All Debuts Begin with Underwear

I have been told I am an "underwear snob."

I have also been told I am an "underwear whore."

Thus the title of this blog.

I make no bones about my fascination (addiction?) to men's undershorts.  I'm a guy.  I'm a guy who likes other guys.  And nothing gets me going faster than seeing a good-looking guy in a nice, tight pair of briefs.  Or trunks.  Or boxer briefs.

I don't like boxers, though.  Too loose for my taste.  And they leave too much to the imagination.  I know they used to be all the rage, but sorry - I just don't get it.  Never have.  Never will.  I also don't like "tighty whities."  (I used to think, before I came out of the closet, that "tighty whities" referred strictly to briefs - not Jockeys, not Y-fronts, not whatever the Internet is calling them now.  You know, those things with the flap in the front.)

It's just that ... well, I like to know where my junk is.  And I want to make sure it stays where I put it.  And I want to know where my prospective partner's junk is.  (And, bonus, whether or not he was circumcised.)  One doesn't necessarily get that feeling or full disclosure in a pair of boxers or a baggy, ribbed Hanes Y-front.  It's also nice to know that the odds are lessened significantly of getting an opposite-sex partner (just in case I decide one day to throw caution to the wind and dip my wick) pregnant, since wearing a pair of nice, tight briefs, trunks, or boxer briefs will essentially act as a sauna for my junk and make my sperm less likely to swim.

"Win, win" in my book.

Whether we admit it or not, we all begin life with an underwear fetish.  Diapers (which aren't true underwear and serve a different function entirely) act as faux underwear, and toddlers are more than happy to run around that way, totally oblivious to the fact they're just this side of streaking.  Doesn't matter if you're at home, in church, in the street ... little kids are more likely than not to play in their underwear.  (I did.  In fact, I remember quite vividly my after-school ritual during my elementary years: race home, strip down, and dive into my Legos.  But watch the corners on those little f***ers.  Ouch.)

It's only when we enter the tween years that underwear becomes something of an embarrassment.  You don't want to undress in front of others (even your dad or brother, and certainly not your friends); and you will wait an hour to find that small corner at the community pool where you can face the wall, and slip out of pants and shorts in a swift motion that causes injury.  And then you have to do the opposite - slide into your trunks just as quickly, so no one sees that you're not as big as your neighbor, that you're (not) circumcised, etc.

It's teenagers and young adults that really have the lock on underwear.  I spent the majority of my teens and definitely all of my twenties (okay, and my thirties) trying to get out of my underwear.  And let's face it - it was an uphill battle, even if you're straight.  There are actually gay guys who don't indulge after that first-date-met-you-at-the-bar-go-back-to-your-place-and-act-like-a-complete-slut meeting.  (Seems like those were the guys I always met.  You know ... guys who were responsible.)

But when I was actually successful enough on getting a guy out of his shorts (victory!), I discovered all I could think about was getting him back into them.  There's nothing better than completing the first-date-met-you-at-the-bar-go-back-to-your-place-and-act-like-a-complete-slut meeting than waking up next to a really nice, cute guy (whose name, unfortunately, is lost to the mists of overindulgence to alcohol) and see him amble into the kitchen in those nice, tight briefs, trunks, or boxer briefs to get you coffee.  (And aspirin.)

And it is from that first morning, the debut, where things such as modesty, aversions to (non-)circumcision, and fetishes to kink, leather, underwear, etc. become part of who we are.  It defines us, kinda like our DNA.  Except as it correlates to nudity, docking, oral sex, and our commitment to a nice, tight pair of briefs, trunks, or boxer briefs.

So, to sum ... babies wear nothing but underwear; we run around in our underwear; we want to get others out of their underwear.  What happens when we settle down?  We allow go-go boys and strippers to tease us by running their fingers along the waistbands of their underwear and then go home to our husbands, who don't want to get out of their underwear because they're too tired, they have to work tomorrow, they just got done mowing the lawn, etc.

Unless you're me.  The next step is to invite said go-go boy or stripper into the establishment's back room, not engage in that first-date-met-you-at-the-bar-go-back-to-your-place-and-act-like-a-complete-slut meeting and conduct business.  "Gimme two dances and those Andrew Christians and I'll give you a hundred bucks."

Sold.