So, let’s talk about my underwear for a while.
(I know, I know — you’ve been waiting months to hear me say that, right? What? No? But…
Hey, where are you going? Wait! Okay, okay — I won’t talk about my underwear. Just come back — I’ll post about something else, okay?
What? Oh, sure, okay — I promise I’ll talk about something else. Happy now? Come on, sit back down.
There you go. Good. Comfy? All right, then. Let’s get started.)
Hah! I’m gonna talk about my underwear anyway! I had my fingers crossed when I promised, and now the door’s locked. And if you want the key, you’re gonna have to get way more intimate with my underwear than you’re probably comfortable with. So just settle down, keep still, and it’ll all be over soon enough.
(And no, I don’t ‘say that to all the girls’, ya perv. Nice talk, there, skippy.
And stop banging your head against the wall, dammit! Ten minutes of hearing about my undies isn’t that bad, for chrissakes. Jeez, there’s always one in every crowd…)
Anyway, let’s get back to my underwear. (And, as it happens, I do say that to all the girls. Nyah!) Now, here’s the thing — I’m a boxers man. I went through a ‘tighty whitey’ phase — I think most guys do — but I’ve come through it, and converted fully over to the boxery-type underpants. I’m all about letting ‘the boys’ breathe.
All of this is well and good — a tad creepy for you, perhaps, but stick with me here; none of this has been eye-gouging-out nasty, now, has it? Yet, at least. We’ll see who needs a good gouging when it’s all over with.
So, boxers. Over the years, I’ve found that there are many, many different kinds of boxers — some have longer legs, and some are more elastic around the waist, and some of them are fitted, and some even glow in the dark. Fine. These are largely cosmetic differences, and don’t really affect the boxer-wearing experience in most cases.
(Sure, if you’re trapped in a dark cave wearing only your underpants, then you’d be well-served to have on those luminescent puppies. You might just be able to spelunk your way back to civilization by the ‘light of your crotch’, so to speak.
On the other hand, if you manage to get yourself stuck in some underground cavern with nothing but your undies to keep you company, then maybe you’d be better off just sitting there for a while, and thinking about how you got yourself in that mess in the first place. There’s obviously something horribly wrong with the way you’re living your life, dude. First things first.)
Anyway, the sorts of things above don’t really make a lot of difference to me when picking out my undergarments for the day. But there is one ‘feature’ on certain pairs of boxers that I’ve found to be very important, and I’ve learned — the hard way — to look before I gird my loins in the morning. Much embarrassment and explanation can be avoided by checking for one simple feature on the underwear I’m about to don.
And that feature is the crotch button. See, many pairs of boxers have just a fly opening in front, providing easy access to, um, you know, the old ‘Winky Funkerbean’. Ahem. Other undies, though, sport a single button in the center of the opening, helping to keep the barn door closed when not actually in use. Both of these designs have their merits, I suppose, but one is far preferable when you’re actually venturing out into public. Care to take a guess which one?
No? Still pouting because I’m talking about my underwear? Fine. I’ll just tell you. Big baby.
It’s the buttonless boxer that should be worn when mingling amongst the natives, hands down. Now, to some, this may be counterintuitive. And certainly, I can see the point that it’s not always a picnic to have your equipment slip out the hole in your underwear, and flap and wave freely against the inside of your pants. Sure, sometimes it’s a big tubful of ‘Oooh!‘, but often, not so much. There’s uncomfortable bending, and mashing, and the less said about scraping little Spanky against the zipper of your jeans, the better. That is so not a place where you want to be applying Bactine. Eek.
But that admitted disadvantage is far outweighed by the big issue with the buttoned variety of boxers. And this is the lesson that I learned the hard way, so I’ll explain this little problem with an example from my own experience. So come on, put yourself in my boxers for a moment. Walk a mile in my underpants. Try to see the world through undie-colored glasses.
(Okay, I’m done. But only because those are the only sayings I could think of to butcher at the moment. If I think of more, I’ll let you know. Oh yes — I will let you know.)
So, back to the example. Let’s look in on a typical day at the office a few months ago. It’s afternoon, and I’m sitting in my cubicle, minding my own business.
(Which often meant blogging, or surfing for sites featuring naughty, Crisco-slathered Scandinavian cheerleaders, while pretending to do actual work. But I digress. Again.)
At any rate, let’s say that around two, maybe two-thirty, the caffeine from lunch kicks in, and suddenly, I’ve got to make tinkles. So, I head down the hall to the bathroom, find a urinal, and proceed to leak. Fine. Slightly disturbing, maybe — yeah, don’t bother trying to picture this, folks; these scenes are being reenacted by trained professionals — but fine.
Now, this is a busy office, and with only one mens’ room per floor. So it’s not uncommon for people to enter and leave the room while I’m taking care of my, er, ‘bidness‘. It’s even common for a guy or two to stroll in and use one of the other urinals in the bathroom. Let’s say that happens during this little vignette, so that when I’m ready to ‘shake and tuck’, there are a couple of other folks standing beside me, doing their own things.
(Well, hopefully not ‘doing‘ their things — that would be… unsettling, to say the least. But you know what the hell I mean. Let’s move on.)
Now, if I were wearing the buttonless boxers, the procedure would be simple — give a little wiggle, tuck Blinky in for the night, clap my hands, jump back, turn around, and presto! All done, nice and easy. But the button-up undies are tougher — to really consider the pee-pouring ‘complete‘, the button’s got to be redone. And while everything else in the process can be done one-handed — or no-handed, if you’re a real risk-taker (or aren’t concerned about the condition of your shoes) — it’s not so easy to rehook the crotch button with one hand.
So picture this — there I am, all finished with what I’d come to the urinal to do. I make my ‘tuck’, as usual — personally, I use a move with a low degree of difficulty, but it’s highly reliable. Other folks like to ‘reholster the pistol’ with more of a flourish, to impress the judges, but I say they’re risking an unfortunate mishap — or worse, splashage. So I stick to the basics. That’s not really part of the story — just consider that a freebie. You can thank me later. It’s okay.
But back to the urinal — all of me is back in the corral at this point, but I can’t zip and go until I get the button done. Therein lies the problem. Now, while these other pissing people stand beside me, trying their damnedest not to peek in my direction, I’ve got to go digging in my pants — with both hands — trying to find the button, and the hole, and get them back together in the ‘closed’ configuration.
And that’s not the easiest thing in the world, especially when you can’t see what the hell you’re doing down there. Let me clarify that a bit — technically, unlike some men, I can look down and see my zipper, if need be. It’s at least physically possible. But — and I can’t stress this enough — when fumbling with your crotch button while standing at a urinal with other people nearby, the absolute last thing that you want to do is crane your neck over and peer down at your fingers wiggling and writhing in your open zipper.
For one thing, it is never a good idea to let anyone know that you don’t know what the hell is going on in your own ‘front yard’. That’s how rumors get started, folks. And for another, you staring at your crotch while standing at the pisser is the surest way to get other people, standing at their pissers, to look over and see why the hell you haven’t zipped your damned pants and turned around yet. And the last thing that you want them to see — or they want to see, for that matter — is you, hunched over and squinting at your crotch, with your hands jammed halfway in your pants, nervously diddling away. Forget the rumors, people — that’s how blackmail based on incriminating photographs gets started. You get caught on camera watching yourself play patty-cake inside your pants, and you’ll never run for office, I can tell you that. Hell, they’ll probably blacklist you from McDonalds, too. You might never work again.
So, that’s the message — if you’re gonna wear the buttoned boxers, then for heavens’ sake, do it on weekends, or vacation, or in your hermit cave, if you have one. But never anywhere or any time that you might be near a public urinal, and have to go through the shame and embarrassment that I had to endure. Learn from me, gents, and you’ll never have to get caught fumbling with your crotch button in public yourself. Now, see? Everybody was all squeamish when I started this post, but I’m really only here to help. I’m always here to help. I’m just surprised you ever doubted me. Tsk.Permalink | 9 Comments