underwear

I recently had a response to my profile on an online matches site. My primary purpose was to make new friends here in the Los Angeles area where, as looks, money, and glamour run through the veins of a culture doped up by fantasy mongering, can be one of the cruelest places on earth to sustain substantial relationships, much less meet people of substance. The man who responded was a very beautiful hunky athlete around my age, with a handsome chiseled face, dark curly brown hair, a voice that can only be described as hushed and masculine, and a body sculpted by years of weight training and cycling races.

He loved both men and women, and he had a fetish for black or red satin underwear. I told him over the phone that I own a pair of black satin jersey Helmut Lang briefs, the ones that cost $75 a pair. I told him that I rarely wear them, but when I do I feel as if I have a great edge over the world outside my clothes. Our conversation that evening had to end soon, but then a bit later that night he called and left a very graphic message, one intimated while he was already in bed alone. I'm still trying to figure out how to save that message for posterity.