?% ABV bottled
The 3XL Underwear Date
I never am late but I was running late for this latest first date, if I can evoke the white rabbit a bit. This was back in the early-2000s when preparation for a big weekend date involved polishing off a six-pack of Yuengling while watching the tail end of the afternoon’s college football games, opening my eyes and regaining some energy by drinking a can of Sparks while I showered, and finishing it off with a nice cocktail as I got dressed. Not exactly a recipe for running on a tight schedule nor for impressing these women I was supposedly wooing. Then again, they were often more drunk than me.
On this particularly night, out of the shower, I quickly prepared myself a gin and tonic to enjoy as I garbed myself. I reached for one of the fresh unopened packs of boxer briefs I had just purchased. Ripped the pack open, grabbed a pair, and quickly pulled them up and…they fell back down to my feet. They were fucking huge. I glanced at the label. 3XL. Shit. I grabbed another pack. 3XL. And the third and final pack. 3XL. Fuck!
Earlier in the day I had been downtown near price-choppin’ clusterfuck par excellence Century 21 when I had fortuitously recalled that all my underwear were dirty and I had a date that very night. I could, of course, just have hurried home and done laundry, but eh. I rushed into the mess of a department store, plowed over some slovenly Slavic tourists like Adrian Peterson hitting the hole, and grabbed a stack of $5 three-packs of Hanes unmentionables. (Undergarments are the most egregiously priced of all clothing and thus, as a miserly Jew, I always make sure to buy them at Century 21 where they sell for like 75% discount.)
Alas, in my haste, I had stupidly forgotten to check the size of the boxer-briefs, partially assuming I suppose that one size fits most, but, what with Century 21 being a tourist mecca, of course the default sizes were for the typically girthy Nebraskan or South Dakotan rather than being an M or L like most New York stores would stock. I should have known better. But there was no time to damn my luck at the moment, I had to come up with a plan for my date.
Going commando was out of the question. It was a sweltering 98 degrees out and going sans-knickers in the city of the Knickerbockers would be a surefire recipe for having a most swamp-like crotch before I’d even arrived at the bar. There was my old standby of teeny tiny soccer shorts as a proxy for undies, but that had gotten me into major trouble the last time I’d done such a thing and I didn’t want that evening’s date shrouded with such an anti-talisman. Perhaps a “cleaner” pair of dirty underwear? No, that was too disgusting even for me. Alas, I had no choice but to wear the 3XLs.
I don’t exactly wear drainpipe jeans now and I certainly didn’t back then, but I’ve always favored a slim fit as I hate the jostling from non-sleek clothing. Suffice to say, it was near impossible to pull my denims up over this brand-new blousey girdle. It entailed a lot of constant tucking and shimmying and smoothing before I was finally able to get my jeans up. And even then, the waistband of the offensive boxer-briefs was exploding from my dungarees, like a mushroom cloud, forcing me to fold them over my belt line and into wearing a thick, longish shirt so as to hide the craziness. If I ever forgot and accidentally did a big yawning stretch, revealing my littleclothes, my date would surely think me Mormon.
I go to some upscale-for-a-dopey-24-year-old bar and I meet up with Stacy or was it Laura or possibly Alisha? but I’m unable to focus. Unable to be my funny, charming, roguish self since I’m so concerned about my 3XL underwear, so uncomfortable with the saggy cloth surrounding my loins. I’m can barely think of anything else, I can barely pay attention to my date, I’m writing my own prophesy as I almost don’t want my date to be a success for if it is a success of course we will go back to her place and start getting all inflagrante delicto and next thing I know she’ll be laughing at me and mocking me for my apparent sick fetish of wearing gigantic Pampers.
So I decide to drink heavily, which kinda eliminates my anxiety but which also makes me need to keep pissing which is another conundrum all to itself for once in the restroom I fear that if I pull too much of my pants and 3XLers too far down, then I’ll never able to get everything back in place again. Meaning, I had to employ the most dreaded of all devices, the underwear piss hole. I’m still have post-traumatic stress over that.
Amazingly, after countless cocktails I’m loosening up and Stacy or was it Laura or possibly Alisha? is becoming charmed by my slightly fidgety neurotic besotted behavior, and maybe she’s a little drunk too, or wanting to use me as a slumpbuster, so she invites me back to her pad. And, despite my fears from before, I accept.
I had drunk so heavily at dinner that I thought I’d be unable to get my lumber out of the bat rack but, amazingly, once Stacy or was it Laura or possibly Alisha? started kissing me, all the biological things that are supposed to happen started happening.
I’m usually aggressive in bed but here, in this situation, I was being quite slow and tender, caressing and fondling Stacy or was it Laura or possibly Alisha? with her clothes completely on because, despite my stoned state, I know once I take her clothes off, she will take my clothes off and see my most unfortunate parachute of granny’s panties. This incredibly slow progression toward love-making thus makes me appear to be a man interested in an incredible amount of foreplay, which makes Stacy or was it Laura or possibly Alisha? like me all the more as most men her age–including me when I was wearing boxer-briefs that fit–were probably a little too wham bam, thank you madame.
Eventually, Stacy or was it Laura or possibly Alisha? reached a fever pitch of foreplay ecstasy and there was only one final frontier left to explore. She excused herself to the bathroom to do whatever it is girls do when they excuse themselves to the bathroom right before coitus.
(My top three guesses:
1. Last second depilatory work
2. Vigorous gargling
3. Quick Google search of my credentials)
This was finally my chance and I sprung to action! I quickly pulled down my jeans and whipped of my dreaded 3XL panties which had somehow become stretched out to 4XL or perhaps even 5XL underoos in the last five hours as these babies were expanding faster than the universe. I took the Hanes and tossed them under Stacy or was it Laura or possibly Alisha?’s bed and then quickly pulled back on my jeans.
Stacy or was it Laura or possibly Alisha? returned from the bathroom seconds later, placing some condoms on her nightstand. She then attacked me, taking my fate in her own hands. Although now I was at ease. She pulled back down my Lucky’s and a pleased look came across her face.
Sexy is right. I was finally free from my prison of skivvies and eager to celebrate my midsection’s liberation. I pulled a perfect Cael Sanderson reverse and threw her to the mat, positioning myself on top of her. She may have seemed a bit confused by my sudden personality change, but she was greatly enjoying it.
So was I. I had done it! I had triumphed over these Herculean jockeys determined to defeat me!
I reached for the nightstand and a prophylactic. Expertly opened the package and put its contents on my manhood.
But something felt off. Way off.
I looked down to see the condom hanging on my dick like a latex poncho. Sagging and droopy, unweildy and unusable. What the hell?
I grab the discarded packet off the floor.
Stacy or was it Laura or possibly Alisha? noticed the look of fret on my face, the tears now welling up in my eyes.
“Oh sorry,” she said, “I stole those from my roomie. You should see her boyfriend.”
This limited, Michigan-only release from the legendary local brewers, was procurred for me by my good buddy the Drunken Polack. With a meteoric rise onto the BA Top 100 putting it alongside Bell’s two other IPAs, Two-Hearted and the legendary Hopslam, I was certain The Oracle would be epic. But all I can report is…eh. I was great underwhelmed I’m sorry to say. And you know that has to be the truth because I am nothing if not a grade inflater! I found Oracle to have the nose of a malty barleywine, yet, oddly enough, one of the more dry and bitter tastes of any DIPA around. But not in a good way. I would hail Smuttynose’s “Finest Kind” to be the uber-bitter IPA The Oracle should aspire to be, but it’s simply just not quite as good. A bit of a lacking-in-flavor grapefruit mess. Oh well…at least you folks that will struggle to locate this beer don’t have to be too bummed out about that fact. If you’re like me, I almost get excited when someone reviews a highly-rare, highly-sought-after beer that I shall never taste and then semi-slams it.
Founder Harvest Ale
6.5% ABV bottled
While we’re on the subject of hoppy beers, I got to make mention of by far the most enjoyable one I’ve had in the last weeks. Oddly enough, BA lists this as a pale ale, but you know I hate to quibble about stylistic persnicketyness. I’d generally liked all of Founders hoppy IPA-type beers I’d had in the past, but this was the first one that absolutely floored me. One of the most fragrant beers I’ve ever had, with quite possibly even a more fresh piney smell than Pliny the Elder. The taste is not quite as good as the otherwordly smell, but this is still some amazing shit. Citrus, pine, and so much juicy hoppiness. Wet-hopped beers are all the rage at the moment, even someone woke up the NYT to write an article about the phenomenon, and I finished off the sole four-pack I had of Harvest with a quickness. Unfortunately, I can’t get Founders in NYC, but if I could, I would be absolutely plowing through bottles of this like some frat boy participating in a power hour until this fall season’s limited run was completely drank up. It’s that good. Not to be missed.