Everyday someone new dons Lycra for the first time. Anytime you hear a church bell toll, this is why. Those first few steps out into public can be harrowing. You’re coming out. Not exactly of a closet, but you’re ensuring the world, that you do indeed have a penis and all the lying in the world about it’s size cannot be hidden anymore.
Lycra stretches but it don’t lie.
I didn’t have a large group of similarly poorly dressed males to usher me into the brotherhood. My birth into the fold occurred in Washington DC 1992. I became a messenger. At which point I decided to encase my genitals in the Dupont created fabric. I imagined them like like Han Solo when he was frozen in carbonite.
Since my indoctrination occurred during the winter time, there was considerable shrinkage. Probably for the best. It took me a couple of months to comfortably traipse into an office, approach a receptionist and tell her with a wink and nod that I had a package for her. It wasn’t really a line, but if it worked all the better. However it did not.
DC did turn out to be Lycra friendly. Black men by the thousands in tight fitting fabric. It was liberating yet strange. I tried to avert my eyes from others guys packages as a courtesy, but some guys just had genitals that just begged to admired. Not gay, just saying.
Now wearing Lycra feels like second nature. I wore it almost everyday for years on end, to the point where I lost any sense of fashion that didn’t involve a chamois or a rear multi-pocketed shirt. Today they feel like an old pair of slippers when I put them on. Now that I’m a civilian, I don’t live in them anymore, don’t go out drinking in them, rarely dine in them and never attend political functions in them. Apparently it’s in poor taste in some circles. No circle I want to be in.
My love affair with Lycra has spanned decades. When it’s all said and done, they will outlive me and find their way into a landfill taking all the adventures we had together with them. My Lycra knows me best. I guess this is a nod to them.