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Posted by Wetnboy on December 30, 2020 at 20:16:49

You always hear that parents talk to kids around a certain age about the birds and the bees. Mine never did – guess they left that topic to the sex education classes we got in Junior High (Middle School to many). However, I do distinctly remember a talk from my Dad relating to my umm, wet clothes activities (uh, oh) when I was age 13.

I was in 8th Grade – 1973 and that year we had lots of snow which would drift up higher around the house and I surely wasn’t going to miss getting out in that! I was the one outside in it for hours at a time. Other kids, my sister included, would get cold and go inside to warm up. I tried that but getting back into your already wet clothes and going back out in the cold would chill me so I did better just staying out with no break. To last that long required proper attire and I’d outgrown the snowsuit days of childhood long ago. My approach was to layer. On top I’d have on a white T-shirt, a plaid flannel button up shirt, a sweatshirt and a winter coat. On bottom I’d have on two pair of tighty whitey briefs, a pair of long johns and two pair of those old Tough-Skin Jeans. I’d have on two layers and sometimes even three of calf length white socks inside my boots and wear a stocking cap rolled double over the ears along with heavy gloves. That winter we had heavy snow often and even had a couple of ‘snow days’ off school. I’d go outside to mess around while my much younger sister (7 yrs. old) and her friends from the neighborhood would be making a snowman in our front yard and would get stuck not able to finish rolling the huge snowball sections and not able to lift the upper ones into place. So being the “loving and kind’ (at least for the moment) big brother, I’d get on my knees and push the bottom snowball as far as I could making it as large as possible before helping them finish the middle one and then lift the middle and top ones into place. I usually was the only one tall enough to poke eyes and carve a mouth on it too. Then in appreciation of my generous help they usually ganged up on me for a 3 on 1 snowball fight before getting cold and heading inside.

I would find myself the sole survivor of the cold, wet snow, so I’d go into the narrow backyard with the untouched pristine snow already pretty wet and would make a snow fort. I’d be in every position, sitting, kneeling and even laying in the snow as I pushed and scooped and packed the snow into walls as high as possible. Afterward there was a solid packed snow base remaining inside my fort from all my activity while scooping and building the walls. I’d further smooth the floor and level it out. I’d be completely soaked thru the layers of jeans and LJ and even the briefs as snow would stick and cling to my jeans as my body heat would slowly melt it and it and the wetness would soak in, and if it were a heavy wet snow, which also packed a lot better, I’d be really soaked and a lot sooner. Near the end of winter the previous year at age 12 I discovered I liked the feeling I got when laying on my stomach out there in cold wet clothes and sliding around enough to stimulate that wonderful new sensation. So at 13 I couldn’t wait to get soaked thru and for the others to give up and go inside so I could enjoy myself inside my private snow fort which then always resulted in creaming in my briefs. I’ll admit that with all those layers and being outside for so long that a couple of those times I needed other body fluid relief too before being ready to go in and the ‘chore’ of going in and removing boots, outer layer of jeans with all the snow stuck to them, coat, hat, and gloves all to walk thru the house to then get thru the other layers of jeans, LJ and briefs all for a quick *ee and then put all that back on to go back outside was not worth the effort and I figured I was already wet, so a couple times there were multiple fluids that needed rinsing out when I got inside.

We weren’t allowed to touch many things in the house, like Dad’s stereo, the thermostat, the stove and certainly not the washer and dryer. Oh, and microwave ovens just were coming out, but we didn’t have one. Mom did all the laundry twice a week on certain weekdays and NO extra loads were done as that would cost extra money for water and utilities to run the machines. We were to wear the same pants or jeans to school Mon and Tues. and another pair Wed thru Fri – only had 3 pair of ‘school’ pants back then to rotate over a two week period. We had to change out of ‘school clothes’ when we got home and put on ‘play clothes’ (that title became more appropriate as I got older!), so we didn’t wrinkle up the school clothes or maybe spill something on them.

After coming inside from the snow I’d grab some dry clothes and go into our tiny bathroom to extract myself from the layers of wet clothing and so I could quickly rinse the briefs and if necessary other layers. Basically most everything was soaked, damp or the white T was even sweaty. On the back of my bedroom door were two hooks on which I would hang ALL my wet clothes to ‘dry’. That house didn’t have forced air heat – meaning no (fan) blower. The furnace was in the basement and hot air rises, so heat simply gently rose meandering into the upper rooms, but without any real airflow. Sometimes I’d go outside two days in a row on weekends and since the previous days clothes were still very wet; I’d get another fresh set of ‘everything’ wet the next day. The sheer volume of wet clothes stacked on top of each other on my two large double hooks prevented most of them from drying much at all and resulted in them becoming musty smelling after two or three days. It was also questionable as to the effectiveness of my quick rinsing. So in comes Dad one day for ‘the talk’.

Dad: Son, (starting to close the door to my room), We need to have a talk… Me (thinking): I’ve heard to expect ‘the talk’. Dad (as door is closed and turning to look at me) …about your wet clothes. Me (just listening and thinking I was in BIG trouble). Dad: First, all those wet clothes in here are bunched up and piled tightly where air can’t get to them – and they stink! Me (sheepishly and hoping this is the extent of the conversation as my voice gets higher): I have them all hung up to dry! Dad: Yes, but they need air to be able to circulate around them to be able to dry and the way you have them they don’t stand a chance and are just staying wet and getting a damp musty smell. Me: Ok, I’ll spread them out around the room over chairs, the bedframe or even on the floor near the heat register so they get air. Oh, and I have a hook on the back of the closet door which I can use and leave the door open some. Dad: That will help. AND….., another thing…..about your underwear. Me: quiet and turning red listening. Dad: Your Mom does the laundry and it’s not fair to her to have to deal with that – the stains I’m talking about (although they were probably crispy feeling too!) Do you understand, I’m just saying it’s not fair to your Mom, so stop it please, at least for right now. When you get out on your own later on and are doing your own laundry you can do whatever you want to in your underwear, that’s entirely up to you, but for now knock it off!

Wow, did MY Dad really just give me his permission and blessing to do ‘whatever I wanted to in my underwear and jeans later on? Could I hear that again please? This seemed so out of character – Who was this masked man? He’s telling me he’s ok with it just so long as I’d be doing my own laundry, which I wasn’t allowed to do living at home. I was in stunned disbelief as he got up saying: “Now get those piles of wet clothes spread out in here so they dry” and left my room. I slowly got up and started sorting damp (musty) clothes (4 pair jeans, 2 long johns, 4 briefs, 2 sweatshirts, 2 white T’s, 2 flannel shirts, 4 to 6 pair of rancid stinking socks which I spread all over my room to start airing out. The wet laundry looked like a family of 4 boys had been caught in a downpour. After that I tried my ‘best’ to abide by Dad’s request, which we know in teen years, or even now is virtually impossible for many of us, but I for sure taught myself to immediately stuff a clean pair of briefs down the front of my jeans and sneak into the bathroom to change into them and thoroughly hand wash any briefs I had ‘used’ and then hang them out of sight in my closet with the door open some for ‘air’. My parents did respect the privacy of my closet.

Now normally you’d think that’s the end of the story, right? I thought so too for many years until as an adult I’m having lunch with my sister and her friend who I knew from church years ago. She’s a year younger than me and we had gone to youth group together. She was still going to that church; you know the one where the (new) Youth Pastor that replaced PG would preach against sex and include masturbation taking a verse from somewhere that had nothing at all to do with that and reading it ‘out of context’ and twisting his explanation around to make it sound like it did. That sent many of us on long guilt-trips and off into our adulthood with a lot of baggage. Fortunately, later I encountered a pastor at another church that helped me with all that. Now back to lunch where my sister’s friend who was still single and had grown up in a family of all girls was attempting to help one of her sisters with a nephew where the Dad was out of the picture. The boy was around 13 at the time. She had explained a situation to my sister hoping that since she had boys, which were much younger at that time, and had grown up with a brother (me) that my sister may know more about it than either she or her sister.

Since I was visiting, they arranged (more like set me up) to all have lunch. This is when casually they brought up a scenario very similar to my underwear laundry situation at 13 and wanted to know ‘”what’s up with that? – must be a boy thing”. I’m now flabbergasted as my sister said: “I know you did stuff in your underwear growing up because Mom told me something about it!” I what? Mom said what? I mumbled something evasive in reply trying and hoping to change the topic only to have her press harder. “Yeah, I know, Mom told me about having to deal with your underwear – can you explain what you were doing and why to help us understand?” Me: “Ah, no, I don’t want to go into that”. They pressed again saying “We only want to know so we can understand and help her sister with her boy who seems to have the same ‘issue that you had back then”. Me (again): Sorry, I’m not going to discuss that. Talk about another ‘unexpected’ talk!

If I wasn’t just visiting briefly I’d have volunteered to talk to the boy I’d have taught him how to properly wash (even using soap) things out and hang (hide) to dry and then fluff well before tossing into the laundry.

Guys, is it only me who has this stuff happen? How is it that this stuff happens to ME? Huh?

I was impressed that Dad actually showed some ‘understanding’ for once on a sensitive issue especially at my age at the time. Mom however, blabbed to my baby sister about it at some later point (AGHHHHHHHHHHHH!), which I only found out about many years later. I’m sure my sister got more ‘understanding’ later on as her boys got older, but I wasn’t about to have that discussion with her and her friend over lunch.

It’ll sure be interesting whatever comments any of you share on this one!

Stay safe and wet!

Follow Ups:

Re: The Talk(s) I didn't expect Wetguy 14:42:57 1/03/2021 (0)
Re: The Talk(s) I didn't expect Ian 15:25:04 1/02/2021 (0)
Re: The Talk(s) I didn't expect Muddybootsnlevis 20:56:00 1/01/2021 (0)
Re: The Talk(s) I didn't expect wetjumper 21:44:51 12/31/2020 (0)
Re: The Talk(s) I didn't expect Fozzy 07:32:10 12/31/2020 (0)

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