20 November 2012
Fundoshi 4 All Salutes Underwear!
Whatever your fig leaf of choice, the once lowly loincloth has been elevated to new great heights -- from the intricate, elegant knotwork of the fundoshi so many of us here prefer, to the lux status symbol undergarments offered by big-name designers and gracing the hips of chiseled models, actors, and sports stars. So much fantasy is bound up in this first, simplest layer of fabric. All loincloths, whether they be made of tanned animal hide or have brand-name elastic waistbands "draw attention to the genitals at the same time as they conceal them," writes Otto Steinmayer in his paper The Loincloth Of Borneo (which is highly recommended reading if you're interested BTW). It's a vehicle of modesty as well as a cache-sexe, an "increment in sexual arousal or foreplay." The longer this leaf lingers under eyes, tongues and fingers, the harder the arrow grows in its quiver; the tauter the bowstring before its shivering release, the further the flight of the liquid silver.
At least in my experience!
That's porn actor Brent Corrigan in the four images above. What I wouldn't do to see him in a fundoshi! Or maybe wrapped up in a fundoshi by one of his muscular co-stars as part of a prolonged Asian-tinged sequence... "Brent Goes To Japan?"
So many of these models look truly great, not just attractive but somehow dignified and perfectly well-dressed, in just skivvies. Do you think they have what it takes to wear fundoshi, too?
(I suppose some of the photos above and below are technically swimwear, but the line between undergarments and beachwear gets pretty blurry from a purely visual stance. Much like fundoshi can be both outerwear and innerwear.)
While the fundoshi clearly predates underwear, I'm guessing many of us began our journey toward fundoshi-wearing with underwear. When I was very young, I gave underwear little thought. I wore the simple white briefs my family got me, probably at Sears or something. Around puberty I'd masturbate, sometimes even during class at school, then wash the cream-colored stains out in the sink after I got home. My hormones were buzzing like crazy, I think I spent whole years mostly erect. I never had wet dreams because I jacked off all the time, sometimes five times a day! That seems like a lot, is that a lot? Ironically, it was a Christian book on chastity that introduced me to the concept of masturbation, when I was ten. It didn't go into lots of detail, but basically said masturbation was rubbing your genitals until you got a tingly feeling and an emission of slippery, milky fluid, called semen. The Bible, it said, was strangely silent on the topic, but the author felt that masturbation could distract you from a pursuit of godly love, and possibly detract from your enjoyment of conventional sex after you were married.
Tingly sensation indeed! I spent the next ten years masturbating at least once every single day with no breaks I can remember. The sheer volume of semen I spilled boggles my mind.
Around my junior year in high school, it was clear that all the cool guys wore boxers. My parents still bought most of my clothes, so I didn't make a big deal about boxers, but when I went to college I bought a bunch of cotton boxers and a few pairs of flannel boxers. For about two years I wore boxers, simple white, light gray or light blue. No fancy patterns. I remember getting really drunk one night and a girl helping me to bed, undoing my belt and undressing me down to my boxers, even though I was pretty stumbly and slurry. They were light blue that night. Somehow in the attempt to brush my teeth I had accidentally flipped my toothbrush into the urinal in the common bathroom. I decided not to retrieve it.
Funny what small details you remember. I think around that time boxer briefs caught my eye, and I invested heavily in them. I liked the snugger feel, and the look. You couldn't really wear them around the dorm hallway like you could boxers... well, you could, but it was a touch more risqué since we lived in a coed dorm. Once on a camping trip none of us had swim trunks but it seemed all the guys swam in their boxers and I swam in my dark gray boxer briefs. No one commented or seemed to really notice, even.
It was after moving out of town for a while, to a more isolated place in the country, that I let my growing interest in fundoshi really take hold. I was alone in the country for long periods of time, and I could rip bedsheets lengthwise and wind them around my hips in a full-length mirror to my heart's content, until I got it just right. It was a sweetly erotic solitary pleasure, much like sipping a glass of wine alone at night with a good book. There was complete freedom and no pressure. I started wearing fundoshi to bed, and under my work clothes. I'd sun myself on the farmhouse roof outside my window, up among the leafy maple branches that overhung the house, invisible to anyone who wasn't a bird. I'd climb in the shower with my fundoshi still on, and unwind and wring it out it after it was thoroughly soaked.
Even from the beginning, despite its many visual similarities and common roles, I could feel that fundoshi was different. It wasn't just underwear. But it would be years more before I could articulate that.
Underwear. Fundoshi isn't really strictly underwear, I think we've covered that pretty well here. But in daily use, it takes on many of the same roles: support, a first layer, absorbant and wicking away sweat. Sexually it offers a nice surprise when your belt gets undone and your pants pushed down past your hips, maybe some puzzlement when they try to push the fundoshi down over your hips, too. It always seems to add to the restless building desire, in both parties, and if they give up you can give them a simple lesson before you give yourselves over to that mutual pursuit of tingly sensations.