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For a year I have owned a pair of Fruit of the Loom blue boxers — waist size 34, though I’m easing into a comely 32 — with a curious stain. I think you’ll understand when I tell you that this stain changed my life.
At the time I made the discovery I had my first hot flash of spiritual PMS — which, to say the least, is scary. I worried: Am I on the down escalator of life? Should I mend my foolish ways? Am I doomed? But what I’m about to relate says otherwise.
As it turns out I nearly chucked the boxers into the washing machine for a colorfast workout, but the glimpse of that face with a beard and long hair mesmerized me. How weird I said to myself. That stain (if indeed it’s not a figment of imagination) looks familiar — human, but at the same time heavenly, downright neighborly.
Oh, come on now, I continued self-dialoging, alone in the unaccountably quiet laundry room, four quarters in hand. How can a stain of undetermined origin (I know my own freeform creations by heart) have shape, semblance, and sincerity? Somebody’s pulling my middle leg.
Yet, as I looked at that most beatific stain, beaming at me with a wondrous wink, I was moved to the core of my LGBTA-etc. inner child. “For God’s sake, don’t wash your boxers!” I heard a cling-free voice whisper into my detergent-free ear. “Your salvation has come at last.”
Well, dearly beloved readers, what choice had I but to follow that inspiration. At that hallowed moment I got down on my well-worn, surgically improved knees. “God be merciful to me a swinger. I shall treasure these boxers as I would indeed treasure the Holy Grail. If this be an otherworldly sign, I’ll never wear these sexy, formfitting Fruit of the Looms again. Amen.”
Having made this pledge I put this now-sanctified, unwashed, un-ironed garment into a reliquary I bought at St. Vincent Recalled Discount Relic Shop. Along with it I placed a wish list of changes I needed in my wayward, wanton, wicked, woe-begotten life. And so, wonderful miracles began.
Change your underwear, change your life . . .
Suddenly I became popular at every gay club I attended. I was hit upon constantly. Lap dancers refused to charge for terpsichorean favors rendered. My cellphone was flooded with dinner invites. I sold seven pieces of my wacky art at six-figure prices. I got the Grande Prix de Rome. (He was fun.)
And, miracle of miracle I looked in my mirror and got younger, younger, gloriously younger! (Thank you Sweet Doctor Jesus, if indeed that’s your miracle stain.) Well, what can I say? Life is full of unexpected surprises. And it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy — now age 36.
Yes, beloved PG readers, if the Blessed Mother can appear on a grill cheese sandwich — diagonally cut with owner teeth marks lovingly intact — and raise $28,000 on E-bay — why can’t a saint, a holy apparition, a son of man appear on a BTL columnist’s blue boxers (or blue suede shoes, for that matter)? Fair’s fairy.
Defrocked sinner though I may be, I’m also filled with an abundance of holiday cheer. During Xmas week I’ll be putting my miracle boxers on E-bay for bids. It’s a sacrifice, to be sure. In the meantime, make real miracles happen. Send donations to Triangle, Ruth Ellis House, WRAP, Affirmations. If you won’t be their supporter, who in heaven’s name will? (St. Peter? Pope Joan? Sister Scatterpin?)