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I don’t wear women’s underwear—not unless it’s part of the foreplay.  I mean I like silk panties and skimpy negligee as much as the next guy but that usually looks better on her.  The same applies to fishnet stockings which usually just get stuck on the hair of my legs anyway.  I want to be cool.  I want to be a hip kinkster but I have my insecurities.

Sure, I played high school football and panty hose came in handy on those cooler days when white stuff plummeted from the sky and wind chills sought to rival Antarctica.  I know all about Broadway Joe Namath and his old fashion fetishes.

But Oakland Raiders aside, it’s not something we readily admit.  I mean, the sheer does feel good and the frilly lace is kind of nice but I am supposed to be a man.  I won’t look good in the J.C. Penny’s window modeling my corset.  I couldn’t do justice to the pink chemise that didn’t do her justice.

It just wouldn’t serve my reputation all that well if I bent over at the water cooler and revealed a thong or Florentine fancy lace.  It’s great for laughs in an Adam Sandler flick but there’s not much depth there.  It seems like something we really ought keep to ourselves.