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I wore underwear today. It felt good. There are some of you that may not appreciate the luxury of having a clean pair of underwear waiting for you when you wake up in the morning. There are also those of you who possess the bravery to forego this modern-day convenience. In this world of consumeristic excess, I salute any such person with the ability to do without any commodity that is commonly seen as a necessity. I am also slightly turned on by your decision to go without your under-things. I, on the other hand, have discovered that I do not have what it takes to go without two layers of fabric on my most sensitive of areas.

I began the experiment by accident. I never planned to test my tolerance for a lack of undergarments. It was just a simple matter of forgetting to throw my boxers and briefs in with the wash on laundry day. Come the next morning, I was left with a decision, do I soil my bits and pieces with dirty underpants, or do I simply go without the garments which I have been led to believe I require for daily wear?

The decision was not difficult. I was overjoyed by the idea of going all day being completely naked right underneath my pants, and quickly noticed the feeling of freedom that now flowed from my unrestricted loins. Hard day at the office? Not anymore. During stressful phone calls, I could just sit back and think "so what if this client is angry with me. I'm not wearing any underwear." Suddenly I had a dozen more reasons to smile. Suddenly, I knew what it meant to be free.

I almost switched over for good when I spilled a soda on my lap at lunch and realized that due to the quickness with which denim dries, I would not be cursed with a sticky crotch all day. I began to wonder why anybody ever decided to wear underwear in the first place other than to prolong the ever-so-wonderful time of undressing before sex. That must have been it. This would also explain the extravagant dresses worn in the 19th century. Underwear is only there to be taken off slow and sexy--that's all. Other than that, it's a mere inconvenience.

Or so I thought.

On the second day, my laundry still not done, I wore corduroys on the lower half of my body. The day began with similar feelings to those I got with my blue jeans--a carefree feeling of liberation approaching euphoria. But then, after a long day of work that involved more heavy lifting than I had expected, I noticed something unpleasant. Rather than having a place for all of my sweaty deposits to collect, my perspiratory waste simply hovered all over my pants, leaving me with the feeling of wading in my own perspiration. Conclusion of the experiment: underwear DOES serve a purpose, a very purposeful one too.

But it wasn't over. I didn't get the chance to wash my clothes that night, and was left to suffer through another day of sweat-drenched loins getting sweatier and sweatier with every restaurant booth or car seat I placed my ass upon. What was liberation only days before was now slavery. I knew I couldn't go on like this much longer. I felt dirty. I felt, like, umm... some synonym for dirty, and unclean too, most especially unclean, and then...

just when I thought it would never end....

I washed my clothes.

The anticlimactic end.