I grew up an athlete, which meant wearing whatever underwear showed up in the drawer and learning the hard way once my body caught up. After games and long runs, the bounce took a toll, sharp enough to demand attention. Support stopped being optional. Jocks were the only thing that handled it properly, so I stuck with them through college and never really looked back. At the gym, they still do the job better than anything else—clean lift, controlled movement, no distraction. Years later, after I came out, I noticed something else. Friends who never touched a court or a track wore jockstraps with the same loyalty (Josh, I’m looking at you). I asked him what sport he played. He didn’t miss a beat. “Gay sex.” We laughed, because the answer was perfect. Jocks live in that overlap—function and desire sharing the same garment. They support what needs protecting and frame what wants to be seen. Practical lingerie. Honest. Direct. Exactly right.