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You don’t know who it was, but maybe it was a mistake to wedgie one particular nerd who (unbeknownst to you) spent his free time dabbling in the esoteric practices of the occult. The curse he put on you certainly changed your outlook, to say the least.

It began with the sudden sense that your usual boxers were uncomfortable. Not just one pair that had perhaps gotten a bit old, but all of them. Even your boxer-briefs and backup trunks felt somehow wrong. A stubbornly persistent, infuriating, and somehow inarticulable sensation of discomfort beleaguered you for two full days until, on the third, you could take it no more.

Thank God for the self-checkout machines at the mall, with which you hastily scanned and purchased not one, not two, but five packs of briefs for yourself before stuffing them in your backpack, desperately hoping nobody saw you. And not just any briefs, but brightly, uniformly white briefs—in other words, tighty fucking whities. How would you even explain yourself if you had been spotted, recognized, approached? You, still visually as much of a frat boy dudebro as ever, shamefacedly buying thirty pairs of tight, white briefs. Indeed, you couldn’t even begin to explain it to yourself.

You’d found the solution to your inexplicable discomfort, that much was certain. You just had to make sure that there was no chance in hell, under any circumstances, that anyone could ever catch sight of your waistband, lest they deduce what now hid underneath. The most fearsome bully on campus, now a full-time tighty whitie enthusiast! You’d never live it down if word got out.

But the consequences of the curse were only just beginning. Your mind was increasingly beset by visions, memories of the most intense wedgies you had ever dished out to the unsuspecting nerds you had once tormented. Though your desire to stretch other guys’ briefs had suddenly vanished, your inner preoccupation with wedgies had increased tenfold, if not more.

You remembered Damien, whose waistband you had cruelly used one day for impromptu bicep curls in front of twenty people. You remembered Eric, whom you had hung by his briefs for twenty minutes before he managed to bounce enough to rip them. You remembered Kyle, whose tighty whities were so stretchy that they could cover his entire face without ripping. You remembered them all, almost involuntarily, not because you wanted to replay the scenario as it had really happened. What you wanted was to experience it from the other end.

A week after the curse had first begun to afflict you, you finally gave in. A piece of exercise equipment in your basement would do, would be strong enough to support you fully off the ground without risking damage to the structural integrity of the apparatus. You were just curious, you told yourself. You just needed to try it. Just once, and that would be it. Then you would go back to being normal.

The sensation of your underwear tightening against your skin was like nothing else you had ever experienced. You thanked your lucky stars thar no one was home to hear the deep, involuntary moan of pleasure that issued forth from your mouth as you sank into your first-ever self-administered wedgie. Your levels of physical and psychological satisfaction were utterly maxed out as you dangled there, a full foot off the ground, your brain practically assaulted by powerful waves of unexplainable ecstasy. The words ‘WEDGIE BOY’ pounded and throbbed relentlessly against your consciousness, echoing in your ears and dominating the screen of your mind’s eye, as if branding you with your new identity until you submitted to it entirely.

Ripping Wedgie Keep Ripping 😂 what a Nerd