Doondies

I have unwittingly found myself with a motherlode of underpants.

If not on complete purpose.

The having of these aforementioned undergarments is only establishable in a short and non-permanent period of transit, which shalt be transferred into the arms of Smoking Legs on the eve of Christmas. Meaning he’ll soon be the owner of a motherlode of underpants.

The poor man will be in possession of six pairs of doondies, of varying colours and shapes, whether he is agreeable with this inflamed donation of male jocks or not.

I’m in a fair amount of distraction over these imparted doondies. It all started when, in October, and on his undressing before me for the first time, and on turning my eyes to his paisley-patterned scants, I vowed, should things last until a present-exchanging time, I’d purchase him some underwear of female desirability. For this pair before me then, as practical as they are, managed to, and in my drunken stupor-babble (the evening of the Singles Formal Dinner where we first sucked face), reap the reaction of, “Those…doondies are hideous.”

I wasn’t meaning to be quite so rude – shitloads of alcohol has this cutting-edge no bars effect - but I nevertheless made a mental note of buying him some alpha-male sexy ones.

Christmas rolls around. Sneakily, betwixt his other Christmas purchases and dare I say, of less boring and predictable nature – because let’s face it, who really wants underpants for Christmas? - I marched into Truworths Man and bought him a three pack of muted-hue boxer shorts in fine thread-count cotton.

He then, five days later, exclaimed, somewhat coincidentally and distractedly, while we were following the Ipswich murder case on Sky News, that he hates wearing boxer shorts, but rather prefers those half-doondie-half-brief things. These, may I add, I liken to what the Greeks wear en masse on the beaches, in lumo spandex, in summer. He insists it’s about the cuppage. A male confidante later substantiated this argument, saying that one’s balls get stuck to one’s legs when wearing loose-flow boxer shorts and during the endless schvitzy summer, is not at all comfortable, especially during meetings in corporate boardrooms. Half-doondie half-briefs-shorts offer cuppage as well as free-flow, and look better than scants. Scants, as in cotton Speedos.

Fine then, whatever.

I go back to Truworths Man, in a quest to counter-argue that one can plainly see the boxers have not yet been used, as they’re still packed in their prospective packaging. Yet an exchange was not possible. Store policy. Or something like that. I muttered the word ‘fuck’ and marched into Stuttafords to buy some Grecian cotton half-brief-doondie-shorts. Squirming as I did so. I’m not particularly collected in male doondie departments on the best occasions.
I found some, which also come in a three-pack, in sterling white cotton.

In approximately 3 days, Smoking Legs will have six new smalls. Who buys a recently acquired boyfriend of roughly two and a half months six pairs of doondies? I do. By default. One for every day of the week if he turns one inside out on Sunday, which might I add, I hear the male species does sometimes when out of fresh underwear. A little worrying, and don’t let me catch him doing this.

I’m uncomfortable about the amount of underwear I will be wrapping this afternoon. I could of course give the boxer shorts to Lucas the security guard to save doondie face, but that makes me even more uncomfortable considering the circumstances. (Which involves psychological Freudian father figure theories previously spoken about herein.)

If not already up to the conclusion, Smoking Legs is going to think I’m a couple of ball bearings short of a wheel. (The conclusion of an engineer, I dare say). An odd girlfriend, if not a little insane and jock obsessed.
Which isn’t entirely misinterpreted, let’s be honest.