my nuts since I was seventeen…
