A Tight(y-Whitey) Situation
Okay, picture this.
A candlelit room. Rose petals laid gently on the bed. Soft jazz music on the stereo. Red wine. Shirts thrown haphazardly around the room.
As I reclined on the bed, Pierre (aka my hunk of a date) got to work on his lower half. My eyes followed the trajectory of his fingers as he lowered the zipper on his jeans, tooth by tooth. As he slid them off and stepped out with a smirk, I could feel the world slowing down around me. Pierre was saying something but I could only hear the blood rushing through my ears. Everything became a blur - my eyes were just honed in on one area.
Wait a minute. Hold up. It's NOT what you're thinking. I wasn't gawking at the man's junk. Far from that.
Standing there, in all his glory, with his hands on his hips, stood my tighty-whitey-wearing date. Correction. Old-saggy-HOLEY-tighty-whitey-wearing date.*
You know those silent horror movies where your mouth opens in a scream but no sound comes out? That was me. The only difference being this wasn't reel life, it was real. Regrettably, unfortunately, real. And that, was my unceremonious wake-up call. I grabbed my stuff, left my naked date sprawled across the bed and hot-footed it out of there before he could say, "But, baaaabe!"
From that day on, I made a vow - to never let another woman or man endure the travesty I did. To not let any man wear unmentionable underwear ever again. To burn all the tighty-whiteys on this planet. (#longtermgoals)
I swore to be the silent guardian, the watchful protector of every innerwear decision. Because there's no space in the world for bad undies. Not 'under' my watch.