Thong Man

Thong Man came into the library this past weekend. Thong Man, of all people!!! I hadn't seen that guy in years.

Way back when, nearly half my life ago, the high-school-aged G used to hang at a small, overcrowded beach tucked along the backroads, about thirty miles outside the town. That's where I first saw Thong Man, whom I would come to recognize as a regular at that particular sandspot.

Thong Man, quite obviously, wore a thong. But not just any thong. This was a leopard-print thong. Yes, that's right. Yellow, orange, and black leopard-print, like the seat covers in some pimp's decked-out 1976 Lincoln Mark IV.

But it gets worse. Thong Man, I'm guessing, was a fan of Fabio. Or quite possibly Harlequin Romance, I'm not entirely sure which. Either way, he had the fully-styled Fabio hair, and a body that was beyond unnaturally muscular, which only a serious dosage of steroids could have built. It was impossible to NOT notice the guy, and he knew it.

Thong Man had a lady friend who would usually accompany him to the beach. Thong Woman, we called her, though I always thought Thongette was more PC. Some called them Tarzan and Jane, but I was never a fan of that story, so Thong Man and Thongette it was. She was a beauty, too ... fit but not too muscular (still feminine), with long wavy dirty blonde hair and no visible signs of cosmetic surgery of any type. Excellent.

She, too, wore a thong bikini. Matched his, actually. Spot for freakin' spot.

And here I thought the whole leopard-print thing died with disco. My bad.

Back to the weekend.

Seeing Thong Man, in the library, fully clothed (thankfully), brought back several memories which I had, until now, successfully repressed. I wish he hadn't come in; man, he's gotten old fast. He's still doing the Fabio thing, except that these days the hairline is in full retreat mode. There are few things sadder than a long-haired man who refuses to admit he is losing his hair. The shirt he wore was far too tight, and revealed a serious case of the ever-dreaded man boobs. Gravity's a bitch, fellas, no matter how many steroids are involved.

I wondered, for a moment, how Thongette was doing, whether gravity had struck her also, and whether the years had taken them away from the leopard-print stylings and into a new design of choice. Or were they still Tarzan and Jane?

Of course, as soon as I thought that, my mind naturally wandered to another particular notion: was Thong Man wearing a thong today, in the library? Was it the leopard-print thong we'd all come to know and hate all those years ago at the beach? And why the hell did I want to know this???

Thong Man found his books (not books on Tarzan, or leopards, surprisingly), checked them out, and left. I'm quite sure he didn't recognize me; why would he have? Unlike him, nothing about me really stood out those days. I was just your average skinny, pale, high school kid making fun of a man in a thong and staring all googley-eyed at his leopard-thonged lady friend. Those were the days.

Before leaving, Thong Man paused, turned toward me, and approached the desk. He ran his hand through his receding Fabio-styled hair, as several strands drifted aimlessly down to the floor.

"Pardon me", he began. "This may sound like an odd question, but ...

... do you guys have any Harlequins?"