The Different Boxers

This is my entry in Round 2 of the WDC Survivor Competition

I’ve always been different from other boxer shorts.

Honestly, from the day that my parents brought me home from the underwear factory where I was born, I have always felt different.

When I first moved into the desk drawer with all of the other men’s underwear, I somehow did not fit in with all of my friends. Late at night, when most people who wear clothes are in bed, and the clothes like to sit in the drawers and chat about their lives, I would try to join in, but I usually couldn’t, because the other boxers would be talking about sports and how one day, they would be worn by a famous athlete in a big game, I would dream instead of being the leotard on a prima ballerina.

So you see what I mean when I say that I was different.

To make matters worse, both of my parents were high-standing members of society who were worn to church almost every Sunday. My father was a favorite pair of briefs who would often come home from work dirty and smelly. When my mother complained about that, he would point out that it wasn’t really his fault, the person who wore him didn’t wipe enough when he went to the toilet. Then my mother would make him go in the laundry before dinner.

My mother was a very well-used piece of hosiery. She was kind, but I always got the feeling that she was worried about me. You see, I would ask her all kinds of questions about women’s underwear and how it was worn, and what it was like to be on a woman’s body. She would smile tolerantly and try to answer my questions, but I could tell that she was disturbed just the same.

It probably had something to do with religion too. You see, we were practicing Catholics and my mother had always told me that God sews each and every piece of clothing for a purpose and loved every piece exactly the same way. Moreover, when a piece of underwear did its job, it would go to underwear Heaven when it had too many holes in it. On the other hand, a piece of clothing which did not do its proper job was sinful and would be sent to Hell when it got too many holes in it.

Anyway, once a group of my friends were discussing Boy George. For those that don’t remember, he was a big rock star back in the eighties who used to dress like woman. And a group of us started wondering whether Boy George wears men’s or women’s underwear. Then one boy jumped in and said, “His underwear’s been altered.”

“Altered?” asked someone else.

“Yeah. So now it’s like half-man’s and half-woman’s.”

I didn’t know there was such a thing, and that night at dinner, I asked my parents about it. They looked at each other. My mother sighed and my father seemed to get angry.

“Disgusting kids, these days,” he said.

“I don’t get it,” I asked. “What is altered?”

“Well,” said my mother sadly, “It’s a little operation where they cut up the men’s underwear to make something for the ladies.”

“What? Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Of course, it hurts,” said my father. “And it should. It’s God’s punishment for messing around with nature.

“But does it work?”

“Well, not exactly--” said my mother trying to be diplomatic about it.

“Absolutely not!” said my father. “It goes against God and everything that’s natural.”

“Right,” said my mother even more nervously. “Look, you need to understand that God makes us male and female for a reason. It is not our place to mess with things like that.”

Well, to this day, I don’t know whether Boy George wears men’s or women’s underwear, but that is not the point. The point is that it made me think. I would sit by myself and wonder if I really was supposed to be a pair of male boxers.

It got worse when I got older. You see, people started wearing me on dates with girls who wore lingerie. I wasn’t the only one of course. The other guys in the drawer would come home from dates all sweaty and excited, and some of them would brag about how the date had put her hand into them, while others would claim that they had seen the date’s bra, because both they and the date’s bra had been thrown on top of each other in the backseat of a car. But almost nobody really believed these guys. In fact, some of them would laugh and say, “That was the guy’s own hand that was inside of you and no wonder it got you so worked up.”

But one night, something strange happened. I got chosen and put on underneath a pair of fancy dress pants and a tuxedo. It was cool, because I had never been worn underneath a tuxedo before. Then, we rode in a limousine alongside of a girl who was wearing a beautiful dress with black lace underneath. I tried to make conversation with the black lace, but there was too much clothing between us and I felt awkward.

We went to a big gymnasium where the two spent the evening dancing to music. The dance was fun, but I began to get very sweaty and I got a sense that the black negligee was getting sweaty too. She was fun in her own way, but I kept getting the feeling that something more was coming.

After the dance, we got back into the car and drove to a place that might have been a motel room while the girl in the negligee kept looking around uncomfortably. After they reached the place, they sat on a bed and the girl said, “Well. . . Do you have something to use?”

The boy who was wearing me, nodded and pulled out a small wrapped item and removed the wrapping to show a small rubber object. The girl hugged his neck and the two began removing their clothes.

Eventually, he tore me off and put on the rubber object. He tossed me in a pile and a few minutes later the black negligee landed on top of me.

“Wow,” I said.

“True,” said the negligee. She sighed. “Actually, I’m glad. I didn’t want to still be a virgin when Gina wore me to college next year.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. There were times when I felt exactly the same way, and other times when I wasn’t so sure.

“Well,” said the negligee, “Shall we?”

“Well. . .Okay.”

We started at it, but something was drastically wrong. I did not feel the slightest bit excited to be lying on a motel room floor with a beautiful black negligee on top of me.

When it was over, the negligee sighed and said, “How was it for you?”

I couldn’t answer, because the truth was that it was not very good at all, and it made me wonder about something else. Particularly about all those years when I had been different from other boxing shorts. Could this be my problem?

Well, I think from that night onwards, I knew that I was not really cut out to be boxers. I didn’t have the nerve to tell my parents about it until much later, but I knew.

So I have contacted a seamstress.

I think that it might be time for me to be altered.

Like this story? Then why not vote for it in the WDC-Survivor Game? The deadline is Saturday April 23, 2011.

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