What Your Skivvies Say About You

...or, "What The Underwear He Sports The First Time You Have Sex Proclaims About His Personality".


Manties: I don't have any taste in underwear whatsoever. To me, animal prints, earth tones and muted pastels on males are the hallmarks of fashion; clearly, I haven't a clue. I like my balls gripped in a sweat-inducing vise all day, and I misguidedly wear my VML (Visible Manty Lines) with pride. Also, based on my fondness for the low-slung plum-smugglers, I think I'm European.


Boxers: I'm a classic kinda guy; I believe in flexibility, comfort, and freedom. I am able to express myself freely: stars-and-bars one day, prints of tiny little underpants the next. I'm easy-going, not too vain, and pretty much just your plain, ordinary Average Joe. I'm generally likeable, but in unfavorable situations, I can be a royal pain in the ass.


Boxer-Briefs: I am walking sex, and I know it. I relish the best of both worlds, and I like attention. I spend a lot of time cultivating my physique, and I want you to appreciate it as much as I do. I like freedom of movement with just enough security, and I'm all about form and functionality when it comes to my choices. Also, when it comes to matters of sex, I'm only as faithful as my options.


Tighty-Whities: As far as maturity and mental development go, I peaked in the second grade. My idea of accomplishment is winning an internet flamewar. I can't cook, and there's a good chance my mother still does my laundry. Also, I couldn't get laid if I walked into a whorehouse wrapped in treasury bills.


Thong: I'm cheesier than a rainforest snatch. And I'm a reluctant (or not) 3 on the Kinsey scale. I think very highly of myself. People call me narcissistic and egotistical, I call myself "awesome" because I know they're just jealous. I spend my disposable income trying to enhance my physical self because there is nothing more for me to offer. I tend to cultivate eccentricities and brag about my dubious achievements in order to distract people from the fact that I am completely deviod of personality.


Low-rise animal-print briefs: I'm an old, rich playboy, with leathery skin and hairplugs, several million in offshore accounts, a serious drinking problem, and a briefcase full of cocaine. I desperately cling to the wild habits and fast women of my youth, not realizing that the nubile young gold-diggers tanning their fake tits (which I paid for) on my yacht giggle cruelly at my saggy ass cheeks whenever I turn my back.


Squarecuts: I'm gay. Abercrombie/frat-boy, but gay nevertheless. I'm unbelievably hot, endearingly amicable, and women love me.


French-cut briefs: Gay or not, I'm exceptionally flamboyant. I gesticulate wildly and spout witty catch-phrases. And I wear these 'cause they make me look fabulous!


Jock-strap: I ran out of clean underwear, and I hate doing laundry. Also, the cup makes my junk look bigger. Plus, hey... no skidmarks! That's a positive, isn't it?


Silk boxers: I aspire to be the next Hugh Hefner. Or Evander Holyfield. I'm not sure which. Either way, I'm incredibly scattered and just don't grasp the practicality of breathable unmentionables.


See-through / fishnet nut-huggers: I'm a chorus line member of Chippendale's. I spend my lapdance income on coke, pills, and anabolic steroids. I'm not gay, but I have been known to fuck several of the dancers I work with. I pass my downtime in seedy scene bars with dodgy people, and I have been known to blow patrons in the restroom if I get enough booze and/or crystal meth in me.

Edited for you underpants-shunning types:


Commando: The good news is, what you see is what you get. The bad news is, what you see is what you get.