Tis' the day before a holiday and the suitcase is packed. All clothing of worth is locked and secured away. Knowing this I approach the underwear drawer with a sense of foreboding. What evils await? What darkness? Like a classic Hammer horror movie the drawer creaks open as sweat pours down my brow. I focus, I tremble, the sheer desperation of my plight now leering before me. I have two choices. The Popeye novelty boxer shorts with no reliable elastic, and the black thong, a tiny strip of material linked by a barely perceptible thread. I'm between the devil and the deep blue see. The tablecloth or the nutcrackers? There's no happy ending. I shout downstairs, "Joy, can I borrow some knickers?" to which I receive the swift retort, "Is it the weekend already?". My breathing is erratic, shallow. I consider prayer, but reality kicks in. I flirt briefly with the idea of going commando, but I have to wear these with work trousers and I'd be living in dread of that timeless foe otherwise known as the involuntary erection. I gird my sides, a hand reaching out, wavering. Slowly, gingerly, descending towards certain doom.
There's a happy ending. This week I'll be in M&S and choosing some new underwear. No more will holidays fill me with dread. And there's the added bonus of being able to perve around the lingerie department before and after. Happy days.
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