Starch And Balls

We’re going to be frank here.  Not because we’re sensationalists, but because we have no fear and no shame.  We’re going to talk about Balls: Testicles, Nuts, ‘Nads, Ballsack Bouncers, Bollocks, Chin Slappers, etc…

Men are taught from the Days of Boys, that protecting those two little lumps of gristle and flesh is critical.  One swift kick in the crotch at the age of four, or an accident with a bicycle crossbar teaches a lad that he can experience pain of a depth and duration that is indescribable to 51% of the population.  Mom can’t understand it and Dad just laughs as his little son is now becoming a Man.

Men’s underwear has a few functions in common with women’s underwear.  One is to keep sweat from soiling your outer clothes.  Another is to smooth out the hang of your duds.  And, of course, to muffle farts.  These are understandable performance issues that can communicate across genders.

There are differences, of course, but these are simple mechanical alternations, like the Y-front for stand-up urination or the little satin bow on the waistband that tells women where the hell the front is.  Men don’t have a need for the little bow: If you put your underwear on backwards, your balls will tell you quickly.

Now, I’m a briefs guy. Other men are boxer boys.  It depends on how you were brought up or what you like.  I like support, holding the balls just right.  Not too loose and not up in my throat.  Let me know they’re there, but keep them happy and content.  I suppose the female equivalent would be an underwire bra, versus a sports bra:  Keep ’em from causing uproar but don’t tie them down like a boat in a hurricane.

Therefore, laundering your underwear, as it is so close to sensitive members of the body of man, is important.  When I travel, I always take about two weeks worth of underwear with me.  There is nothing more dispiriting than dipping into the hotel drawer and finding plenty of socks, shirts, ties but nothing to keep the boys happy.

I send my laundry out to the hotel on the road, asking for heavy starch in the dress shirts and laundry for the rest.  They don’t get this in Austin.  I now have survived two weeks with heavy starch in my shirts AND my underwear. 

Imagine strapping cedar roof shingles to your breasts, ladies.  Zero comfort.  Itchy.  Scratchy.  And having it climb up the crack of your ass like a hungry weasel with a bag of carrots.  That is how the past two weeks have been.  Constant adjustment, furtive scratching and the occasional pause to de-floss the butt crack.

But this morning, I did laundry in the hotel guest laundry, sort of like a two machine laundromat. After it was all done, I pulled on a pair of warm-from-the-dryer, soft, cottony, elastic ball comforters. 

The boys are now happy.  And so am I.