Underwear Nostalgia
“Boxer shorts are no good for football,” coach said, which meant tighty-whities for all of us in 1995, colored briefs rare, boxer briefs not yet common. I was already a waistband watcher in those days of teenage straight boys lifting shirts to wipe sweaty faces. I came to know them by their brands: Robbie Hanes, Jockey Jim, Frank who always wore the FTLs with the blue and yellow stripes. How predictable it would be to rhapsodize on “the basket,” pushed up and out. I appreciated it of course, as you would any playful zoo animal rearing up, pressing its nose against the bars,
but it was the utilitarian fly fronts,
so readily associated with the easy masculinity
of fit dads reclining across two pages in the Filene’s catalog, that “did things to me.” It’s what our teammates wore; it’s what
our fathers wore,
underwear of pubescent boners, of over-the-hill balls beginning to sag.
In my dreams we’re all gathered in one high school locker room, men of various ages, same style, different brands. Ryan scratches his pouch. Darius adjusts himself without shame. Archie does a handstand
while Dan and Mike hold his legs. This is the same casual intimacy we had yesterday.
No one has a hard-on,
but it wouldn’t matter if he did.
MICHAEL MCKEOWN BONDHUS
