Living La Vida Lycra

"It's a...a thingummy..."
"A what, dear?" asked d.
"A...a...y'know, like a corset..."
"Nnnnno dear. I think you mean a girdle."
"I do! Yes...a girdle. I'm wearing a girdle!"

Ahem... There are very, very good reasons why fat men should never, under any circumstances, wear Lycra. Lycra is not a flattering invention. It's pretty much the clothing equivalent of a plastic bag, into which, if you happen to be a fat fuck and penis-owner, you ladle the pallid overcooked custard of your flab should you decide to succumb to gym convention and wear sports clothing. I'm faaaairly certain I've taken more than one oath during the course of my life, to the effect that I would never be seen, alive, dead, or in any appreciable state of zombification, in Lycra by another human being. And Tuesday will see those oaths broken, rendered ineffectual by the simple desire to be able to sit down painlessly after less than three days following a spin class. We got a pair of proper Lycra cycling shorts on Saturday, with what amounts to a foamy diaper inserted for the protection of the cycler's ass. I look, as you might expect, inexpressibly hideous in them, with a muffin-top of blackened, bruised belly flesh drooping over their elasticated nastiness. I look like the bastard love child of Homer Simpson and Wolverine! I'm living la Vida Lycra, baby - let's get spinning!