Laundry Day Secrets

I didn't even notice him at first -- tall-ish, soft posture, hands twitching like he wasn't sure what to do with them. New guy energy, you know? When the instructor asked us to pick partners, he kind of drifted toward me, like he didn't want to seem eager. I liked that. It's always the confident ones who step on your toes.

His handshake was warm and dry, almost apologetic.

-- Uh, I'm Greg.

I smiled.

-- I'm Camila. Don't worry, I'm not that good either.

He looked relieved, then immediately stepped the wrong way on the warm-up.

Five minutes in, he loosened up. His steps were stiff, sure, but he had rhythm. And he actually listened -- to me, to the music, to the instructor's cues. That's rare.

When it came time to stretch, we all lined up on the side mat. I sat cross-legged and watched from the mirror. He stood at the back, facing away, legs apart, leaning slowly into a deep forward fold.

That's when I saw it.

A rip. Clean, sudden, loud enough.

His black track pants gave out right down the back seam. Not just a tear -- a full split. Like his ass had declared independence.

And what did it reveal?

White. Thin. Tightly clinging white briefs. The kind no adult man has any excuse for owning. The fabric was so snug it formed creases where skin should've been smooth. The outline was... clear. Not generous.

My mouth dropped open. So did the girl's beside me. Our gazes met in the mirror, and she burst out laughing.

Greg turned around, confused.

And then he realized.

Hands shot to his back. Too late. The damage was done. Everyone had seen. He stood there, half-folded, mouth twitching like he wanted to laugh and die at the same time.

I smiled at him -- soft, warm, a little cruel.

-- You know this isn't ballet, right?

His whole body stiffened like I'd zapped him. Not from offense -- no, Greg wasn't that kind of guy -- but from that peculiar kind of social paralysis only raw, physical embarrassment can deliver. He blinked, mouth half-open, still crouched in some half-forward bend with his hands clamped to the sides of his thighs, trying to stretch his shirt over his ass. The problem was: his shirt didn't stretch. It stopped halfway, like a curtain that forgot the rest of the window.

Someone behind us actually clapped. It wasn't mockery, just honest, delighted chaos. Another guy let out a low whistle. I heard a phone buzz. Not from a camera, thank god -- this crowd had some manners -- but probably from someone texting oh my god Greg's panties to their friend group chat.

I leaned against the barre, watching him with curiosity more than cruelty. He was panicking, yes, but it was so gentle, so... vulnerable. His skin went blotchy with stress, that weird blush that starts in the neck and spreads up, pink near the ears. His legs trembled a little -- still in that stretched stance, like he hadn't figured out how to return to neutral without drawing more attention.

-- Should I... should I go? -- he finally asked, to no one in particular.

The instructor, a bored ex-bachata champion with a ponytail and gold chain, waved a hand without looking.

-- Nah, wardrobe malfunctions happen. Keep moving. Salsa doesn't care.

Greg let out a half-laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. He slowly turned and tried to face me again, clearly hoping I'd be too polite to say anything more. I wasn't.

I tilted my head.

-- So... briefs, huh?

He coughed.

-- They're... just for working out. Compression.

I raised an eyebrow.

-- Compression for what, exactly?

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The truth was visible even through the damp cling of that embarrassing white fabric: there wasn't much to compress. The outline was precise -- like someone had shrink-wrapped a cashew.

He looked away. His thighs pressed together like a defense mechanism, but it only made the front worse. The seam down the middle of his briefs tugged slightly into his shape, and the effect was... well, let's just say no marketing campaign would've used this as the hero image.

And still -- I found myself smiling.

Not to be cruel. Just because this was real. More real than all the flexing, posing, gym-bro energy we usually get in those beginner classes.

I reached out and gently tapped his arm.

-- You okay?

He nodded, not quite meeting my eyes.

-- Well... don't worry, Greg. Your secret's safe. Mostly.

Another pause. Another glance downward.

-- I mean, unless you rip the front too. Then you might need a backup plan.

We were supposed to start basic partner drills after the stretch, but the entire mood of the room had shifted. Not in a bad way--just looser. Lighter. The kind of energy that floats up when something unexpected and slightly ridiculous happens. Everyone was chatting more. Laughing more. And Greg? He was doing his absolute best to become invisible without actually leaving.

He tried tying his jacket around his waist, but it was one of those zip-up hoodies, too short to cover anything properly. The hood flopped against his thigh like a disapproving tail. His hands kept tugging it down, like he was negotiating with gravity itself.

I leaned back against the mirror wall and watched. He glanced at me once, quickly. I gave him a slow smile--teasing, but not sharp.

-- You're handling this better than I expected.

He laughed nervously.

-- That's not saying much.

-- True, I replied, letting my eyes drop to the back of his thighs.

-- But I have seen worse... though not usually in that color.

He groaned softly.

-- It's laundry day.

I nodded solemnly, as if he'd just confessed something deep.

-- Mmm. Laundry day briefs. The great equalizer.

He turned, trying to face the mirror again, then immediately winced. The rip widened slightly, exposing the sheer depth of how little those briefs left to the imagination. It was the kind of cut you'd expect on a mannequin from the waist down--tight, high, and cruel to any hint of modesty.

Another pair behind us--two older women, maybe mid-forties--walked past, looked down once, then traded glances. One leaned in and whispered just loud enough for me to hear:

-- Is he tucked in... or is that it?

I pressed my lips together to hide the grin, but Greg heard. He froze, shoulders curling inward like he was trying to protect a flickering candle from the wind.

I stepped forward before he could bolt.

-- Hey. Seriously. Don't run off. You're doing fine.

Pause.

-- But also, maybe... invest in some darker fabrics.

He chuckled, defeated but oddly relieved.

-- You really think anyone's gonna let me live this down?

I shrugged and stepped into position as the instructor called for partners. My hand found his shoulder, my other hand lifted his.

-- I mean... not anytime soon.

I looked down once more as we began the step.

-- But, you know... next time, maybe go commando.

-- Why?

-- Then at least we'd wonder.

He turned a shade of red I've only seen on chili peppers.

And we danced.