Gonna be one a those days…

I’m late for the gym and my weekly bottoming to my personal Sadist. Mikey the fucker does not like it when I’m late. Should have gotten more sleep last night, but rather spent a late at the Abbey knocking out 2 extra dye jobs instead. Late, shit I hate to be late for things. Ok, need to get my gym clothes packed. Shoes, check. Shorts, check. Non-black t-shirt that does not have a logo or catch phrase from some fetish organization or sex toy manufacture across the front? (Can’t go scaring the locals too much) Check. Socks…. Damn where are my clean socks? Lets just pause here for a moment and wonder, is not the eternal hunt for matching clean socks a perfect metaphor for man kind’s eternal struggle? A quick dive into the sock box later I’m rewarded with two gym socks that look mostly like they belong together. Almost there, last thing I need is my jock. Now, I should pause here for a moment and inform those of you just tuning in that I’m really not much for underwear. I own a scant 3 pair. One, a pair of novelty boxers from Italy that bear an anatomically correct likeness of the naughty bits of Micalangelo’s David. One pair of frilly topping panties and my athletic supporter. You know, one of those black stretchy things that keeps Mr. Happy from flapping about when you run? Pulling open a drawer I spy the black elastic shape and stuff it into my bag and dash out the door with seconds to spare.

There will be no pre-workout coffee today.

I’m planning a full day of dye work at the Abbey after my work out so I am dressed appropriately. A black t-shirt announcing some sex toy maker and my dye stained jeans. As I shrug off the crimson streaked pants I note that I still have bits of crimson stains on my fingers as well and I think to myself, “Gee right now I must look like some kind of sex positive serial killer”. Next the shirt is replaced with something less offensive, Little Alex from A Clockwork Orange stares menacingly from my chest now. It is when I reach for my jock that I realize that this, this is not going to be my day. The bundle of black stretchy cotton turns out to be a pair of my darling wife’s panties. Yep, black cotton/spandex blend French cut from Victoria’s Secret.

What to do, do I go commando? Not wear anything under my shorts and worry about the aftermath of jogging for an hour with my wedding tackle flapping about or don the women’s panties? It certainly would not be the first time I have worn a pair; they are French cut so they might fit…. Best decide quickly, Mikey is waiting.

Yep, just not my day at all.