I was out of clean underwear
and decided
borrowing one of your thongs
for the day
was somehow
a good idea,
if only to keep my boys in place.
I slipped them on
and heard you
fart across the room;
a small cannon let loose
while dreaming,
uncovered by sheets and piety.
My grin became grimace
as thin fabric sliced butt cheeks
like floss to tender gums
and second-guessed if commando
weren't the better option.
I shook the thought
and pulled pants up over
chafing thighs,
fighting urges
to pick my butt
on the way down to the bus.
I took a seat and opened
up the paper, scanning classifieds
and comic strips
when gravelly voice behind me spoke.
'That's a lovely shade of pink
you're wearing. Got any plans tonight?'�
Goosebumps pimpled neck
as my fingers felt my back.
The straps had crept
and exposed themselves
putting my anal cherry
in mortal danger.
A quick exodus
at the next bus stop
had me sprinting for shelter,
tucking shirt into pants
mid-scamper and misplacing
testicles in the process.
I took the long way to work
showed up late
and fondling testes,
attempting comfort
in your tight little panties.
The first piss break I got,
3 hours later (after lunch),
I tried to rip them off with a quickness
without de-pantsing myself first.
I felt my taint scream out in anger
as the floss rubbed me raw.
My eyes teared up,
the thong wouldn't rip,
and my balls had declared
death wishes against me.
I slumped to the floor
and unbuttoned my draws
removing the pretty pink problem.
Walking by stalls,
I massaged my balls,
and tossed the torn fabric away.
So these are your replacements,
boxed up and tied with bow.
Happy Birthday, dear,
I just wanted you to know,
the underpants gnomes don't exist,
yours truly just lacks common sense.

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