EUROPEAN MAN PANTIES

“Life is too short for boring underwear!” spouted Rachel, an acquaintance of ours. We barely knew her and she was pulling her pants down in the middle of the living room of a friend’s home to display her unders. None of us really seemed surprised. We all examined the cute, tight little panties and yes, they weren’t boring. Being gay didn’t stop me from appreciating Rachel’s fit and tight little body that they were stretched over. Had she been 500 lbs, they still would’ve been tight, they still would not have been boring, but it wouldn’t have been cute.

Well, it got me to thinking, my underwear for the most part were pretty boring. Mostly tighty-whities that aren’t so white anymore and some black boxer briefs that looked as though they’ve been used to fend off pit bulls. Not from rectal blowouts or an exciting sex life, but from age I’m afraid.

I had 2 pairs of really nice, white underwear that make me look really hot. If I could just wear them grocery shopping, or to the bank, or to work – then everyone would see how hot these underwear are. They make my ass look like Dan Jansen’s, the Olympic speed skater. You probably notice that I prefer to reference my behind’s aspirations to the likes of a speed skater as opposed to say…Brian Boitano. Anyway, I’m afraid to wear these underwear – I’d rather keep them in a vault. I’m afraid of putting piss stains or skid marks in them. You see, I bought them in Paris, 6 years ago. I was in a clothing store on the Champs Elysee’ trying on some shirts that once I managed to pull over my head, they snapped against my torso with the strength to knock the wind out of me. The sound was similar to something like, “Whhhuuuuuuuu – SNAP!” I stood there for a moment trying to catch my breath. I walked out of the dressing room with my eyes bulging, looking more like Barbara Bush with her Hyper-thyroid (and here we thought that her pearl necklaces were always too tight), than an aspiring 30-year-old hottie. The attendant came running over gushing, “Oh Monsieur! C’est Magnifique! C’est excellente! Pas mediocre! You look sooo goooood! You must have iiittt.” And how am I not going to buy it after Gee-gee was falling all over me? I don’t know where the hell I’m going to wear it, but I’m certainly going to buy the damn thing.

I ran out of underwear while I was there, so I called back from the dressing room as I began the arduous task of peeling myself out of this boa constricting shirt, that I was in need of some underwear and if she could throw a couple of pairs of something medium in my bag, that would be magnifique. She chose Armani. Bitch. I’m the dumb ass for not checking and when I returned to the hotel room, looked and then figured the exchange rate – they were $40 a pair. They looked great, but I wanted to strangle her little French neck. So, I rarely wear them. Merci Beaucoup you la whore. I save them for special occasions. Why do I do this? I mean, really…to save underwear for what? A night out at the movies? Should I save them in the event that one day I’m granted the Nobel Prize for Peace, or Literature? And how’s anyone at the acceptance ceremony going to know that I’m wearing those? Will I say, “Wow…thank you…thank you…this really belongs to so many people and the list of myself among my esteemed colleagues is reward enough, but you know…I’d like to show you all something…” And then will the price tag be vindicated? Whatever…

Well, besides those 2 exceptions in my underwear drawer, the rest were old and war torn. And Rachel had inspired me, so off to Ross I went. Ross is a discount store where the items that didn’t quite sell last season for whatever reason, like they disintegrate on you in a rain storm, or the bedding gives you scabies, or the shoes turn your feet blue and your toes become gangrenous, are marked at a very good price. I should have been more cautious buying underwear there, especially with the possibility over appendages becoming gangrenous.

So, I loaded up. Sounds dirty when referring to underwear, better than loaded out, I suppose. I bought a lot of fun, little, colorful, tight European man panties. And the first night that I wore the most exciting pair, we were at our friend Heather’s place for dinner and a movie, and when Will went to the bathroom, Heather spontaneously exclaimed, “Pull down your pants and I’ll pretend that I’m spanking you when Will comes back in the room!!” “Of course!” I said, as though, why hadn’t I thought of that first? I didn’t skip a beat, I jumped up pulled my pants down exposing my new numbers and Heather began spanking me. This is normal, right?

We all had a good laugh, admired my new panties, laughed over the spontaneous nature of our spirits, blah blah blah. Honeymoon over. Those damn underwear are AWFUL! I hate them! They hurt, they cut into my side, they BARELY cover my crack and if I get into an accident with them on, the paramedics are going to look at them like, “What the hell is he wearing these for? Is he Italian or French or something?” I think that my childhood friend Jeannie would agree that they’re not even cool enough to wear on your head. You see, when we were kids, Jean used to dress herself, sometimes wearing 3 to 4 outfits at a time and she often wore underwear on her head – as a hat. I distinctly remember going to the Dairy Queen for ice cream with their big Italian family and Jean was wearing underwear on her head. No one stopped her and she wore them with the dignity of a tiara on a princess. Maybe her folks didn’t want to stifle her creativity. If she was wearing underwear on her head, I wonder what she was wearing on her ass? Maybe she stuffed a snowcap in her crack for protection? Or a pair of gloves, one up front and one in back? Or maybe she put one of their cats down there?

Anyway, the last time that I’ve worn underwear that tight, I had to cut them off of me. I was living in Cleveland and had driven down to Warren to my parent’s house to go to Christmas Eve Mass with them. I was bringing my laundry home to do and was low on the under garments. So, I resorted to my last pair. A little pair that I had received as a completely inappropriate gift from a friend who I’m no longer friends with anymore. They were so tight and I had been running late. When I arrived at my folk’s house, we were going to be late for mass if I didn’t hurry, so I hobbled up the patio stairs and my Mother met me at the back door. When I spoke to her, I was singing soprano and I had a sick feeling in the bottom of my stomach. The inevitable result of constrictus testiculous, better known in some circles as smashed balls. I weakly asked for a pair of scissors, sounding oddly like Emanuel Lewis. My Mother just looked at me and being an experienced Mother, I think that she recognized the symptoms of smashed balls, but up in Michigan where she’s from, I think that it’s referred to as gnashed gnads. She retrieved the scissors and I retreated to the bathroom where I sliced through the evil culprits of my misery. I threw them away and bid them a good riddance! “Let’s go to church!” I exclaimed, as I emerged from the bathroom, still sounding a bit like a Vienna Choir Boy. And off we went to Christmas mass, my holly berries happily free at last. Although, now they were cold, it was December after all, in Ohio.

My voice eventually recovered, but my memory must have repressed the pain that was involved with wearing anything other than regular cotton, loose fitting shorts. So, now I have a drawer full of nutcrackers that I want to burn in protest. Give me Fruit of the Looms or Hanes any day! I don’t need my underwear to be exciting; I think that I can figure out how to do that on my own.