The Boxers


For most of my adult life, I’ve been a boxer-brief man. I like a little support, as it were, but can certainly do without the ol’ tighty-whiteys. Boxer-briefs were the perfect solution.

Until now, of course.

“Switch to boxers,” says the Doc. And so I did. We went to Target and bought a couple of big packages of tartan-print boxer shorts. And I’ve been wearing nothing but the boxers for several weeks now. And boy, oh, boy do I hate it.

My boys, as Cosmo Kramer one said, need a house. And the boxers just ain’t cuttin’ it. I liked my boxer-briefs. I could put on a pair and go running or go for a bike ride and not have to think about it. The other day, without really thinking about it, I went for a bike ride with Ms. Swimmin while wearing a pair of boxers. Paused at one point, dismounted. When we got back on the bikes…RRIIIIIIP! There goes a pair of boxers. They don’t move with me, and in fact they often seem to be working against me.

And the support issue. Oy. I like things to be stable and secure in that region. With the boxers, stability and security are gone. What was once the Midwest has become the Middle East. We go for a walk, things are bouncing and flopping all over the place. And it rubs the wrong way…or, perhaps, too much the right way, if you take my meaning. We’re out walking, I have to pee, and the shorts are rubbing the parts and…well, Ms. Swimmin is introducing me to her old church choir director while I’ve got the kind of unwanted and embarrassing boner I haven’t really had since I was a sophomore in high school. “Nice to meet you,” please don’t look down please don’t look down please don’t look down, “Ms. Swimmin has told me so much about you!” Not good times.

Or how about when I take off my pants and lay in bed with just my shorts on, as I am wont to do. And the fly of the boxer shorts gaps open, as it is wont to do. And of course, the li’l guy peeks out of the gapping fly in kind of a funny way, as it is wont to do. And then I experience my wife pointing at my dick and giggling. Which, though I know she’s just teasing and she doesn’t mean it in a malicious or mean-spirited way, is kind of weird.

No, sir, I don’t like ’em. But these are the sacrifices we make to get the things we want in life. And if a few months of uncomfortable underwear is the worst thing either of us will have to endure during this process, I’ll count us very lucky, indeed.

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