brown underpants
by
dinah ruth
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Brown
underpants lay in the darkest corner of the drawer. A patient and sharp-eyed
observer would have noticed a quivering of the waist elastic, a shivering of
the tank panels and the merest whiffle of the
seams. And with a curiosity peaked only by those personalities of the very very mad, such an observer would have noticed small marks
on the back of the musty drawer – single strokes that seemed to mark off
days- such as a prisoner might make in a cell waiting his or her death or
perhaps Sunday recreation period. Brown underpants was
in no prison ... he was home and safe in his drawer but he was counting down
the days to something special. The day when he would sail over the heads of
the stuck-up silk boxer shorts, the cool cotton briefs in pastel colours and
the leather jock-strap who was oh so annoyingly camp… (grrr….
whoofled brown underpants whenever his polyester
seams where anywhere close to the leather and rubber trappings of old jockey
boy). Brown underpants was waiting for…. |
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