BijouBlog

I used to wear loud pajamas with seventies colors that my brother said could “wake the dead,” even through my early twenties. I was used to I guess sleeping chastely, but I did not go completely in that direction, wearing a nightcap. 

I switched to sleeping in sweatpants as I matured in the adult world. I was already wearing them around the house all the time when I came out, but I never made the transition to wearing them out and about except when jogging. I don't know … I just feel like they are too casual for even mundane activities like shopping, and since they are my main sleepwear, I feel like I am going outside in my pajamas (I did that once when I lived in the dorms, but that's another story). 

Now it seems, the boundaries between sleepwear and casual everyday wear are more blurred. I've taught students who wear those flannel lounge pants (which for me are essentially glorified pajama bottoms) to class, and not just those who live in the dormitories. 
 

Thus, given the trend I mentioned above, seeing a guy in sweatpants on the subway or the bus is pretty routine these days, which leads me to my main point: one just doesn't notice the sweatpants. One notices the bulge. And if the guy is really hung, he “freeballs.” The loose-fitting wear allows some motion beneath one can see. 
 

Craigslist missed connections is replete with what I call the bulge gaze, usually quick and furtive, or furtively repetitive, in the gym, on the subway, in the Home Depot. I noticed the bulge in your sweatpants. Dude, you were freeballing when you got up from your seat in the subway. 

And combine the freeballing with the manspread, you've practically got enough vision of the cock to start creaming in your pants or sweatpants. 

I will share my one somewhat, and I say somewhat, erotic experience with sweatpants. I hosted a Halloween party many years ago. I dressed up as Joan Crawford as played  by Faye Dunaway in the Mommie Dearest jogging scene. (I must mention that men only wore sweatpants in the gym, and people, especially women, did not jog in public, in the 1930s.) I was wearing tight gray sweatpants. I slathered some mint julep masque on my face to combine that scene with the infamous wire hangers/forced bathroom cleaning scene. The costume was not a hit. The sweatpants were. 
 

A guest at the party, I think an acquaintance of a friend, was so enamoured of me in those sweatpants, that he pulled me into the bedroom and began feeling me over. He was not attractive to me, and I repelled his advances. I immediately complained to his friend, who basically told him he had to leave. Yes, my guest was drunk. Goodness, this sounds like sexual harassment, but I didn't think of it that way at that time. 

The next week I received in the mail (these were the days before the Internet) I guess what could be called a love letter or love poem. I apparently was so hot in those sweatpants. The sweatpants showed off my perfect ass. I received another letter and once more I complained to the mutual friend. 

Now I am thinking I should be so lucky to get fondled and stalked, at my age, but I must remember the guest was not cute. If it had been one of the other guests, the tall guy with the mustache wearing a tuxedo and harness boots, that would have been another story. 

I must admit since I lost 30 pounds I could probably buy a smaller size in sweatpants and maybe dare to wear them out to the Walgreens. 

Miracles do happen. Even when you are wearing sweatpants.