by Jack Junier

Created on: November 27, 2008

My name is Jack, and I fondle underwear in public.

"Hi, Jack!"

It's true. I poke holes in the shrink-wrap undwerwear prisons, and feel up the cottony goodness inside. Before you go thinking that I'm some kind of pervert, however, kindly allow me to explain.

It's time for me to shop for underwear, and I'm expecting the same kind of adventure as I've had every other time I've gone cotton-shopping. This wouldn't be necessary now if I wasn't such a klutz getting out of bed, stepping down before I've got my foot through the hard-to-miss leghole. The lovely elastic recovers from the trauma nicely, but cotton can only take so much stretching.

It's not as if I feel underwear up in a way that people would notice, unless the word "security" happens to be in their job descriptions. It's not like I'm salivating as I do it, or dropping cheap pickup lines at the sans-danglies mannequin groins so kindly modeling the plethora of colors available for my perusal. I'm very discreet with my fondling, and contrary to the tradional definition of the word, I don't get any of the benefits from this activity that fondling would normally bestow.

Really, I equate myself with women who, when shopping for bras, check the padding in the cups and search for the underwire to make sure that the garment won't sever their boobulars when they move. You wouldn't think that undergarments are all that different, but let me tell you, men have as much fun shopping for unders as do women.

The consideration is largely textile, but the elastic has to pass some tests as well. In spite of being cotton, I've encountered many manufacturers who appear to be selling underwear as a sideline to their sandpaper business. I have to know that, once I've left the house and will have no opportunity to swap underwear, the garment I'm looking at buying won't chafe several layers of skin off of my essentials. I'm just not "into" pain that way.

Then there's the kind of "ribbing" that really resembles corduroy. Ribbing is not for my pleasure. When at any time two of those little pipes can accomplish a pincer grip on any sensitive part of my anatomy, I find it hard to be relaxed in my environment. Such a thing can't be fixed without looking like I'm playing with myself, and I don't know anyone who wouldn't bat an eye at public pecker-pulling. Comments and attention would be drawn to my genital vicinity, and I try to avoid that where possible. If I was comfortable with the idea of having my package inspected, I'd have a webcam.

The

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