Last night My Royal Consort accidentally let slip one of the most closely guarded secrets of Dude Land. I’m not sure how it happened—maybe it was the glass of wine by the campfire following our relaxing dinner that loosened his tongue. I can’t say for sure.
I was feeling pretty chill too, but not so mellow that I didn’t fully appreciate the magnitude of what he inadvertently revealed to me in an unguarded moment.
Let’s just say that my hand found its way into his pocket and I was struck by how deep those pockets are, and by the unfettered access that they offer to the southern latitudes. Funny, my pockets aren’t deep like that on any of my jeans. Do all your jeans have those deep pockets? I asked.
I then invited My Royal Consort to check out my pockets, and as predicted, he snorted at their puniness. While it is true that for vanity’s sake, I would never interfere with “the line” by stuffing either of my pockets, front or back, with anything more substantial than a rolling paper, I felt cheated that I didn’t at least have the option of stashing something larger in there if I needed to.
So this means a dude can be anywhere, talking to anyone, and have his hand on his John Thomas with no one being the wiser? I asked, incredulous. Yup, he replied. Not that I know anyone who would do that, he back pedaled.
And, knowing that My Royal Consort is the soul of propriety, I believe him when he says he has never played pocket pool while talking to my mom, or my sister-in-law, or his dental hygienist. Yet, he does tend to wear loose flannel shirts and baggy T-shirts that he does not tuck in.
But what about all the other guys? They may not all be as fine and upstanding as My Royal Consort. I will never again feel as sanguine about talking to guys with their hands in their pockets. I thought back to all the conversations I have had recently with the important men in my life. My financial adviser? No, no way! He would never! My doctor? Impossible. The lab coat wouldn’t allow it. My car mechanic? The manager at the bank? Think! Think! Did they have their hands in their pockets or not?!
The feminist in me feels a little miffed that reasonably proportioned pockets can’t be engineered into our skinny jeans. What if we girls need to pack a grenade, or a Leatherman during the apocalypse? Pretty much the only thing our pockets can accommodate is a condom, or maybe some heirloom seeds for the post-apocalypse Victory Garden.
On the other hand, maybe I should stop framing this as a feminist issue. I suspect that the deep pockets were designed not for important manly utilitarian purposes, but solely for the purpose of easy access. Since we ladies do not have the same anxieties about loss that the men have, and tend to take it for granted that our lady-bits will not fall off or get stolen by a snapping turtle, we can get through the day comfortably without constant tactile reassurance that everything is where it should be.
As a guest-fem visiting Dude Land with nothing more than a working visa, I could get in hot water if anyone ever found out that I performed a secret pocket survey and actually took pictures. And, I hate to think the horrible fate that awaits My Royal Consort if it was ever made public that he spilled the beans. He could be stripped of his pockets and forced to wear skinny jeans and tank tops.
And all this time you thought “deep pockets” was a financial term!
Shouldn’t it be called Will U, or maybe, Will I?
Shouldn’t it be called Will U?
Well you’ve only gone and figured the whole thing out. Our manhood stays under the hood most of the time so it’s important to check that the goods are still good under the hood. The nightmare scenario occurs when it’s time to come out to play and he can’t be found. We also name the good stuff. Mine is called Will Y.