#308 – Doctor’s Orders

I’m wearing women’s panties for the first time, because I have to! In fact, I’m following doctor’s orders, more or less. I’ve found the feminine items surprisingly comfortable too — so much so that I briefly considered donning them permanently. But that was before today’s taunting smacked some sense into me.

A couple of days ago, Little Richard (as I refer to my penis) suffered horrendous chafing after I wore unsuitable shorts during overlong sessions on a treadmill and elliptical machine. His little helmet head looked like it’d been raked with a cheese grater. It bled too! In his sensitive state, even my plain boxers stung like the dickens!

The doctor I informed of my situation suggested wearing panties for a few days, since they’d feel more soothing to the touch than a man’s underwear. Given my extreme discomfort, I cast normal misgivings aside. I paid a visit to “Victoria’s Secret,” where I purchased several soft, silky undies “for my wife.” I chose the manliest ones I could find: stark white, and bereft of lace and other frills.

The panties have proved a godsend. In the two days I’ve worn them, Little Richard’s condition has improved noticeably, and I’ve managed to function without undue pain. This morning, I even believed myself sufficiently healed to hazard a round of golf with a client and his friends.

I’ve grown so at ease in my new unmentionables that I forgot I’d worn them. I was reminded of the fact while donning golf attire in the country club’s locker room. When I removed my slacks, one of our foursome disgustedly blurted: “What the? Are you wearing women’s panties?”

Refusing to be cowed, I answered proudly: “Yep; but only because I injured my pecker, and a doctor told me to try women’s underwear until I’ve healed.”

In the moments spent slipping on my golf trousers, I received the same shocked reactions from others as they wandered into the room. I offered each of them the same explanation.

My client was first to raise a salient question: “Which doctor?”

I answered: “Doctor Zeitergast.”

One of the other guys chimed in: “I know a ‘Doctor Zeitergast:’ Stephanie Zeitergast. She’s my wife’s gynecologist!”

“A fine one too, and she knows what she’s talking about!” I defensively exclaimed.

Alas, my bravado vanished by the time I exited the country club this afternoon. I started to crack when my finger blistered on the front nine, and someone suggested I let my gynecologist take a look at it. Similar obnoxious remarks left me cringing straight through the eighteenth hole. Yet all those digs paled in comparison to the not-so-helpful assistance which fully broke my resolve. After I discovered fresh blood staining my undergarment upon the conclusion of our round, my client handed me a tampon he’d procured from a female golfer and said: “Richard, I borrowed this for you. Now that you’ve had your first period, you should do what my wife does: keep a couple in your purse … along with some maxi-pads for those heavy flow days!”

Surprisingly comfortable, and almost manly!


#308 – Doctor’s Orders — 2 Comments

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