Jitterbug
As a word of warning, its about to get a little weird, a little graphic, and a little anatomical. So if you feel like continuing, be ready for a story so real and so embarassing that the teller of such a yarn would have ZERO incentive to concoct it. The characters involved are yours truly, a pair of American Apparel tighty-whities, and my swimsuit area.
On Halloween - after much deliberation – i settled on the costume of George Michael, Wham-era, Wake Me Up Before You Go Go. In gathering the components to the outfit, I mistakenly thought that the Choose Life shirt so famous in the video got rocked with some short-shorts. In order to make the short-shorts functional and keep me out of jail, I decided that ballhuggers were necessary to keep my boys in their room (and not Larry Frosting out the bottoms of my Dazzy Dukes). Ultimately the short-shorts were not part of the outfit, but I figured that GM was sporting plum smugglers in the video anyway (or maybe some sort of undies I haven’t even heard of) and if I truly wanted to become GM, then wear jockeys I must!
Having not worn fruits of my looms since like third grade (I would say since my mom bought my Underoos but she bought me some joints this summer), I was pleasantly surprised by the sensation they provided. My undergarments are like an entry-level grunt in a thankless, dirty job. But while boxers seemingly have no responsibilities, my inner Speedos have one job duty – “Keep it in-house” – and they do it well. After that night, these cudgel-bearers began getting vetted for a permanent cabinet position.
My little plum smugglers were washed and dried and placed into my underwear drawer. Unbeknownst to me, and indistinguishable to the naked eye, the ballhuggers had shrunk just a bit. But even if they had become much smaller, I would be unable to discern it. After years of wearing 2Pac-style boxers, any and all jockeys felt so constricting that my boys felt like Atlas with the weight of the world crashing down on me. It is similar to the feeling I have encoutered lately as I have tried to remove my beloved over-the-top baggy jeans from my wardrobe and begin wearing pants that fit me. Even pants that give me a little room make me feel like I’m wearing Kate “Hair-Ron” Moss’ jeans. Its all relative to what you know.
It was not until more than a week later that my laundry situation necessitated another trip to tighty-whitey country. I was simultaneously nervous, skeptical, and excited - like a young boy going to a new school for the first time. I left the house at around 8am and did not return until after 8pm. What happened next even the most hardened ER nurse aka Rana could not explain.
Feeling the need to go drop Rudy, Nessa, and some other Cosby kids off at the local pool, I entered the bathroom and dropped my trousers. It was now becoming apparent that my ‘roos had shrunk just a bit. They seemed tighter - tactilely and visually. I peeled them off and my jaw immediately dropped.
The force of the cotton-poly-lycra blend had resulted in severe disfiguration to my family store. My almond bag suffered what appeared to be the worst case of shrinkage I have ever experienced. The two fliberts had morphed into one object and created something roughly the size of a golf ball (and perhaps I’m being generous on the size of it). But as a man, shrinkage is a way of life and this is not that surprising. But what happened to the rest of the complex left me momentarily aghast.
The apple-head of my jade stem (thank you Pre-modern Feminist Japanese Literature!!!! You’re finally paying me some dividends from studying you!!!) had receeded deep into the skin of my body flute. The result was akin to a de-circumcision, or an unusually scared turtle, and it was frightening. Even worse, it had shrunk to the size of a small pinkie finger. ‘What was happening? Goddam you, ballhuggers!!’ and other thoughts were racing through my head. Most importantly, I wondered if this were going to be a permanent condition.
I took my black tighty-whities off (did I forget to mention they were black with white trim?) and angrily threw them into the garbage as I cursed their name to the high heavens. Now I focused my attention on treatment. I set up a triage in the bathroom and attempted to re-circumcise myself. Eventually with some heat and gentle manipulation, order was soon restored and my Gedney and friends were again proud.
I’m left hurt and distrustful. I don’t know if I will ever wear them again, but I do think that jockeys are truly sorry about what happened. Maybe I’ll give them another try, but I don’t want to get hurt again. As it stands now, I’m a boxer man. But my plum smugglers will always have a special place in my heart.
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