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writes: I was sitting down to dinner with the great guy I'm currently dating. Just casually discussing current events. One topic that arose, was the issues of privacy; and the recent scandals about hackers hacking into the mysterious "Cloud" storing the highly personal-information, and nude photos of female celebrities! The world is a-gasp in surprise and dismay! As we sat and gorged our delicious dinner, a little light went-off in my brain.Not about any photos of myself floating around in outer-space waiting to be hacked; and displaying my junk all over the internet. I realized my long-term intimate relationship with my postman. He always winks and smiles, and is most chatty; as though we're old-time friends! The dickens you say?!!Your loveable postal-carrier is your closest and most intimate of all the people you know in your life. He/she sees all those little packages, discreetly wrapped in plain brown paper. They clearly see the return-address labels to the company of origin. Proudly displaying their logo! As if he or she hasn't seen these wrappers hundreds, if not thousands, of times before. They know your favorite wrinkle cream, who you get your greeting cards from, and when creditors are after you. That's why they look at you with judgement in their eyes; and make you feel the way you felt, when you had to explain to your parents what they found in your drawer. They have looked into your soul! Explored the bowels of your moral values! They got dirt on you!They know more about you than your doctor, hair-stylist, and barkeep. Those people know only the select info you offer them. The postman sees what you hide from everybody else! Even your parents, your spouse, girlfriend, or boyfriend.I stay fit and I know my significant other really likes me in sexy underwear. Not panties and garters!!! All gay men don't cross-dress! I prefer only garments appropriate to my gender.Male, if you haven't guessed by now!I mean sexy underwear for men! You know the ones with the names that are a play on words. Not your typical tidy-whities, baggy boxer-shorts, or boys briefs with sewn-in labels and vents in the front. Not the kind made for men who are anatomically-correct. I mean the sexy kind with cool waistbands, shocking colors, vents where you don't need them; but no vents in the front. The kind you have to embarrassingly pull down and look like a perv to the guy standing at the next urinal. Unless he wears sexy underwear too! You both have to look straight-ahead, not to send crossed-signals.Some of you more fashionable guys know what I'm talking about.Well, they send me monthly catalogs with the underwear models plastered all over the cover. I mean very anatomically-correct muscular models. It dawned on me a while back; that Mr. Postman often sees the new issues as they arrive. Now, I feel self-conscious as he slowly strolls by with his mail bag; with that naughty-boy look on his face like, "I got something for yoooouuu!!!" His arrival is precisely the same time I arrive home from work. The underwear comes in a waterproof hard-to-open envelop that gives you a hernia trying to tear it open. The name of the vendor is on the address label. You can feel the soft contents in the hard-to-open pouch. I rush to the mailbox to retrieve it. I know he knows what was inside. I have to face him once again same-time, same-place, tomorrow. I can set my watch by that son-of-a-gun. I rush from the parking lot in a sprint for my front door, and like clock-work. He's strolling up the courtyard toward the fountain. Matching my pace...step for step. He's closer to my front-door than I am. Although the mail receptacles are located just around the corner of the last unit. Postal carriers are not allowed to place mail in your hands. They must be delivered to the designated receptacle. Unless you must sign for them. He just likes to intercept me as I'm getting home, before he drops off all my private stuff. Just to give me that mockinglook with the bedroom eyes and a smirk. It's all in fun.I have to sprint past the fountain to get to my door before he says his "howdy-do" in that "I know your little secret" voice. I respond out of breath, and blushing. He's having a great time at my expense. I know I'm a butt of his jokes with his beer buddies. He's not mean or homophobic. It's all playful; because he knows I know what's up. He's a manly man, and he's got the goods on me!He confidently swaggers along, with that "come-hither" expression on his face. I know he is a married-man with kids; but our relationship is strictly "mental." Like..."I know what your undies look like." Accented with a wink, and flexing the eyebrows up and down. I will never complain. No one knows of our secret platonic affair. The intimate secrets shared between us.Yes, they know when your videos arrive. By origin they know the content. I don't get porn, so he'll never see that. I'm sure my other male neighbors do. He knows their dirty little secrets too!He knows before I do, when I get my reminders for oil-changes,he knows what vendors send me clothing catalogs, so he knows my taste. He probably knows my favorite color; and by the coupons I receive, what coffee or tea I drink. The foods I like, and allmy favorite brands. He has been my faithful mail-carrier for the past six years; so our relationship has grown particularly close. Not by choice mind you. He knows my secrets. I always remember him on Christmas! It's not a bribe. Just a token of affection. After-all, he knows what under my pants.He sees my postcards from friends first. He knows the contents of my mail damaged by rain and rough-handling. He knows when it's my birthday. He knows so much about me, and I know so little about him. He even knows when I plan to take vacations. Where I work, bank, and where I get all my services. Yes, I've tried to go paperless and electronic; but each and every-time their websites get HACKED!!! All my personal information ends up at risk! It may as well be shared with my husky, tanned, and rustically handsome, charming, middle-aged postman. The body of a former high-school football player, threatened by beer consumption, and great home-cooking. Saved by the long walks on his route. I know, because he shared this with me. He has three kids, one in high school. Two in grade-school. His wife, works part-time in a high-end salon. Well anyway, at least I know the guy who knows where I get my underwear. My secrets remain safe with him. We have our code of silence between us. Maybe someday I'll ask him. BOXERS OR BRIEFS?!!
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reader, anonymous, writes (10 September 2014): This is verified as being by the original poster of the questionThanks, Forge! I order online, the delivery comes through regular mail.
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reader, Forge  +, writes (10 September 2014):
 I couldn't stop laughing at this Wise, it is too good! I think you might be a bit on the funny side there, don't you? The postman is just a regular guy. He knows me everyone on the street. And all of their secrets too. Don't fret you aren't alone. My postman is the same with me. This is why we use Amazon air now, since my dad was paranoid for the same reasons as you.
Keep on truckin', my friend across the pond!
-Førg€
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