Tom Jones casts a primal spell

June 1, 2008

Tom Jones haunts me. The well-preserved and über manly entertainer, whose twitching hips persuade otherwise demure women to part with their panties, has gyrated into the sacred halls of my bedroom.

Last night, for the third consecutive day, my wife Suzame sang snippets of “She’s a Lady.” We were in bed. This the woman who rolled her eyes at the prospect of taking her mother to see Jones in Portland as a Mother’s Day gift. And I the husband who agreed she should spend a bundle to get good seats, ensuring her mom would have a memorable evening.

Before the concert, Suzame spoke as if it was impending drudgery. Not her thing, she said. Her favorite music, like mine, veers from the mainstream. Our concert tastes don’t include Vegas-style entertainers. At the time, I doubted Suzame could have named one of Jones’ signature songs. I warned her women go ga-ga over him. She seemed only vaguely aware of the underwear-throwing zealotry that Jones incites.

When Suzame returned home Thursday night, she bounced around the house, bopping and singing and emulating Jones in every manner. She described the very old lady with a cane, too infirm to stand, whom Jones transported into a state of utter joy. She described the hail of panties launched in Jones’ direction and the guttural shrieks that filled the concert hall when he brushed his torso with his hand or minutely rocked his hips. She described rushing the stage, joining the other crazed women dancing at Jones’ feet.

When it became apparent that Suzame may have enjoyed the concert more than her mom, whose highlight was spying a woman’s bra in the aisle, I asked her if she parted with any underwear — joking of course. She answered with a look of mock disgust. What about those blue ones with the big letters on the butt?

A hesitation before her denial, slight but deafening. She couldn’t have, of course. Would never. . .

This morning, I peaked into her panty drawer. An irrational act, yes. But it was clear that a well-built man ten years my senior and twenty-seven years older than Suzame, a man who in February insured his chest hair for $7 million with Lloyd’s of London, had cast a spell tapping into the most primal of urges.

I had to know the truth. Here’s what I found in the drawer:

Relief! And embarrassment at my pique of jealousy. But not too embarrassed to leave this behind in the drawer: