If the gang of nuns on Harleys had not run my car off the road, I wouldn’t have thought twice about the hole in my underwear. (I suspect that they weren’t actually nuns because it was the Saturday before Halloween, and most of them were sporting facial hair.)
As I waited for my pulse to quit racing, I imagined my body lying beside my overturned Miata, an EMT cutting my bloodied jeans off with Jaws of Life, before recoiling in horror from the sight of my briefs. My mother appeared. “I thought I had brought you up better than this.” She shook her head in skivvy shame. “Looks like it’s going to be a closed casket funeral.”
I shook my head and came back to my senses. Surely, if others would judge my undergarments–whole or holey–upon my death, what would the style say about me?
Overwhelmed, I called my best friends to help me sort out the BVD business. Fey Ray is a wispy reed of a man with a flair for fabulous, and Testosterone Tom is brawny, with grease under his fingernails and beer pumping through his veins.
““There is an entire world of boxer briefs, bikinis, thongs, and jockstraps awaiting you!” Ray whipped open an International Male catalog, revealing a veritable National Geographic Guide to jockey shorts. “What about this?” Ray pointed at a leopard-skin G-string.
““I was thinking a more ‘upstanding citizen’ style,” I said. “Not ‘Son of Tarzan’.”
““You’re probably wanting something that covers more, right?”
““What about this mesh bikini?” Ray said. “It allows the boys to breathe.”
““If I’m dead, do the boys really need oxygen?” I glanced at some longer boxer briefs with tummy-flattening technology. “What about these?” I asked, pointing at the picture.
““Absolutely not!” Ray hissed. “Unless you want to be mistaken for a Mormon missionary.”
I rubbed my temples. “When did underwear become so complicated? I thought it was just a choice between boxers and briefs.”
““I don’t believe in underwear,” Tom said. “I go commando.”
““Really?” Ray asked. “Doesn’t that chafe?”
I visualized myself lying beside my car again, my jeans torn off, and the family jewels exposed to the world. I immediately blushed.
““You drive a convertible, dude,” Tom said. “If you’re in a wreck, you’ll probably be decapitated, so no one’s going to notice whether you’re wearing panties or not.”
Tom’s words gave me pause. I found myself struck by the fact that I’d rather lose my head than die in a pair of holey undies. It put my quest in a new perspective. Even though my jockeys may have a hole in them, at least they’re clean–and that should count for something.