What Happened When I Tried On Jennifer McDougall’s G-string

Wow, I can’t believe I just typed that

Jenny McD wrote a sexy piece the other day about how she plans to increase her Medium earnings by wearing a pink g-string and embracing the pheromonal musk from the absence of deodorant.

I thought maybe if it worked for Jenny it would work for me. They say in order to understand something you have to walk a mile in another man’s shoes. So, what if I walk a mile in Jenny’s g-string?

Let me tell you my harrowing tale.

I made a call to Jenny and told her my plan. She invited me over to check out her selection of unmentionables. (I must admit I was hoping to see evidence of the behemoth treasure chest of sex toys she has stashed, but there was none. She must have learned her lesson after her kids saw the evidence in a blaze of shame.)

Alas, there were mostly granny panties, and only a few of these shreds of molecules of intimate textiles. I would soon learn a few valuable reasons as to why.

As it turns out, these minuscule garments are not effective for male concealment. Everything about me is average, but even my average twig and berries would not remain situated properly in the single atom of fabric meant to house a more inverted organ. (Wait, is the vagina an organ? Probably. I don’t care. Don’t get mad. I’m no gynomorphologist.)

So, I pulled them up and put my jeans back on. The sheer fabric that felt good in my hands clearly wasn’t designed to provide much support. I pulled the tiny garment up to where it disappeared up my “bountiful ass,” as Jenny eloquently put it. I now knew what a “whale tail” felt like.

Whoa. This was way worse than just going commando. This is what you women wear sometimes? Why would you do this? Is this comfortable for some of you? WTF?

(I’m reminded of my father-in-law, Terry O, who tried to sit on a pool noodle last summer and lost control. He missed, and it blooped up between his legs. His eyes lit up and showed both shock and pleasure. He had lost his virginity to a pool noodle.)

Anyway, the skivvies were fine…

…for like 47 seconds. As I walked around testing them out, my plums fell out and became cut off from the rest of the gear. I wiggled around like a worm on a hook trying to inconspicuously get them to settle down, but it was hopeless. Nothing would stay put, and I couldn’t stand the feeling of something rubbing my innocent little puckerknuckle.

Nonetheless, I was willing to endure if this would increase my Medium earnings, as I was becoming desperate with my meager stipend. This is how desperate you can become to make it here. I mean, I think I’d rather give hand jobs in the alley behind Applebee’s than wear these things a minute longer, but here we are.

Lo and behold…

My Medium earnings are skyrocketing. Jennifer was right! These are some fucking magic panties! Or magic fucking panties! I don’t care! Look how many pennies I’ve made talking about them! Jennifer, you are a fucking magic panty money bags genius! Jenny McDuck is swimming in her magic panty money bin! Also, what’s that smell?

Oh, I’ve also stopped using deodorant. I smell like the rotting diaper in the dumpster behind Applebee’s.

Also, there’s lots of chaffing. This may be because these really aren’t made for dudes. I don’t know. I’m sure you’ve stopped reading by now anyway. I can say whatever I want because you’re probably busy throwing up in the dumpster behind Applebee's. Look to your left, and there you’ll find me giving hand jobs for claps. Hey, while you’re here, can I get some claps? Hey, there! Come on over. I’ve got something for you. ;)

I blame both Jennifer McDougall and Gemma Lee for this abomination.