The night I met my boyfriend, I was in a bar, fending off the advances of remarkably uninteresting men. How did I know they were uninteresting? I used my standard litmus test: tell them that I’m a dude, and I have a penis the length of my forearm. Then I see how they react. If they get the joke, I drop it. If they don’t, I keep going, partly because I can’t believe they actually believe that I’m mid-op.
If I had been wearing these pants, I don’t think it would have been hard to convince anyone that I’m packing heat.
You know what the worst thing about these pants is? That, at this point, I’ve grown so accustomed to the horrors of the hareem pant that my first thought was “Wow, $118 is reasonable.”