Lace Negotiations

The office lights buzzed faintly. Sam Wimple sat behind his desk with his knees pressed together, hands folded tightly in his lap like a nervous schoolboy. Beneath his slacks, the baby blue lace whispered every time he shifted. It wasn't discomfort—exactly. Just a hyper-awareness. Like his skin was holding its breath.

He didn't remember ever owning anything made of satin before. Not only was wearing something with that cut new, but the feel of the soft material against his private parts was more than a little distracting. If this was a prank, someone had gone all in. But who would replace all his underwear? And the dresser drawer was full of them. Every pair.

As long as he could get through the day without anyone noticing, Sam could always go shopping for more underwear. But for now, his panty-problem wasn't his focus. It was Terry Biggs.

His phone buzzed. An email from marketing. Subject line: "RE: Big Man Ads - Final Cuts"

His team had been working on new ads for Ms. Biggs' Big Man store, a retailer that handled clothes for larger men, tall, overweight, anyone who had a difficult time finding clothes off-the-rack at normal retailers. He remembered giving marching orders, brand awareness packages, but hadn't seen any of the creative yet. He was surprised to see that it had gotten to Final Cuts already. He clicked. The files were there. He opened the first one. It autoplayed.

A husky man strutted down a hallway in slow motion. The camera panned, lingering on his hips—he was wearing high-cut lavender lace panties. As he passed by a group of women seated at a table, they turned to ogle him. One raised her eyebrows and said, "I guess someone's been a good boy."

Cut to logo: BIG MAN. FOR MEN WHO PLEASE.

Sam's mouth fell open.

The second ad was worse.

A tall man lay on a bed, legs up against the headboard, naked but for a tiny pink thong, giggling while a much younger woman—clearly his girlfriend—tied a pink bow around his neck.

Voiceover: "Big Man. Be his best self… with her permission."

Sam slammed the laptop shut.

What the hell is going on?

The day before—literally yesterday—Big Man had been a rock-solid, no-nonsense retail brand for large men. Spokesmen for the store were football players, basketball players, big men who needed big clothes. Now suddenly it was pastel lace and sultry voiceovers and…

He looked down at his lap. Baby blue. Was the problem bigger than his own underwear drawer? Had something happened to the world? Was this normal now?!

Susan's voice crackled through the intercom.

"Ms. Biggs is here."

"Send her in," Sam muttered, trying to steel himself.

Terry Biggs didn't walk into a room so much as command it open. She strode in like the chair across from his desk had wronged her personally. Tall, imposing, with a crimson blouse tucked into slate-gray slacks, she carried the scent of leather and money.

"Ms. Biggs," Sam began, standing automatically, "thank you for—"

"Spare me the foreplay, Wimple," she said. "Let's talk about the ad. The disaster."

She sat, crossed one long leg over the other, and fixed him with a stare that could frost glass.

Sam cleared his throat. "I… actually just saw the final version a few minutes ago. I agree. This is completely the wrong direction for Big Man. Having the men on display in their... um... underthings is..."

"It's not the lace. That's all pretty standard stuff." Terry folded her hands. "It's the tone. The campaign implies that men wearing our products—panties like they've worn their entire lives, mind you—are somehow subservient. Childish. Needing female validation."

Sam blinked.

She went on. "You think that's going to land with our customers? A man who works hard all day, buys his own underwear with his own paycheck, and we suggest he needs a woman's approval to feel good about it? That he’s a 'good boy' for buying lavender? What century are we advertising to?"

Sam swallowed. "I agree. I'm shocked. This… this isn't what I expected at all."

"Isn't it your team?" she said, narrowing her eyes. "You're head of accounts."

"I am, yes," Sam said. "But I didn't see this version until this morning. I think—uh—I think someone made a last-minute change without going through proper channels."

It sounded plausible. It also sounded like he was panicking. Which, to be fair, he was. How was he to know that the universe had somehow rewritten itself overnight, that the predicament he found himself in was the norm for everyone else?

Terry leaned back, cool and powerful. "Nicole watched the second ad and nearly threw her espresso. Said it made her want to slap someone."

Sam tried to picture that. Terry's wife, Nicole, was a fashion model with cheekbones you could slice butter with and a reputation for high-maintenance tantrums. Yet Terry adored her. Those two as a couple was a mystery to Sam. Terry Biggs had a reputation of being hard to work with, in charge in every situation, and yet she had fallen for a much younger woman who seemed to walk all over her. Sure, Sam could see the physical attraction. Both women were drop-dead-gorgeous, in their own way. But relationships were so much more than physical. How they made it work was beyond his comprehension.

Sam rubbed his temples. "I'll get it fixed. Completely redone. Much more brand-aligned. You have my word."

"Good," she said, standing. "Your account's hanging by a thread. Just like those satin high-cuts you're clearly wearing under that suit."

Sam froze.

She smirked. "Baby blue's a good choice for your coloring. Nicole says men don't wear enough blue in their base layers."

"Thank you," he said, automatically.

And with that, Terry was gone.

Sam collapsed into his chair, ignoring the way the panties hugged his hips. Ignoring how normal everyone seemed to find this. Ignoring the creeping dread that maybe he was the only person left who remembered a world with boxers and briefs. He quickly pulled out his phone and searched "boxers".

Pictures of dogs.

"Boxers underwear"

Pictures of Mike Tyson wearing black lace French-cut panties.

Something was very wrong.