Underpants maketh the man

I was back in my Country of Birth (CoB) last year. Twas an excellent and wondrous trip filled with exotic food, vast quantities of alcohol and heaps of drug fueled violence. While I was there I decided to buy some underpants. I was feeling rich and carefree that so, whilst re-exploring, I popped into a high street store and grabbed a bag o boxer shorts.

...I should have planned more carefully.

I saw they were black (chicks dig black underpants y'see), and medium sized (just like my waist), so what could go wrong? Well, these fucking underpants are like the Speedo(tm) of boxer shorts. I am fortunate to have a firm and shapely behind, because whilst strolling around "trouser-lite" as I am won't do at home, from time to time, my arse is pretty much exposed.

I have found another side effect of these pants today. I don't wear them often because they're not the most comfortable, gathering, grabbing, hugging, and generally shepherding ones nethers. And feeling the seam halfway up your arse crack is disconcerting. However, whilst strolling to the post office earlier I was taken aback to find that, in these slacks at least, they have an alarming power of magnification too.

I had noticed a pretty girl or two while I was strolling jauntily along, and went to tip my hat, when I saw looks of shock and awe. Now, look at a girls' eyes (carefully, not psycho-stalkerish) when she walks past you and sometimes you'll see her size you up in return. We're human, it's instinct. Get over it. So, this isn't the first time I've noticed someone peeking a glance at little-Tideliar, especially in tightish work slacks where things are more won't to display. But shock and awe?

Aghast, I glanced down myself, furtively, and was amazed to see the ghost of John Holmes had appeared in my groinal region. Now, I'm a fortunate man, and have been blessed by nature in many ways. I have nothing to worry about in the trouser department, as Withnail (I think) once said. However, even I know my limits.

Someone how my new pants had conspired to make it look like I had a fucking zucchini down my trouser leg. Of course, once I noticed, I became aware of the tightness and the inevitable rubbing, and then biology took over. By the time I got back to my desk, women were alternately blushing, starring and covering their children's eyes. Men were railing, impotently, fists raised in despair at the futility of their own inadequacy.

It was an excellent excursion!