I try to stop her, but she’s already at my crotch, and all I can do is defend my balls from the dual blades. The legs of my expensive pants fall, and jagged, frayed fabric hangs at heights it shouldn’t. I look like a plonker. “My khaks,” I whisper in mourning. Khaki booty shorts shouldn’t be a thing. For anyone. Ever. They aren’t so short that my balls might hang out like Grim’s, but they’re still a little too Richard Simmons for me to pull off. But if it makes her feel better and brings that smile onto her face, I’ll wear the damn things.
