#briefsman

[notmuchtoconceal]

the simple pleasures you let yourself savor

[notmuchtoconceal]

endless hours of brotherfun

[notmuchtoconceal]

[jockbro91]

Looks like you like the idea of being dropped off on the side of the road in your tighty whities!

[notmuchtoconceal]

fitted. cut-off. whities

ideal indoor bro uniform

[notmuchtoconceal]

two bros. two briefs. basting under slacks and mesh. sharing gym time, swapping hardbodies, the outline of drooling fucksticks draped with white cotton bunched and baggy from a day of wear

pseudo-ancestor worship of 20th century mass consumer culture. what their fathers wore, what their brothers wore, glimpses in high school locker rooms, boys just like them smiling back from magazine spreads. a glorious tradition born of print ads from an age where men were men, work was work, and driving back against the herd unthinkable in the abattoir of conformity is king. pockets of a culture which survives down desolate roads of symmetrical concrete well into barren landscapes of the present day. the supreme banality of pockets stretched limp as the flies of their white bro briefs after a round of squats and deadlifts, of which only a meaty ass could fill the sagging cotton

athletic. vintage. standard issue

the rush of humiliation felt when glimpsed in locker rooms by men who do not understand, do not revel in this core of their identity, for they are not true, not part of the brotherhood. the need always felt, and seldom expressed by these stoic, middle-class faces to be bundled together in a bargain pack with all the other bros. the pretense of frugality, of economy, the utilitarianism of the work culture. lost in the emptiness of expectation, a void they can only fill crushed together by the trash compactor of the 21st century. souls born to fill cubicles, product manufactured for the landfill. taped together, cellophaned together, grinding gift-wrapped bulges to drench the pristine white cotton with a vacuum-sealed pool of sweat and pre. the runoff of their pale bodies its own contaminant, the stain of whiteness yellow with the reality of their own microbiology

say hello, Ty T. to your bro Y.T.

the shame, the comfort, the indifference, matriculated in two folds of machine-spun. the cock cradling fly-front. that aspiration towards classical masculinity which drives the male of the species to wear boyhood briefs well into adulthood

[wite9ra6onchas3r]

safe travels

[notmuchtoconceal]

holy fuck

TWs beaters & socks

first "soft" fetish i've ever had

[notmuchtoconceal]

Exceptionally pale skin makes me weak.

It naturally plays on the fundamental components of eroticism, that is translucency, layers and the interplay between the two.

Sneaking a peek. Seeing more than you should.

Catching a glimpse of a sweaty armpit up a sleeve. A brief bulge up a pair of shorts. The rib of a pair of socks between the cuffs of joggers and gym shoes. Wanting to bury your nose in there.

To lick. To smell.

To taste. To know.

How this is only exacerbated with cut-offs which expose more skin, more muscularity. A casual nip-slip now and then.

The pink-eye beckoning. Light catching dips and striations. The fur growing more matted and rank with each drop of effort and exertion. Creating a gloss, a sheen between rubber and wet dog.

How the shorts may sag, exposing the waistband. You can let your imagination run wild wondering what they got under there. A peek of the elastic, maybe the whole brand, both beckoning pantsing.

The odor of ripe gym socks filling the room when the sneaks kick off, toes wiggling through the damp cotton, that satisfying thud of the chunky soles still ringing in your ear.

Hence, white briefs stark beneath white nylon, upping the contrast.

White briefs beneath mesh shorts of any color where the white pops through the pores. White briefs so much whiter than any human flesh, it pops and bleeds into the surrounding air no matter the tone.

It's the same quality you see in oil paintings. How the layers catch the light and create ripples. The thickness, the sheen, the gloss. The pigment trapped within a viscosity which freezes it like amber.

This quality of eroticism isn't necessarily tied to race, it being primarily a dimension of physical light and chemistry, though this entanglement can be difficult to unknot, as many lacking in sophistication would naturally presume racist over aesthetic tendencies, with the exclusionary nature of high-brow posturing in Western civ circles not doing much to mute this presumption.

Latino, Mediterranean or Middle Eastern men can be just as pale as Central or Northern European ones, and what you'll usually see is the hues on display tend to be more brown than pink, as a foamy late or oat milk in coffee, though I take my morning glory black as night.

Men with tans, in spite of their ethnicity, tend to give off less of an intense erotic pull. Same as with men hairy as shag rugs.

This is simply due to the quality of opacity, of obscurity.

Skin which is opaque to the point that it becomes a mirror with no reflection tends to induce a subtly more cerebral mood.

Again, this is impossible -- despite the primacy of one's aesthethic concerns -- to totally disentangle from race, as different races form in response to different environmental pressures, hence individuals whose ancestors come from hotter and sunnier climes will naturally have tanner and thus more opacified skin.

Yet it also cannot be left unsaid, how translucency inherently invites the act of stripping. A uniform, tightly bound and bundled, yearns to be pulled off piece-by-piece. A hairy chest or long flowing head of hair all but demands to be buzzed down and nicked clean.

The shaving foam so much like the castration wound which birthed Aphrodite carrying the severed tendrils of hair along a current like a tide carrying debris to splay driftwood along a sandy shore.

Pale skin, through which you can see the machinery of the veins and muscles -- every artery stitched together as so tenderly described by Mary Shelly in regards to her finest literary creation -- subtly compels one to take a blade and peel it back, as one would a box cutter to the seam of tape holding a package delivery bound and wrapped.

The skin, once claimed, transmogrified into a trophy or cloak, befitting a man's primal instincts to hunt and dominate.

I confess, absolutely, when I see darker skinned men, I have far less of an instinctual pull to flay them alive. You may consider me racist for this if it flatters your agenda, though I would naturally argue against such a demeaning and over-simplified reading.

No doubt there is an erotic quality to more opacified skin which is currently escaping me, though no doubt also I'll have a more complete understanding of this soon enough. The beauty of onyx or obsidian, where you can see yourself distorted: something chitinous like the exoskeleton of a beetle bending the light into armor.

Human skin is such a complex subject, and yet we use the phrase "skin-deep" to imply superficiality. We pre-sort people into binary categories to uphold ancient tribal biases. We seldom simply look upon one another and appreciate openly our diverse arrays of exquisite beauty, no doubt for how the fear of speaking our thoughts aloud invites the biases and torments of others.

What a strange thing to think about the body's largest organ.