I remember when I was much younger, I always looked at the underwear models in the Sears catalog. Male and female. In that order. They never looked uncomfortable in their skin with hand on hip one foot in front of the other on a bland background set. Maybe that was the attraction? Maybe not. I used to strain my young eyes to see if I could spot a nipple poking through a bra or spy a penile “shadow” that was foolishly missed by an hurried editor. There actually was one edition that supposedly had a well built white gentleman in boxer shorts who apparently was um… outside the box. I found the “offending photo” and chalked it up to some sort of weird misprint.
Back then there were perhaps a page or two of women in white bras and panties. Occasionally a cream and a black set would stand out. The men’s underwear page had “tighty whities” and boxers only. The models were also very pale. Never ethnic.
It’s different today.
Underwear comes in 2 inch thick catalogues now. Mailed in public with no brown paper wrap and coupons. Pages upon pages of color-filled, fun-loving, gorgeous models in every conceivable pose with little left to the imagination. I’ve even seen full on interracial families sitting around campfires, playing volleyball, having picnics in their underwear while grilling meat. Women in the Victorias Secret Catalog (was there ever really a secret?) in heaven inspired winged poses strutting through pages as if to dare me to think them not Godly with a chartreuse thong shoved into their crack. Men in “International Male” flaunting “undergear” with packages wider than tall. When did it become gear?
Why so angry?
Underwear models for the most part, always seem a little pouty to me. It’s as if they are thinking to themselves, “I have this flawless body, and I HAVE to share it with you so that I can make that car payment on my BMW M4 Convertible this month. Sigh. I’m bored.” Sometimes they look angry as well. Maybe they’re hungry.
The man in the mirror.
Sometimes I look in the mirror by accident and see myself in my glam Fruit of the Loom underwear. It’s usually a passing glance in a rush to put a smoothie in the blender while I search madly for a matching pair of socks. Not so taught, a little too pasty, and still trying to figure out where these age spots are coming from.
I think I need a catalog of my own. Something that I can relate to. Something real. Perhaps a page or two of tanned middle aged folks sitting at a swim up bar sipping margaritas in tasteful, practical undergarments. Maybe there IS a catalogue or a web site dedicated to my body and age type? I looked (googled, not ogled).
This is what I got:
Underwear of the Middle-Ages
Underwear with built in diapers
Wife swapping for men over 50
Sigh. Maybe I’ll just go commando.
I can’t even type it without snickering like a fifth grader. Just like bra, penis, boobs and rubber, apparently I have yet to grow up entirely because I STILL giggle hysterically when I hear one or all of these words.
U. S. Representative Anthony Weiner recently admitted he sent suggestive photos of himself in his underwear via Twitter and then lied about it to everyone within earshot. What I find simply… well… stupid, is that one of the photos included family photos in the background on a pretty console table in color coordinated frames of the wife and the Weiners (snicker) with the Clintons.
Do men ever learn? Are the brief (pun intended) moments of sexual arousal and “flirtatious” moments worth the fallout?
I remember several years ago when I discovered my interest in men that technology was such that I could take pictures or shoot crude grainy videos of my private parts to send to horny guys over the internet. I tried it once to see if it was worth the effort. I couldn’t get my positioning right. I only have two hands and the things I was attempting to do required them both. I tried to open a bottle of lube because I thought the glistening effect would look sensual and hot. I spilled the lube on the computer and tried to pick it up with hands that were slippery and ended up making a huge mess. As I got up I knocked the keyboard to the floor and watched as the keys with the letters “D” and “S” went spinning across the floor.
Needless to say, my personal “film noir” was not completed and I was eventually delegated to the occasional photo of “little Eddy” after I cleaned up the computer and purchased a new keyboard.
Is there an answer to this fascination with the cock? Read on.
I don’t believe men should be allowed to have penises all the time. Perhaps they should only be allowed to have access to them when their brains and their dicks are in sync. MAYBE men, like women, should have their “time of the month.” Once a month for maybe a week, men would have the opportunity to get hard, play with it, have sex alone or with others, and then at the end of the week the balls retract, the head inverts and it just goes away until the following month.
Imagine how much work would get done ladies. Imagine the actual romance that would transpire, and imagine how many relationships would remain intact. Ah… a pipe dream you say? Let me pull out my iphone4 that allows me to take self photos and I’ll show you a pipe.
One day I was viewing a photo of some friends on FaceBook and this little ad at the bottom right of the photo intrigued me. The ad copy indicated that the photo of underwear shown was called OVERconfident briefs.
Silly me. I thought perhaps they were for the man who was… well-endowed and over-confident with his manhood, so I ordered a carton of six. However, after clicking further and actually reading the copy associated with the photo, I realized that they were men’s “diapers.”