Jock Jam

DISCLAIMER: The party scene described in this story does not take place in south Louisiana. Let's just go ahead and say that it takes place in — I don't know — Georgia. Also, some names and details have been altered in order to protect everyone's feelings. Enjoy.

Right now, I'm wearing a large pair of boys’ briefs that were purchased in a four-pack from the Super Target across town. Like the other three, this pair was packaged into a clear plastic bag after being tightly rolled and secured with a sliver of long, clear tape. This is an actual pair of underwear that I own and frequently wear. It’s cheaply-made, unsexy, and economical. They are the exact opposite of a designer jock strap. But I own both.

I am, for the most part, a practical person. And I don’t really own anything luxurious. My most expensive possession is my Jeep, and I bought that for $2,300 on Craigslist from a nineteen-year-old criminal justice major named Lorenzo. His girlfriend at the time was named Kayla. I remember this because her orange Hooters nametag is still pinned to the passenger-side visor. I used to look at the nametag and hope that Hooters didn’t get in the way of their relationship. I hoped that Lorenzo didn’t fuck with her too much when she returned home from work, and that she kept her flirting within reason; batted eyes, bitten bottom lips, and the tops of hands graced only when the customer was close to ordering Daytona Beach Style Wings — which is technically an up-sell anyway, right?

Now valued at what I’m guessing is the price of a really nice Fossil watch, my Jeep barely serves its purpose. But like my pair of colorful, child-sized skivvies, it does what I need it to do. I'm not cheap, just simple. Nothing but the basics for little ol’ me.

So what do I need a jock strap for? I'm clearly a no-frills kinda 'mo. I think cock rings are frivolous and gladiator sandals are overwhelming. Plus, the idea of a high-end jock strap doesn't make a lot of sense to me. Your ass crack is completely exposed, making your pants subject to smearing. It's basically just an anxiety attack on a string. God forbid you gamble and lose in one of those.

Last week, John, Nick, and I went to an underwear party at a men's boutique [in Georgia]. Which is an extremely gay sentence in itself. The store was introducing its new inventory of Andrew Christian underwear and celebrating with a DJ, open bar, and tables of food that no one would be caught dead eating. Under the classroom-quality florescent lighting, the three of us migrated to the bar, exchanging panicked eye contact with the other herds of homosexuals along the way. This place was my nightmare: bad lighting, house music, exboyfriends, pointy dress shoes, one-uping, beautiful models, air kisses, and an entire wall of impractical underwear. When we weren't shotgunning vodka, we were outside chain-smoking and making each other laugh.

Somewhere between the first cigarette and the seventy-five times I said, "Girl, I love your scarf," I got really drunk. And then I stumbled over to the underwear wall and I bought myself a jock strap. This jock strap:

Fear the smear!

Behold: The Almost Naked Infinity Brief Jock with Anatomically Correct Pouch. Right now, mine is snuggled in a nest of fully manufactured underwear in my closet. So far, I've worn it once, and that was only to try it on the morning after buying it. I stretched the waistband and adjusted the butt straps before spinning to face the mirror. Upon seeing my reflection, I thought, "This label might say 'small,' but this Anatomically Correct Pouch was definitely designed for a professional basketball player." Disappointing, yet expected.

I may be the type of guy that strips in Mexican gay bars and screws cruise ship dancers, but I'm not the jock-strapping type. I have simple taste. Probably because I'm so complicated. The guy with the baggage, and the imagination, and the anxiety finds comfort in the plain things. I'll keep spinning and you stay still.

Besides, I don’t need assless underwear to feel sexy. I have alcohol for that.