another man's underwear
While fetching my "coloreds" from the dryer in my apartment building's scary basement laundry room a couple weeks ago, I noticed a pair of dark-grey underwear amid all my new jeans. I figured a pair of my tightie-whities had crossed over to the other team, only to be bled on by a gang of blue denim. I placed the grey briefs in my special underwear drawer, a lonely colored boy in an all-white classroom.
I finally donned Grey Boy today, and while the undergarment initially seemed baggy, I credited it to my bitchin' abdominal workout. While walking around my crib later in the day clad only in Grey Boy, it occurred to me that I should examine his label.
38-LARGE. I wear a 32-MEDIUM.
I shrieked and threw Grey Boy to the floor. Feeling tainted, I remain naked as I type this. I'm considering a long, hot shower while curled on the tub floor in the fetal position.
It sickens me to ponder that my scrotum and anus occupied the tabernacle usually reserved for another, fatter mystery man in my building. Whenever I pass another male in the hallways, I will wince and wonder if we share some genital karma.
Grey Boy remains on the floor like a chalk circle of a crime scene. I'm afraid to touch him.
