My shiny midnight blue running pants are sleek and 100% polyester, with two supercool white racing stripes on the sides. I can’t afford compression shorts, or anything but boxers. I can’t help but the pants accentuate the sharper edges of my upper-pants body. It’s winter in Paris, which is understandably frigid, and the biting temperature and exhaustion from running force those edges noticeably down in size, though still sharply outlined by the polyester. Particularly when I walk the mile back from my run, and the pants are motionless and pressed against my body. It’s not a thing I can help. Oh well. Let them look. A proud small dick will have more to say than a shameful big dick. I look at every pedestrian in the eye as I pass.