Super Fly

There's this thing called freeballing. That, for the average male, is a sort of russian-roulette you play with fate in hopes you won't have a heart attack, stroke, heavy thing fall on your head or any other reason to make the paramedics show
up at your workplace and have to pull your pants down in front of all your co-workers. Because freballing means you aren't wearing any underwear and should any of these scenarios come into play, your office mates will be staring at your naked dick
and be able to compare notes on size, girth and general aesthetics.

This is a karmic lottery I often play. I am the kind of guy who finds boxer shorts restrictive, much less the tugging, ongoing reminder that I have a penis due to its rubbing against some extra-snug tightie whities. I really just like being
able to flop around in a pair of jeans without having my underwear continually announce my crank like it was showing up at a society party. I have health issues that make this not a particularly wise decision. But I will always go for comfort over potentially lethal embarassment.

Getting dressed for work is not the same for me as it is most people. The general public chooses which coordinating outfit will best show them off as a professional; I select the one item from the wrinkled, pre-worn pile least covered in cat hair. I throw this in the dryer with a mostened fabric softener sheet: ten minutes later I'm good to go. So I did this, one day, failing to notice that the pants in question were somehow split wide open along the crotch seam.

Naturally this occured on one of my freeballing days.

I remember, in hindsight, thinking to myself on the bus ride to work: Man, I feel a slight breeze in places I shouldn't. Unfortunately, that was where it ended in that my other thoughts overweighed this momentary recognition in that I was far more deep into obsessing on 70's children programmng, why my boss was such a bitch, a recipie for spinach dip and other things far more important than that momentary recognition of a coolness where it wasn't supposed to be.

I made it into work, plopped down into my cubicle, and did what I did I was supposed to do. Unbeknownst to me, my balls and dick were hanging out of the slit in my pants.

My friend Lola, who was even above my boss's boss in terms of heirarchy, just happened to sit down in the cubicle next to me to check out a few things on the computer. She looked over and saw me typing merrily away, my three-piece-set dangling out of my split pants.

She told me, later, her very first thought: My God, he's lost his mind.

"Cha Cha!" she whispered, "Cha Cha!"

"What?"

"You're out!" she whispered, gesturing to my crotch area, "You're out!"

"Well, duh," I said, given that my sexuality was no real secret in the workplace.

"NO! YOU! ARE! HANGING! OUT!"

I looked to where she was pointing. There was my pee-pee, for all the world to see.

This would be a major problem anywhere, but as it was we worked for a company who provided services for people who had developmental disabilities and some of them just happened to be milling around the office at that very moment. They were a couple of guys who, although sometimes had girlfriends, were not above getting it on with one another from time to time.

It would probably not be a good thing for them to see my waggling johnson.

I hastily stuffed the offending flesh back into the split of my pants. The moment the boys we were serving left our part of the office I ran for the bathroom with a stapler and tape dispenser. Once inside, the plan was to staple my split seam together and cover it with tape, then pull my outer shirt down where this improvised handiwork could not be seen. I tried, but I am a moron. Third staple up nicked right through my scrotum. I howled like a woman giving birth.

Lola banged on the bathroom door. "Are you all right?"

"No!" I screamed, sounding like a mezzo soprano. "Go away!"

"What's wrong?" the guys we provided services for asked, loudly.

"Nothing!" Lola and I shouted in unison.

I stopped the bleeding with mucho toilet paper. After a while, I limped back to my desk, crouching in a very unseemly fashion so my shirt would cover my crotch.

"I'm going to McDonald's for lunch," Lola said. "Can I get you anything?"

"Maybe just a cup of ice," I said.