The Secret of the Ancient Underpants

Men have quirks when it comes to wardrobe. I submit that the average man has:

+ 2 favourite shirts

+ 1 favourite pair jeans

+ 9 favourite pair sox

+ 1, perhaps 2 favourite pair shoes

and most importantly,

+ 3 favourite pair underpants.

Man's relationship with his smalls exasperates many women when they discover that these three pairs of beloved underduds are in less than pristine condition. Indeed, it's possible that they're weeks, months, or - in extremis - years past euthanasia. Clearly, there's something going on here.

My explanation for men keeping their boxers, briefs and/or tighty whities beyond their use-by date is simple, if unusual. Ready? Underpants have a soul. I don't mean soul in the southern fried way; I mean that each individual item has a spirit that differentiates it from all others. Open a three-pack of underoos and you find three different personalities. One will be okay, nothing special, one might perhaps be too tight, biting in the wrong places, and one might be the perfect combo of comfort and utility.

The process is the same as meeting three new people. After two or three social occasions (or, in underwear-speak, two or three wearings) we pick the company we like. We connect with some people (undertrou) more than others. Men value loyalty, so it follows that we want to stay with our friends (fave undies) until the bitter end.

That's why we have a drawer full of jockey acquaintances, but only a handful of daggy, saggy, holey, faded but hugely loved underpants. They're our friends.



Bottoms Up, Men Who Rock the Bikini.

Whales Gush Too

Before the BP soiled fair Looosiana's shores it was the big mammals who screwed up the environment. When our brave lads from Nantucket went in search of lamp-oil, it fell upon whales to cough it up.

Sperm whales weren't, as you might imagine, chock full of human reproductive material, but the idea's admittedly amusing. Especially as Spermy's valuable cargo (the Victorian-era equivalent of a gigunda oil reservoir) was all in his head. Junk in the cranium for you urban types.

Many a long evening was lit by the light of smoky whale parts. Which might explain the Victorian attitude to sex.

Not only did our mammalian brothers and sisters die horrid painful deaths for their oil, various bits and pieces of them were used to stiffen corsets. In a saying common in whaling towns, every part of the whale was used...except the blowhole.

Corsets mystify only those who like everything natural about their woman. Cinching in a lady's waist to half its normal size gives all normal men a boner worthy of a whale. Why this is so is a matter of ongoing and very slow research, conducted mostly by convincing women to wear everything in their lingerie drawer, and then slowly removing it all with one's teeth.


Bottoms Up, Gushers!


Pic of Victorian Loverlies from here [link]

Holes in Socks

Manliness is many things. The many things include knowing how to repair a balky carburettor, the ability to distinguish cows from bulls, and panache when stringing a tennis racquet. Others don't necessarily see it this way, but eventually everyone comes to understand that the quality "Man" doesn't reside in your trousers.

Which is a nice segue into the problem with men and trousers, and our clothing items in general. We have favourites. Yes, I know it's progressive and compassionate not to discriminate, but the fact remains that all guys pick winners among their wardrobe.

I, for instance, own many shirts, but the one closest to my heart is a putty-coloured camp shirt. It just feels so right, and I know that I will wear it way beyond the point at which it should be a car-wash de-greasing rag. Way beyond.

This is a common thread thread in most men's lives. Once we find the perfect pair of jeans, we'll wear them until they're more hole than denim. Socks, the same. Underduds, the same. We simply cannot bring ourselves to toss out perfectly serviceable garments (oh, and shoes, too) in favour of new stuff.

We like our friends, and mistrust strangers. It's part of being a man.


Bottoms up, fashionistas.





Pic from here [link]

Ripping Yarns

They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but I say the way to a woman's pussy is through her underpants. Through or around or (in the case of crotchless) between. Hells, it's giving me a woody thinking about the wonders of ladies and their underduds.

James Bond (of course) is the man best at undressing ladies, mostly because they don't have much on to start with. (Miss Moneypenny is the exception.) Funny that being a licenced-to-kill spy also entitles one to a cotery of easily-bedded hotties in evening gowns or bikinis.

Anyway, it was Sean Connery who I noted once de-frocked a lover by slicing through the spaghetti straps of her LBD, letting the thing fall to the floor.

:cut to shots of rampant elephant trunks and earthquakes:

Where was I? Right, the road to heaven lies beyond the boy-shorts.

There is an art in removing a lady's panties. Possible choices include demurely running them down the legs, if she's standing. If she's on her back, shimmy those things over her arse, create a tangle at the feet, then let her kick them off. And then there's ripping the damn things off so you can get to the action ASAP.

Nothing says God I want you NOW! like using brute strength to tear that shit off, and hopping into it with animal abandon.

:cue shots of elephant trunks rampant and earthquakes:

Yesterday I discovered how women feel about the wanton destruction of their sexy smalls at the hands of a neanderthal lover:

They Love It.

And the attraction? The sound of ripping lace.

I think they call this 'Win-Win'.





Thanks to Snaf for the lingerie-wearer's perspective. [link]

Loverly ladies photo from here [link]

Edited for incorrect panty-removal technique. Someone would have picked up the error.

Wire Fraud

Whenever the FBI catches a big time criminal, my impression is that the charge they often use is "wire fraud". As a catch-all way to get an arrest, I'm sure it works a treat, allowing the G-Men time to pressure their suspect and troll through the product of their searches.

Of course why Mafia types are replacing real wire with string or rolled-up tin-foil is a mystery. Surely the big money is in running hookers or collecting garbage or providing garbage for people to shoot up.

Pssst. Wanna buy six reels of wire? It's almost as good as the genuine stuff.

Wire fraud got me to thinking about women with underwire bras, and the alleged internet/Oprah "fact" that 85% of women are wearing an incorrectly sized bra. Seems like a rather large oversight to me, by rather a large number of women.

Then I found this and forgot all about it.



How To Put On A Bra 101 - Celebrity bloopers here