The ghost of un­der­wear past.

DNA Magazine - - CONTENT -

No­body does fancy undies like a posse of Potts Point poofs.

It’s a lit­tle late, but I sup­pose I should be­gin by wish­ing all you Aussies a Happy Aus­tralia Day. For those non-Aussie read­ers, Aus­tralia Day is the 26th of Jan­uary. A day when we cel­e­brate the in­va­sion of our great south­ern land in 1788 by get­ting re­ally pissed. And by pissed I mean drunk, not angry. Once again I par­tic­i­pated mer­rily. Not only was my Aus­tralia Day happy as in happy. It was happy as in gay. So gay, it was of­fi­cially called Aus­tralia Gay. What started out as a good old Aussie bar­beque ended with me gy­rat­ing on a bal­cony sur­rounded by an as­sort­ment of men. All ages. All shapes. All sizes. And all wear­ing noth­ing but their undies. I am still not en­tirely sure how this hap­pened. I mean, of course I know it in­volved re­moval of outer gar­ments in or­der to re­veal said undies. And prance around therein. But mem­ory of the se­quence of events that led to this eludes me. The empty sa­chet in the pocket of the jeans that I even­tu­ally found was a a tell-tale sign. As were the sniff les of the Hol­ly­wood f lu that pre­sented them­selves. And the pound­ing heart and throb­bing headache and f luc­tu­at­ing mood. Although none of them re­ally pro­vide clear in­sight into the con­ver­sa­tion that cul­mi­nated in: “Let’s take off our clothes and dance in our undies on the bal­cony while we cel­e­brate a sun­burnt coun­try.” But it was quite the sight to be­hold. And there was much be­hold­ing. And much hold­ing. And grop­ing. And dis­ap­pear­ing. There was only one woman in our midst. Who took all of this to­tally in her stride. But kept bleat­ing about all the ‘fancy undies’. And in­deed the undies were fancy. We’re not talk­ing your bor­ing old Calvins here. Any­body can do those. But no­body does fancy undies like a posse of Potts Point poofs. I mean there were the usual brands you’d ex­pect to see in such cir­cles. And even the smat­ter­ing of Bonds and Jock­eys seemed some­how spe­cial. It was like a 3D video cat­a­logue of all pos­si­ble un­der­wear choices. For ev­ery pos­si­ble type of man. A ver­i­ta­ble cel­e­bra­tion of di­ver­sity, bond­ing in their un­der­gar­ments. Their fancy un­der­gar­ments. And not much else. How come all th­ese poofters came so pre­pared? It’s not like they knew they were go­ing to be re­veal­ing their undies. Although we all hope to at some point. But not to a crowd. Of friends. Are all their undies this cool? Or do they save the good ones for spe­cial oc­ca­sions? On the other days wear­ing the Rios from the 3-packs that their mums bought them. I have al­ways re­ally strug­gled with my un­der­wear choices. I could never buy un­der­wear on­line. And even in a store I can never tell how it is go­ing to fit me, even by rip­ping open the box and hold­ing them up. At this point it be­comes ap­par­ent that un­der­wear as a topic is in­sep­a­ra­ble from the ma­jor on­go­ing con­ver­sa­tion in my life – that of my f luc­tu­at­ing waist­line. The right undies can per­form mir­a­cles. But find­ing them is a con­stant chal­lenge. The heav­ily branded waist­bands men­tioned above are so of­ten un­nec­es­sar­ily wide. Which I get are for struc­ture and car­ry­ing out a gir­dle like func­tion. Sure they hold it in to a de­gree. But they also push it up. Cre­at­ing a muf­fin top and a most un­for­tu­nate line. Es­pe­cially after a heavy meal. There­fore I pre­fer the waist­band to be not only not quite so re­in­forced, but also nar­row, and de­signed to sit low. Once that’s been sorted the next is­sue to be cov­ered off is all about what sits be­low the waist­band. I want com­fort. And some free­dom of move­ment. But support is oh so im­por­tant as well. You want it to be proud. But pro­tected. Held in place. But not squashed. So struc­ture is es­sen­tial. Even a lit­tle pad­ding. Not that any­body would ac­tu­ally ad­mit that. As re­ally what it’s all about is en­sur­ing that it f lat­ters your pack­age. In a way that ap­pears nat­u­ral. And at this point I’ll ad­mit that I’m a grower and re­ally not much of a show-er. Com­bine this with afore­men­tioned f luc­tu­at­ing waist­line, and you have a unique set of chal­lenges in the search for the ul­ti­mate un­der­wear. I find the avail­able range limited. And when I do find some­thing that works for me, it seems to be freak­ishly un­pop­u­lar and does not re­main on of­fer for long. When I was younger, and slim­mer, and my dick seemed big­ger, all my un­der­wear was Valentino. Ap­par­ently I was richer too, for those things cost a for­tune. But much to my dis­may they stopped stock­ing them in David Jones, and I was un­able to find them else­where. Luck­ily, I dis­cov­ered Em­po­rio Ar­mani. They did them with­out the wide band all those years ago. They were my favourites. In fact, they may have rep­re­sented the hey­day in my wear­ing of in­ti­mate ap­parel. They were the undies most likely to elicit sub­tle im­pressed glances, and even com­pli­ments. This may or may not have some­thing to do with their be­ing my sig­na­ture un­der­wear dur­ing the time of my phys­i­cal peak, and I was there­fore shar­ing my physique with ab­so­lutely any­one (and I mean any­one) who cared to par­take. The fact still re­mains that they were the best undies ever, who ac­com­pa­nied me through my most sex­u­ally ac­tive years, and man­aged to re­tain their elas­tic­ity well beyond any rea­son­able ex­pec­ta­tions. But even the great­est of gar­ments have an ex­piry date. After th­ese had worn out, and were no longer pro­duced, I wan­dered in the un­der­wear wilder­ness. Un­sure of who I was. And where I was go­ing. Un­til I came home. And dis­cov­ered a lo­cal brand. That had rein­vented it­self. In ex­actly my size. And shape. And with all my re­quire­ments. A mir­a­cle, I know. The big O in fact. Oro­ton. Yes, Oro­ton. Our very own home-grown lux­ury brand from the ’70s. Fa­mous for the glomesh bag. Now cov­er­ing my nether re­gions in ex­actly the way I wanted. This was too good to be true. And I felt sure it wouldn’t last. So I have bought a lifetime’s sup­ply. Or at least a decade’s. I have 365 pairs. As God is my wit­ness, I will never be un­der­pre­pared again.

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