Pouches, tucks and tape
Hello all. Today is a beautiful day, or so it seems from the window. I refuse to go outside because of my extreme hate of the heat and the almost instantaneous case of Swampass I get if I venture too far out into the light.
Swampass is very similar to Longball but farther back. Longball is an affliction men suffer from when they reach maturity where, when heated, their testicles hang lower and lower. The older you get the longer they get. I’m not sure if the ballsack is stretching because of gravity slowly pulling said sack earthward, or if it is your body’s way of trying to cool the boys.
Elongated, over-heated testes can lead to many problems, like accidently sitting on them when you get in the car, slamming forward too hard when you come to a quick stop or — the absolute worst — getting them wrapped in your swimsuit string. Dive at your own risk.
Luckily, I have a solution — well, I have something that has helped me. (Forgive me if I am oversharing, but I feel like it’s my duty as a part-time man to keep you guys informed when such a discovery has been made.) You gotta buy the underwear with the pouch. It is a literal pouch that keeps your balls separated from the rest of your junk.
Hanes has a version, but rather than a pouch, they have a panel on both sides of your C&Bs. The panels pull your stuff forward, but they don’t really keep them there and offer no real support. I ordered a few pair with the pouch from a website that has a lot of kitschy prints on their underwear, and I was pleasantly surprised by the quality. But the pouch was the game-changer: You drop your cojones in, and it holds them perfectly. It feels like you are being cupped by God.
I now have six pair, one for every day of the week. I love the weird and wonderful prints and patterns. I have a red pair with a rooster over my … you know. I have a pair with balloon animals in compromising positions and a very patriotic stars-and-stripes pair. (Two things I want to mention here: Yes, I know there are seven days in a week, but I might wear a pair for two days in a row depending on my funk level. Judge me all you want but I know you do it, too. Second, why the fuck are they called a pair of underwear if it is just a single object? It’s stupid.)
They have women’s underwear, too. (Or should I call them panties? Panties is a weird word; I will stick to calling them underwear.) Sorry ladies, but I don’t have more info on the comfort of women’s underwear. When I wear them, it is mostly to conceal a few things. It’s not what they were made for, but a good pair of panties — nope, underwear — will get the job done — if you get what I am saying. Keep in mind I am a drag queen. Tuckers, I’m talking about tuckers.
This is totally off subject, but when I first started drag, I thought you had to tape your dick back with duct tape. I didn’t have any drag queen friends at the time, so everything was trial and error, and boy howdy was that an error! My dumb ass decided to tape it down one night. I thought I was slick by putting a piece of toilet paper over the part of the tape that actually touched my peen, but I wasn’t smart enough to shave all of the hair in the surrounding area off. Full disclosure, I didn’t shave at all down there; didn’t even trim it.
The tape went from my belly button to the top of the crack of my ass. Like I said — stupid. I stood there in front of the mirror swearing I was Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs and immediately regretted every choice I have ever made in my entire life that led me to that moment.
I would say that I had a full beat mug on my face, but in those early days I only had one shade of make-up: Blush. It was on my eyes, my cheekbones and down my chest for cleavage. I didn’t wear lashes then because I thought I didn’t need them, because my own lashes were so long. I wore the pink and green Maybelline mascara that my mom wore. I was so blissfully ignorant.
Truthfully, Buffalo Bill wore more make-up than I did, and at least he knew how to tuck.
Then I tried to walk — Nope! Every hair down there was being pulled in every direction. I decided I should just rip it off.
The first pull was in the back, and it barely moved an inch, not to mention the pain. A few tugs later and I thought, “There has to be a better way to do this.” So, I got in the shower and turned on the hot water and slowly worked most of the tape off from my front and scrotal area.
I got it halfway down my ass crack in the back when I ran out of hot water. The water turned cold quickly and almost solidified the sticky on the tape, cementing the tape to the hair.
I only had my taint and some of my lower ass left that was still taped. I wanted so badly to call someone to come over to help yank the rest of the tape off, but I loved my friends too much to subject them to the quandary I had gotten myself into.
And that is a sight they would never get out of their minds. So, I manned the fuck up and gave one more super hard tug — which turned into six more tugs before it came off, along with some skin and most of my pride.
But I was free.
Yes, I may have shed a few tears when it was all over, but lesson learned. Soon after I learned that a tight, female stripper’s thong basically does the same thing and holds things in place. I never taped again.
Yes, my entire article this week is about ball hammock underwear and tucking disasters. But these past few weeks have been really difficult for many of us, so I wanted to keep this light and stupid. Hopefully it made you laugh, smile, cringe or roll your eyes. Either way, I hope it was a mini mental vacay.
Remember to always love more, bitch less and be fabulous! XOXO, Cassie Nova