Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: underwear

I Finally Went Commando

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Long-time readers of this blog will tell you that I have a mild obsession with underwear. I have written at least five different posts about bras. I still get comments on a post from 2005 where I ask “Boxers or Briefs?” I even admitted that I once wore Sophia’s panties one a day when I ran out of underwear from not doing the laundry. In each of these posts, I would always get some joker telling me to “go commando.” At first, I didn’t even understand what the phrase meant. It sounded very war-like, and I am a lover, not a fighter.

And then I learned that “going commando” meant not wearing underwear at all.

Now there are many stereotypes about Jewish men.

“They kvetch a lot.”

“They are momma’s boys.”

“The have no idea how to change the oil in their car.”

“They start Ponzi schemes and steal billions of dollars.”

These stereotypes are not all true. I have NEVER started a Ponzi scheme and stolen billions of dollar. Of course, I would like to do that; I just don’t know how! It it sad really. Aren’t Jews supposed to be good with money? That would be so great during these economic times, when I am thinking of monetizing my blog. Today, I called my mother in Boca Raton and asked her if I was adopted, or maybe the love-child of Tony Finaldi in Apartment 3D. I am crappy with money, but I do have an insatiable attraction to pizza, and I would sooo go down on Marisa Tomei. I have loved her for years!

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Sigh. Anyway, the point is that Jewish men… do not go commando. It is written in the Torah.

Last night, my friend Barry called me up.

“Hey, I’m in the neighborhood.” he said. “You want to go look at the 1/2 of Shea Stadium still standing, and then go out?”

“Sure,” I said. “Better than sitting around reading some idiots on Twitter.” (not you, my favorite Twitter follower, the other 1000 people)

Note: by going out with Barry, it means that we would be going to the same diner that we have been going to since junior high, and sitting there for four hours, and talking about nothing important and bragging about my new iphone and showing him Google Earth, and complaining about marriage, and telling him that if I don’t get some pussy soon, I will just melt away into oblivion, which really isn’t that much different from what I was doing on Twitter earlier that evening.

I took a quick shower, and then remembered that I had no clean underwear. I had been wearing my last piece of underwear for two days straight. I had been so busy trying to learn how to use my manual can opener (see previous post), that I had not done the laundry (in three weeks).

“Screw it,” I said. “I’m gonna be as cool as my Gentile blog readers, who seem to have no problem going commando and having their dicks rub against the metalic zipper and being unsanitary when they drip all over their pants after they pee.”

For the first time in my life, on January 30, 2008, I went commando. And, on Shabbos.

I probably should have waited until the spring. Going commando in the freezing New York winter, when it is twenty degrees, is what my mother might say, “what a moron would do.” Especially when I had to wait outside for fifteen minutes, as my friend was late, and the blistering wind and bitter cold flew right under my pants where the precious jewels had no protection to fight off the frigid grasp of winter.

Punishment from God.

If someone finds my penis, which froze like an icicle, and fell off somewhere near the Long Island Expressway, please email me. Thank you.

Yes, I am Wearing Women’s Panties!

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Rachel Kramer Bussel writes a popular sex column for the Village Voice called “Lusty Lady.”  A couple of weeks ago, she wrote an article titled “F***ing and Feminism”.   In the article, Ms. Bussel criticized feminists for their ideological views on sex, one which pooh-poohs women doing anything “submissive” to men, such as giving them oral sex, getting bikini waxes, or enjoying being “spanked.”

“I may like to get spanked until I scream, but I still deserve to be treated as an intelligent human being. Submitting sexually doesn’t equal becoming a doormat outside the bedroom.”

I agree.  If a woman wants to be spanked, why not?  That doesn’t mean she can’t be a nuclear scientist or get equal pay for equal work.   Of course, if ALL she wanted to do all night was get spanked, I might wonder about some of her “personal issues,” but I would still recommend her to friends if she was a good neurologist.

What I found most interesting about the article was when Ms. Bussel talked about men’s sexuality:

“Men are also unfairly judged—as brutish horndogs selfishly out to get as much sex as they can. The truth is, they’re confused and constrained by the “macho” role too.”

She went on to talk about the desires of men that “aren’t sanctioned by popular culture,” such as wearing women’s panties, getting tied up, and other kinky stuff.  These men are frustrated, because they are afraid of opening up to their women.  What if their girlfriends/wives laugh at them?

The great irony to it all was — as I was reading this — I was wearing women’s panties.

Yes, I did just say that.   I was wearing women’s panties.

You expect complete candor and honesty when you come to Citizen of the Month, and damn it — you’re going to get it!  If you want to take me off your blogroll right now, let it be so.  I will not hide behind this facade anymore.

I will come “out” as a panty-wearing man as a public service to all men who want to express themselves in new and exciting ways.

This might come as a surprise to you, since I  normally seem pretty white bread.

“Neilochka, why WERE you wearing women’s panties?” you might ask.

Well, there is actually a story behind it.

Saturday night, Sophia and I went to a wedding.  It was a nice ceremony and romantic to see a couple so much in love.  During the ceremony, Sophia and I had a little discussion.  We decided that if we ever divorce and remarry, we’ll be each others’ best man/maid of honor.  Isn’t that cute?

The wedding had an “Italian” theme and the programs were all shaped like wine bottles.  The only glitch in the wedding was that the specialty wedding cake was decorated to look exactly like a large wheel of Italian cheese.  Unfortunately, people started slicing it up when they walked in, thinking it was an appetizer of real cheese.

Sophia and I danced for a large part of the evening.  It was a lot of fun.  We even re-danced the “first dance” from our own wedding — a swing dance to the Andrew Sisters’ Bir Mir Bis Du Shein.  Later that evening, we met a single woman who was by herself, so we invited her to dance with us.  Let me tell you — dancing with two women — that was as close to a threesome as I’m probably ever going to get!

The next day, I got up early because the radio station was calling me at 7:45 AM for my radio “interview” with Washington Post radio about Mel Gibson.  After the interview, I was wired.  I suggested to Sophia that we go have some breakfast..   She agreed.

Now, remember — Sophia and I are separated and live in two different homes.   As I started to get dressed to go out, I realized I only had my underwear from last night.  After all my dancing, I was all sweaty, and I certainly didn’t want to put on the same pair of underwear.

“Sophia, do you have any of my underwear around?”  I yelled.

“No, I think you took them all to New York.”

This was the trip we took to New York and the Berkshires several weeks back.  Which meant that most of my underwear were still in my luggage, sitting in my living room at the other apartment.

“I have no underwear!” I sobbed.

Now, in our past discussions on underwear, I learned that many of you like to go “commando,” which is an expression I had never encountered until I started blogging.   Let me just say, in the strongest terms possible, that I find going “commando” completely uncomfortable and unsafe.  God would not have created underwear if he meant man to be freely flopping all around like that — especially when there are dangerous zippers nearby, ready to snare their prey.

No, I would not go “commando.”

Instead, I went into Sophia’s underwear drawer.  I pushed aside the thongs (how do women wear those things?) and the granny underwear (hey, I’m fashionable!), and tried to find something that was as close to a male brief as possible.  My closest choice was a cotton yellow brief with red trim, and “I Love Curious George” written across the ass.  It didn’t fit perfectly; it looked like a small Speedo with Curious George’s face in front, but it would do until later.

And yes, I am still at Sophia’s right now  — and I am still wearing her panties!

I hope you realize how brave I am for telling you all this.  I hope this enables men all over the blogosphere to explore their own sexuality and not be afraid to experiment.   Men love to tell stories about getting into the panties of some woman.  But how many are confident enough to tell a story about getting into the panties of some woman — and I mean literally wearing them?!

Thank You for Your Support!

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I heard you all and listened.  Today I went out and bought my first pair of boxer-briefs. 

I am now a complete man.

Initial reactions to the big news:

Sophia:  Nice.

My Mother:  You paid fourteen dollars for one pair?!

My Friend Rob:  Are you sure David Sedaris started out by writing about his underwear?

Thanks! 

Moving on: Scots are the New Trendy Ones

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For my first HNT (Half-Nekkid Thursday) photo, I decided to wear what is the hottest new rage in menswear, Scottish-wear.   I had so much fun modeling this for a fashion-designer friend of mine,  Aiden Donnachaidh, that I just had to show you the results.

Those Scots are brilliant!

Forget John Stewart, Sarah Silverman, Krukoff, Spielberg, Citizen of the Month, and all those other trendy Jews.  

The Scots are up next!  

Enjoy my photo!   I’m a little shy doing this, so be gentle with the comments.

(thanks JJ)

Today on Blogebrity:  The Religious Hate Dave  (let the non-Jews get a little tsuris for once, sorry Dave at Blogography)

Feel the Bra

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It’s been a year and a half since Sophia and I separated, and I haven’t gone on one date.  Today I talked about this with Sophia.  I told her I was a little scared of getting intimate with another woman.

“You know what I’m talking about,” I told her.  “I have that little problem.”

“Ah, yes…”

For years, Sophia has been very understanding of this problem I have in the bedroom.  I’m surprised she even agreed to marry me because of my problem.  But gradually, she learned to take care of it herself and we accepted the status quo.

“But what if some new woman isn’t as understanding?” I pondered.

“Then you have a problem.  A big problem.”

I’m a little embarrassed to bring this up in a public forum, but my motto here is “always be honest with your beloved readers.”  So, here it goes:

I am terribly inept in undoing bras.

When I was younger, I used to play the clarinet in the school band.  I used to practice so much, that I think I must have injured something in my fingers to the point that it has given me poor dexterity in the handling of  complicated buttons and latches.  For years, I avoided women because of this problem.  Luckily, Sophia accepted me despite my handicap.  Once, before we were married, Sophia and I were making out, and she fell asleep waiting for me to undo her bra.

“What am I going to do?  What woman is every going to want such a poor bra un-doer as a lover?”

“You can always look for a woman who doesn’t wear one.”

“What about some of my readers like Brooke, who have nice racks.  I’m sure she wears a bra.”

“Well, maybe you need to ask them first if they wear a bra, so you’ll know to cross them off the list.  Or ask them to go bra-less on the date.  Or maybe they’ll still accept you despite it all.  I did, most of the time.”

“Be honest with me, Sophia.  Is this why we separated?”

“No comment.”

“There’s only one solution.  I need to practice.”

“Practice?”

“Yeah, you know like Rocky before the big match.  Or the Karate Kid.  I need to practice undoing bras.”

“How are you going to do that?”

I smiled knowingly at Sophia.

I opened up her “‘bra” drawer and took out an assortment of various bras of different colors and textures:  Bali, Wacoal, Maidenform, Cross Your Heart, Victoria’s Secret, Frederick’s of Hollywood and even some fancy expensive French stuff that I couldn’t pronounce.

“Start putting ’em on!” I said.

“Oh, you owe me big for this.  And I mean big!” she replied.

Sophia gathered up her breasts into the Bali No-Slip Strap Floral Brocade bra and latched up the hooks.  She took out a stopwatch.  

“OK, ready?  3-2-1, come and get em’!”

I rushed over to Sophia bra as she turned her back to me.  I tried to pull out the hooks but it was held tightly against her back.  Sophia’s ample bosom wasn’t helping things out either.   I was having trouble already.  I started to sweat.

“C’mon, Neilochka.  It’s not that complicated.”

“It is for me.”

“Come in from the top, place one finger under the hook and squeeze the hooks together.  You can do it.  Then just keep squeezing while you twist it.”

I place my finger under a hook and unlatched it.

“Got it!”

Sophia shook her head, sadly.

“Neilochka, you have to undo all four hooks to get it off.  Keep on going.  The clock is ticking.”

Finally, after much struggling, I undid all the hooks, and after some trouble untangling the bra straps caught in Sophia’s hair, the project was a success.  Well, not to Sophia:

“Ten minutes for one bra is absolutely pitiful.”

It was a low blow.  I hadn’t felt so inept since I failed woodshop in eighth grade for accidentally cutting the head off of my “duck-shaped” wooden memo holder.

“Aw forget it.”  I said.  “I’m just no good at this.  I’m never going to touch another woman’s breasts… ever.” I said disappointedly.

“No!” she shouted sternly.   “I care about your future.  What if we never get back together?  I want you to know this.  No women respects a man that can’t take off a bra.  You’re NOT going to give up.”

Sophia always had a way of inspiring me.  A way of pushing me to achieve greatness.

I lifted up the Maidenform. 

“Let’s do it!”

(start “Theme from Rocky”)

Da, da, daaaaaaah… da, da, daaaaaaah
Da, da, daaaaaaah… da, da, daaaaaaah

Statistics:

Playtex Cross Your Heart® Lightly Lined:  9 minutes

Wacoal’s Signature Support™  Sealmess Tailored Underwire:  7 minutes

Lily of France Be Sexy™ Demi Balconette:  12 minutes!

I was getting worse!

“I can’t do it!  I can’t do it!”

“What is the problem here?  What is holding you back?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you thinking about while you do this?”

“Duh!  What do you think?  Your breasts!  You know, holding them… looking at them…”

“Maybe that’s your problem.  You’re too interested in the results.  Right now, you’re still on the bra stage.  Try to make that a sensual moment in and of itself.”

“A sensual moment… with the bra?”

“Sure… women have a very close relationship with their bra.  Try to feel the bra while you take it off.  Feel the material.  Feel the way it’s been made.”

I examined the Victoria’s Secret Second Skin Satin bra.

“The label says it was made in China.”

“Just close your eyes and feel the bra… feel the hooks as you open them…”

Within 2 minutes the bra was flying off.

“Jeez, I think I got it!  It’s all a mental thing.  You have to FEEL THE BRA.”

I told Sophia to put on the fancy French bra and to get ready with the stopwatch.  I was ready for STAGE TWO!

(start Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger from Rocky III)

It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the cream of the fight
Risin’ up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night
And he’s watchin’ us all in the eye of the tiger
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Statistics after several attempts with bra:

Off in one minute…
Off in fifty five seconds…
Off in forty-seven seconds…
Off in thirty seconds… a personal best.

“Ten seconds, Neilochka.  From first contact to bra on the floor.  I’m so proud of you!”

“Thank you, Sophia.  I now feel I’m ready for anything.”

“You can buy me some dinner as my teaching fee.”

“Sure.”

Sophia went to her “bra” drawer and pulled out this odd-looking “corset.”

“Then, afterwards, we can start your advanced class.”

We never made it to dinner, because I fainted.

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