I bought this pair of Dickies briefs over 15 years ago, at a store near my apartment on 26th Street & Third Avenue in Manhattan. I think I bought two packages of three pairs each, six briefs in all. I believe this is the last pair of those that remains, and this fact saddens me. But that's okay! And no shame on Dickies. Clearly, someone who hangs on to briefs even when the briefs have little left of the qualities that make a piece of fabric into a brief--an item that can nestle, conceal, tease--that person is the one at fault, not the manufacturer of said item.
Dickies immediately discontinued this style of briefs as soon as I made my purchase, of course, almost as though some representative of theirs was observing me buying it through a two-way mirror and, alarmed that I would now act as a kind of unpaid ambassador for their brief underwear line, shut the whole thing down. Though I believe they still manufacture underwear, Dickies apparently feels there is more of a future for them today in boxer briefs, or the dreaded "Union suit." So my searches on Ebay for a stray, unopened package of these black briefs are frustrating and futile. Who buys Union suits, anyway--too scratchy! The measurements are off, and lead to walking with a slouch! Much less a boxer brief, which envelope and cover the region in question with no mystery...no chance for a stray, errant ball to escape and bob about dumbly...certainly no odd gym-time bulge down a left leg in sweat pants.
(I remember once walking up Sixth Avenue in Greenwich Village with, I believe, Kristin. Almost as an afterthought, I pulled a single ball out of my zipper and walked along like that for about a block. I then went to Pieces--the bar, silly!--and delighted the patrons there with it. The few people who noticed laughed and laughed, and no one thought to call the police. Or maybe they did? But then, I never stayed long enough at Pieces for the police to arrive. This is one way that getting older and slower has led to more frequent awkward contact with authority figures, but that is to be expected when one is free! Free as a bird, as is Nelly Furtado, and certainly as I am still, to this day).
I wish that underwear made by Calvin Klein or Tommy Hilfiger called to me in a lazily dirty way as the Dickies brand did. There is no double entendre to be displayed by choosing Papi. The most recent time I had to buy briefs, I went to Target and purchased a pack of their in-house brief brand, Goodfellow. I could at least think, well, maybe someone will think I'm not referring to myself as the fellow, but something else entirely... I cut corners with my double entendres these days. I want to reveal myself in briefs to someone who can at least meet the double entendre halfway, who can at least provide one damned entendre! I don't think I'll find such a someone in Nashville. (Certainly not with Dave, who I recently released of my own accord and who then twisted around in mid-air and released me, too, which I was proud of him for doing, even though it still stings a little. I have aged out, as they say, of certain relationships, even though the youth apparently still have yet to understand that).
Anyway. As many people know, I would rather cull an item than collect one, even a lover, and these briefs are now culled. I'll work on the rest of my garments over the next few weeks, and then hopefully I will board a plane, fall asleep, and open my eyes and find myself in Queens, with merely a box, a bag, and a backpack to show for my life. That is my plan. I don't know how decisions about what to discontinue and what to continue are made, but then again, if no one ever tells you, how are you supposed to know?
