Too big for my britches

For some reason, I've been noticing my undies aren't fitting right. I don't know if it's because the underwear are too small (doubtful), or my dick is too big (hopeful, but doubtful). It's a strange sensation, having it roll down your leg (something a woman will never experience unless she's a drag queen).

Sometimes I do have to tuck it underneath just because it won't fit anywhere else.

And I’m not even going to start with the chafing issue, because there's a bit of that going on, too.

When I was young, I used to tuck because I wore Y-fronts. There wasn't much to manoeuvre, so it wasn't an issue. When I grew in age, height, length, and girth, I began to wear boxer-briefs because they were comfortable and didn't require to be changed when pants were removed to walk around the house.

Not anymore.

Since I'm a realist at heart, I wish I could say it's because of puberty, even though I'd rather think it's because my dick is huge. Nah. I probably just have to buy bigger undies.

Bustle butt

When getting off the morning train, there’s the rush of people who walk through the station to get to their jobs. Most of them wear the same uniform of a black overcoat and pants/skirt underneath. There’s the occasional formal suit, but they’re normally hidden.

Today, I see something I haven’t seen in a while. There’s a young man who exited the same train as I did and he’s wearing a light grey suit, made of a shiny material. It resembles those you find at International Clothiers, a guido-friendly chain that caters to the bridge-and-tunnel crowd.

The issue isn’t the suit, per se, but the fact he hasn’t removed the stitches that holds the slits on either side of the double-vents on the backside of his jacket. What happens is a bustle butt; a poufing of the fabric that’s commonly seen on prom dresses from the 1980’s. Those stitches are there to keep the flaps flat while being transported from manufacturer to seller.

It’s just as bad as those who keep their “Made in Italy” labels on their sleeves. Those are made to be removed, like the ones on your mattress. If you don’t remove them, it’s just like walking around with the price tag dangling from the seams.

I don’t know what to make of it, but I do know next time I see him, I’m going to run after him with a pair of scissors, grab the back of his jacket and snip those threads. I hope he doesn’t think I’m coming on to him.

Living is equated with age

The more I talk to those who are younger than I am (by a couple of years), I get the very strong impression they feel like they’re entitled to everything while contributing nothing. They feel like they know it all and those who don’t agree with them are beneath them, at least on an intellectual scale.

When I was their age, I felt like I didn’t deserve anything because I was a still a kid. I was smart, but I wasn’t brilliant (that came later when MENSA contacted me). With time, I became more knowledgeable even though no one still owed me a thing – I had to work for it.

The issue is they think they’ve lived even though they’re still in their early 20’s. They haven’t lived at all. What sort of things could they have gone through at this point? They just got out of high school. As dramatic as high school can be for a teen, they can't even imagine what’s coming their way in the next decade of their life. High school will feel like cake; warm, chocolaty cake with thick, fondant icing.

True, some of them have gone through situations that resemble a Lifetime network MOTW starring a former 80’s television star, but that just means is they’ve had some hard knocks. They haven’t lived because they’re still getting things handed to them on a plate because they’re young. Adults don't respect them, they pity them because they know the shock that's coming.

Living is equated with age. The older they get, the wiser they are. They’re still young, and don’t know much.

And, even though I’ll always be older than them, I’ll always be smarter.

Company curfew

When visiting someone, inevitably you have to follow house rules. Some of those include what you do, how you talk, and where you sleep. For me, it sometimes includes all three.

“Ok, I’m going to bed,” says B.

“Good night,” I reply as I watch TV.

“No, I’m going to bed.”

“Yeah.”

“No,” B pauses, “if I’m going to bed, so are you.” I look over at B.

“It’s 10. I never go to bed at 10.” What am I 8 years old? I usually go to sleep around 11:30 anyway. It’s not my problem B is tired. I’m not.

B turns around and goes to bed in a snit. Great, I did it. I pissed B off. Knowing what I have to do, I try to smooth things out.

I don’t understand why you have to do what the hosts want. True, they offered you their home and hospitality, but they should also be flexible with the needs and wants of their guests. This ain’t Hitler’s house.

Still, by 10:30, the lights are out and I’m in bed, doing something I was going to do later on in the night, anyway. I don’t sleep well that night because I feel like if I get up to watch some TV, B will be even more pissed in the morning.

Meat on our bones

The hot water is turned on and I’m standing in front of the sink after shaving. A towel is around my waist since I’ve just had a shower, as well. By the time I’m about to clean up, a soft knock is heard at the door. It’s my sister and she wants to get ready before she goes to bed.

“Can I come in?” she asks after I open the door a crack.

“Yeah, I’m just finishing shaving. Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“Yeah, I want to get ready to go to bed.”

“That’s fine. I’m almost done.” I leave enough space for her to move between the door and me as she enters the bathroom.

While I lean forward, towards the mirror, my sister begins to inspect my back for any pokeys – the small corpuscles of protein that appear on my upper arms and back – to squeeze. After a couple of pinches of her nails, she leans back.

“It’s not fair,” she says.

“What isn’t fair?”

“I should have your body and you should have mine.”

“I didn’t choose my body.” Even though she’s female and I’m male, our body types are nothing alike. Whereas she’s curvy, I’m lean and lanky. The only things we have in common are broad shoulders which help make our waists appear narrower than they are.

“Still -”

“And, if I had two kids, I’d look just like you, so…” I let the rest of the sentence linger. I know what she’s getting at, and it isn’t about having us re-enact a scene from Freaky Friday.

She’s frustrated, and with good reason. After her first child, her body bounced back (with time), and she looked good. When the second baby arrived in the summer, her body hasn’t returned to the shape it was before.

Looking at famous faces in magazines doesn’t help, either. They’re shockingly skinny within weeks after delivering babies. Then again, they have nutritionists and personal trainers to help them out with their bodies, while nannies take care of the growing brood.

She’s not immune to the pressure to look good. More often than not, men are succumbing to the same pressures. Flip through any men’s magazine and it’s all about the arms, abs, and ass. If I lived in a cave, I’d let myself go, but since I live in an environment that expects me to look thin, that option isn’t available to me.

This society makes us believe that if we don’t look perfect, we aren’t perfect. Perfect is in the eye of the beholder, like beauty. In some cultures buff bodies are looked upon negatively because it’s assumed their owners can’t afford to eat.

If we could only love the body we’re given we’d be happier. Or we would be happier if we weren’t constantly reminded that we have to be thin. Either that, or we could move to a society that doesn’t mind a little extra meat on our bones.

Dirty talk makes me laugh

Whenever I hear dirty talk in the appropriate context, it makes sense and it helps in the arousal process. It does what it’s supposed to do and it does so effectively.

But, it doesn’t work for me.

From my experience, I find it to be hilarious. In fact, when I hear it, I begin to giggle and the giggle turns into a laugh. And, no one wants to laugh in these kinds of situations.

There could be several reasons for the hilarity:

1. The things being said are ridiculous.
2. The things being don't feel genuine.
3. The things being said sound like porn parody.
4. Their mouth should be busy doing something else.

I'm sure there are other things that are no-nos, but I can't think of them now because I'm too busy laughing.

Confusion in six lines

“So, no goodbye kiss?”

“No. I’m a good boy.”

“Really? Are you serious?”

“Are you heartbroken?”

“Well...”

“Don’t worry. You shouldn’t be.”

Note: This post is brought to you by WTF Wednesdays.