Boxer Rebellion

This one isn't that sexual. It's also out of sequence, since I was eight when this happened.


My oldest memories of underwear are good old Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities. There's a photo of me taken one night. I was eight and had left my bedroom to get a glass of water. My father had just bought a camera that night and took a picture of me in a white t-shirt and briefs. Not long after that, my father told me it was time to stop wearing little boy underwear and wear big boy underwear. Boxers. Okay, whatever you say. My parents had bought me some boxers and away went the white briefs.

In third grade, we had periodic bathroom breaks. The teacher would march the whole class, divided by sex to the restrooms and then we would enter the appropriate one according. At the urinals, the other boys quickly found that I was wearing something different underneath my pants. There is, of course, no greater crime among third graders than "different."

I was already the kid who was being teased by his classmate and called a fag. I didn't really know what the term meant, other than that it was so unspeakably bad it couldn't be repeated to adults. "He called me a bad name" was as specific as I could get. No one ever did anything about it.

One day, on the way home from school, I got stopped by three of my classmates, including one who a few years later would torment me on the bus (yeah, that bus). "Come with us." They hustled me down a path in some woods. Was I joining some sort of club? Nope.

They wanted to see my underwear. Was it true that I was wearing something different? I was told to drop trou or I'd get beaten up. Once my pants were around my ankles, they made me shuffle about as they looked at my boxers.

Then they pulled down my boxers and I had to shuffle about with my pants and boxers around my ankles. They laughed at me and then they all took off. When I was alone, I fixed my clothing and then ran home.

They did it a few times after that. Finally, I told my parents that I wanted to go back to briefs because, "the other boys were making fun of me." I refused to wear them again. The old underwear was still available and went back into my dresser. The boxers went goodbye and I wore white briefs again until college.

These days, I sometimes wear boxers. Then again, no one is threatening to punch me if I don't pull my pants down. Those who do want to see what's under my pants, take it further. And they're not laughing, either.