My laundry was sitting on a dryer; the woman who put it there was pushing her coins into the washer. “I hope you don’t mind…” she said.
“No worries whatsoever.”
“Really cute Superman underwear by the way.”
“They’re my favourite pair,” I blushed.
Then I thought, “What is this woman doing looking at my underwear?” But it wasn’t worth caring about. The sad truth is I’ll take a compliment where I can get it.
My Superman underwear isn’t my favourite pair because it’s patterned with red S’s or because they make me feel like a little kid, but because they’re one of the few pair I own that don’t make me feel like I’m tucking for a drag show.
Last year a friend gave me a pair of Ginch Gonch. I had wanted some for months but couldn’t justify spending $30 on something that, even in the best of circumstances, would be on display for all of five minutes.
I hadn’t been that excited about underwear since the first time I saw a pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs dancing on a guy at Graceland. The white silhouette of his crotch and ass single handedly ushered Vancouver into the 1990s. Everyone wanted that damn underwear.
Unfortunately Calvin Klein didn’t sell the Stairmaster thighs required to keep them from bunching around your crotch.
A drum rolled as I opened my box of underwear and stepped into them. The waistband snapped shut like a chastity belt that forced the air from my abdomen into my chest. My dick seemed to vanish; my balls dangled on either side of the crotch like I was caught on a wire.
Now I might not be in the same shape as I was when I bought my first pair of boxer briefs, but I can still pull off a pair of underwear. I double-checked the box to make sure they weren’t women’s. They weren’t. Then why didn’t I look like the guys on the cover?
“So this is what it’s come to,” I said to my reflection. “Panties for men. Manties.”
Recently I bought a pair of square-cut underwear for their pink flamingo pattern. When I put them on I learned a lovely pouch had been provided for my package giving my crotch a waddle. I looked like a mannequin in the window of a Davie sex shop. Strange how we spent 20 years getting rid of the hookers on Davie only so we could dress like them.
There are days when taking off my underwear feels like I’m taking off my shoes. It’s a reminder of how much work goes into being a homosexual. And I think it’s time we all got a raise.