24 Hours in Derek Jeter’s Underwear
Feb 10 2014
Most professional athletes retire young and rich, which leaves them with a whole lifetime of leisure stretching out before them. To fill the void, many open restaurants or turn into motivational speakers, or just sit around gambling and smoking cigars, a la Michael Jordan. But Derek Jeter, the 39-year-old New York Yankees star known for his good looks and giving gift baskets to his one-night stands, appears to be prepping for his approaching retirement in a different way: by endorsing a fancy new line of $100 boxer briefs called Frigo RevolutionWear.
I got a pair of these superstar shorts at the Frigo launch party held in Manhattan in November, but it took me a couple of months to get around to trying them out—frankly, I was intimidated by them.
This underwear is very, very complicated. The leg holes have rubber rings inside them, so you have to tug them up your legs and thighs, pulling hair out along the way. You’re then tasked with rolling your dick and balls into as compact a sphere as you can make in order to cram your package into a pouch in the front of the underwear called the Frigo Zone. Does Jeter have a teeny weiner? That was my first thought as I rammed my twig-and-berries into the “zone.”
But once I got adjusted, the feeling was nice—my dick and balls were at perfect equilibrium. I couldn’t feel them hanging down as they usually did, but neither could I feel anything hoisting them up. My man-parts were literally levitating. For all I knew, I might have turned into a plastic-smooth Ken doll down there.
It’s a bewildering sensation (I’m not used to that much wind on my taint) and it also is really, really flattering from the side, as you can see from the photo. It always feels like one ball or the other is going to fall out, but they never do. If this is the way Jeter always feels, I can’t imagine what his life is like.
When I sat down at my desk at work, my balls didn’t touch the seat of the chair. My ghostly junk was four inches away from what I was sitting on—I could cross my legs with ease and pretty much ignore the fact that I had a penis, which after two and a half decades of always being conscious of it was kind of amazing. At one point my dick head migrated leftward and got caught in a Bermuda triangle created by the intersection of the hoisting straps, the Frigo sling pouch, and the exterior wall of the undies, which wasn’t fun, but when I had to pee it was no problem to whip it free from the pouch. Putting my guys back in the Zone, however, made me feel like I was forcing a puppy into a too-small crate.
I don’t know if Jeter wears his own underwear when he plays or when he’s out on the town. I can imagine that the Frigo Zone might become comfortable once you got used to it, and there could be that additional thrill of having your dick and balls levitated in a ludicrously expensive undergarment that plebs could never appreciate because they can’t afford it. All I know is that when I wore them to bed, my junk wrestled itself blissfully free of the Frigo Zone while I was asleep. I like to think that I’m pretty in tune with my body, so I tossed them in the laundry basket and forgot about them.
Yet I may forever wonder if my experience would have been more positive had I tried the higher-end version—it comes with vents in the butt, for farting.
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