A Legal/Brief Summation

February 22, 2013 at 9:01 am (My Soreballs Vacation)

A while back, in an unnamed place during a spontaneous moment, Rain slid her hand into my pants. As she got familiar, she looked up at me, “Ain’t you got no drawers on?”

“Of course I have pants on,” I replied.

“You aren’t wearing underwear?”

“Uh, no. When have you ever seen me with underwear on?”

She thought about it.

“I haven’t owned or worn underwear since 1982.” I grinned a deviant grin.

She pulled her hand out of my pants like she’d put it into a bowl of cold spaghetti. My laughing didn’t help the situation. “What, you were expecting, Fruit of the Loom?”

“You a sick and twisted individual.” Her mock disgust made me laugh.

For the second time in a month, women were hinting hard that I should wear underwear.

I’ll think about it…

The last pair of underwear I’d owned were an Earth-brown pair of briefs. I had a pair of bikini underwear, a big hit in the ’70s, but my ex-wife wore them home one night and I never saw them again. I don’t know what happened to the brown pair. I probably lost them in a move.

I’d never had much use for underwear. If it was to act as a buffer for keeping ones clothes clean, then just practice better hygiene! Wash your ass frequently, and finish dripping before you put Mr Winky away. How complicated is that?

Still, there were times when a step between being fully-clothed and fully frontal would have been nice. But, since my women have seen it all a bunch of times anyway, modesty seems more important when strangers are looking. I have a couple pairs of gym shorts for those occasions. One pair is at Meg’s, the other pair in a box in my room somewhere. “We’re free… freeballin’!” Sing it in a Tom Petty voice.

When the surgery intake nurse suggested I switch to briefs for post-surgery support, I scoffed, then rethought. It’s been thirty years since I’ve had a pair of tighty whities on. Who knows? I may like it. That’s what Meg and my doctor both said.

Maybe I will surprise Rain…

On a mission during work, I walked past Nordstrom Rack. I’d seen through the window that they sold mens underwear. I could take a quick peek…

The last time I’d bought underwear, you got three pair for about five bucks. (I was a teenager, and Bohemian Rhapsody had just came out.) Now three pair cost $25.95. But wait! Half-price Calvin Klein. X-Large, up to 42-inch waist. Would they fit? Sigh. I will buy them, take them home, attempt to get them over my leg, rip them and then throw them in the corner where they will sit until 2037.

I took them out, dropped trou and slid them on. Holy fucking crap. I fit into them.

White BoyzImmediately swelling with pride, I snapped a picture and sent it to Rain. (Then sent another picture to Meg, making sure neither had the others phone number.) I will probably regret this someday.

The next time I saw Rain, I made sure she saw the tighty whities before I took them off. “What do you think? I’m looking forward to reaping all the benefits of this.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well Marky Mark of the Funky Bunch was spokesmodel for Calvin Klein, right? He was always running around with his underpants hanging out. He went on, as Mark Wahlberg, to do Boogie Nights. Well, I am led to believe through advertising that if I wear Calvin Klein underpants for an extended period of time, I can expect to walk back into work and slam my Dirk Diggler schlong on the counter, impressing all the girls. And if I don’t? I’ll sue the fucking pants off Calvin Klein!”

“Good luck with that, Perry Mason.” Rain’s tone was dubious at best.

Probably slightly less odds of winning that lawsuit than the lottery.


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