The experience of many decades has made me something of a sceptic with regard to geopolitics – and also, indeed, national politics – but this last week has taught me that, when it comes to men’s underwear, I am ridiculously naïve. Let me explain.

But before I do, a word of warning. This week’s topic – the fly-front – is one that you may regard as a little too intimate for you to feel comfortable. If so, let me assure you that, by skipping this week’s post, you would be missing even less of import than usual, if that is possible.

A few weeks ago, I noticed that a couple of pairs of my boxer shorts were starting to look rather long in the tooth, and ready to be put into service as dusters. So, when I happened to be in the mall the other day, I decided to look for replacements. Bernice had mentioned that she had seen some  on sale in what she calls the ‘cheapy shop’ – although it is certainly a lot more expensive than a dollar/pound shop – situated in our local mall.

Some years ago, on a similar shopping expedition, I made the mistake of buying underpants that (as I discovered when I unpacked them at home) had no fly-front opening. This was the first time that I had encountered such a phenomenon, and I admit that it perplexed me. How, I mused, are you supposed to handle urination, with no fly-front to open? I decided that such underwear must be aimed at the sport and exercise market, and designed to provide extra support and a close, non-chafing fit. I concluded that those who bought this underwear made sure to empty their bladder before changing into their exercise gear.

In light of all this, I was pleased to read that one of the three features of the boxers on offer, according to the blurb on the cardboard packaging, was ‘front opening’. I bought three pairs for a very reasonable price, and headed home. Once there, I unpacked the first pair. Pausing only to admire the elegant fly front, I flipped the flap over, curious as to whether the front opening would sport a button or not. What I actually uncovered, rather than the opening both expected and promised on the packaging, was an unbroken single piece of material, with a razor-sharp crease where the opening should have been, but no opening.

Suspecting that this was simply a rogue pair that had slipped through quality control, I prised open the flap on the second pair, without undoing the cardboard packaging. Same story: razor crease; no opening. Seizing the offending underwear, I marched downstairs to Bernice with my dispatch from the (fly) front. Her calm response was: “Didn’t you check them in the shop before you bought them?” “No!” I spluttered. “Look! It says on the packaging: ‘Front opening’!” “And you believed it?” was the world-weary and mildly contemptuous response. “Yes! I believed it! Why would it say ‘Front opening’ if there isn’t a front opening?!” Bernice didn’t really judge that question worthy of any response.

And so, a couple of days later, I found myself back at the shop, explaining to the cashier, and then to the manager that she referred me to, that I had been sold goods under false pretences. “But you’ve opened the package,” was the response. In fairness to the shop, once I pointed out that only by opening the package could I discover that the claim on the packaging was false, the manager, with no more fuss, instructed the cashier to refund my money in full.

While I was in the store, I checked all of the underwear racks, and discovered that none of the items on sale featured opening fly fronts. This led me to conclude that I probably needed to reconsider my hypothesis about sports underwear. To my astonishment, my online research has revealed that (and I quote): “Most men don’t actually use the fly. Surveys from [leading] brands have shown that the majority simply pull the waistband down.”

What? Really? In what universe is that a comfortable, convenient, modest modus operandi? In my, admittedly limited (but, given my ongoing prostate issues, not as limited as it used to be or as I would like it to be) experience, men standing at public urinals do not “simply pull the waistband down”. (Not that I make a habit of closely observing my fellow urinators, you understand. But if the man standing next to me suddenly “simply pull[ed] the waistband down”, I’m prepared to hazard a guess that I would notice it.)

‘if IOn reflection, it is entirely possible that all the men who do “simply pull the waistband down” do so in the privacy of a cubicle, leaving the urinal to us fly-fronters. If that is the case, then I suspect that the average age of the men using urinals must be significantly lower than the average age of those using cubicles. “Simply pull[ing] the waistband down” sounds to me distinctly like a young man’s game. I plan to start paying more attention and to test this hypothesis, although I probably won’t report back to you on my findings, and, if I’m not careful, I may conceivably find myself under arrest.

Having found no suitable underwear in the cheapy shop, I was forced to resort to one of the more up-market outlets, where I was able to find fully fly-fronted underwear. My takeaway from this experience is an answer to the question I posed in this week’s title. In the world of men’s underwear, a hole costs about 20 shekels…and is worth every agora.

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