Worn on the Outside

There used to be a white, branded, Y-front.

It was made from the softest cotton and elastic. It was worn with a thrusty swagger because it stretched well, pulling across the front like Pinocchio in a balaclava. The Y-front was chosen for special occasions. In the hope of making a beginning with its rough and promising contours. But the Y-front was branded with bad luck. It just never got lucky.

Then one day, a no-occasion party happened. Not exactly a masked ball, but close. The party ended. Everyone left. Except, the Y-front and a pink lacy number, actually, the party's host and reason. Somewhere in the course of cleaning up, the Y-front felt a cotton and elastic pull towards the pink lacy number. And out it came, tearing through the teeth of its zipper door.

The Y-front finally got lucky. But not in the way he'd hoped for.

A sort of rubbing acquaintance with the pink lacy number followed. And then the 'skirtains' came down. The pink lacy number had other plans. It went down. Really down. The Y-front was also pulled down but just enough for a showing. Pinocchio was unmasked. Kissed and caressed. And then taken for a ride, through eager and burning lips and teeth and an expert tongue.

After awkward goodbyes and seeyousoons, the Y-front headed home, slobbery and satisfied, pulled across Pinocchio like a grinning mask. Back at home, just before the shower, the Y-front's wet patch showed a bloody red spot.

Pinocchio was bitten.

The white and bloody Y-front was duly tossed into the rubbish bin. And Pinocchio, bloody and painful, was laid up for a week in loose pyjamas and a water-proof band aid to stick to.

And the pink lacy number became history, never to be repeated or forgotten.