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:
This is what I get for “Buy 4, get one pair free” at Victoria’s Secret!
“Emulating Jones in every manner”? Hmph!
ok…while i admit a peek into your skivvy drawer was not what i was expecting, i must admit i got no small amount of amusement from your tweets from that night. and reading that you are now semi-obsessed with this cartoon of a man? priceless. here’s to jealous spouses 😉
I must say, I’ve never run across a blog post that not only gave a glimpse into a friend’s underwear drawer; I’ve never run across a woman who’d be so nonplussed about her husband blogging about (even showing) her underwear! Clearly I’ve been reading strictly business blogs for too long.
You two are blessed with each other – thanks for sharing a little of what makes it work so well!
Now I’m so curious! If Suzame is semi-obsessed, there MUST be something to his charm. Who knows, maybe there will be a Tom Jones concert in my future. NEVER thought I would think that before reading this, though!
Janet — She is a gem indeed. I was a bit worried how she might react but should have known she’d roll with it.
Angie — Suzame claims I exaggerated her degree of obsession. I’m skeptical. She’s probably ordered CDs that she secretly plays at work. And, she did mention something about me getting medallions to wear around my neck.
— Mike