1313

Hello, underwear fans!  The weekend is coming, and if you're in the U.S.A., it means a long holiday week of television repeats is at your doorstep as well as barbecues, alcohol binges, and partying.  But ... if boredom ensues, what better way to fill up the time than with the guilty pleasure 1313 films of David DeCoteau?

DeCoteau is a prolific American and Canadian film producer/director who got his start through Roger Corman.  He made his first film in 1986 and has since produced and directed almost 100 pictures, a majority of them fitting squarely in the "horror/homoerotic" genre.  (Translation: lots of hot young guys walking around in their undershorts getting offed - not getting off ... an important distinction, as that's porn - in a variety of ways.)

DeCoteau owns his own production company, Rapid Heart Pictures, which distributes to Paramount, 20th Century Fox and other big-name studios.  The films prefixed with 1313 are the ones you'll want to zero in on, prime real estate for the underwear fetishist.

I give fair warning: if you're a true film buff, don't expect Hollywood/Shakespearean thespians.  That's not what these films are about.  The vast majority of the actors are young studs coming into their own (and again, you'll get an eyeful of swimwear, boxer briefs, pecs, quads and the like), but these films fall squarely into the "Acme School of Bad Acting" category.  Take for example the 2011 gem 1313: Wicked Stepbrother.  With the exception of the scene/screen shot below, I'd say 75 of the 90 minutes are filled with guys in various states of undress - either walking through an empty, fabulously-decorated Beverly Hills mansion calling out, "Hello?" while being stalked - or in the pool, the shower, the hot tub, etc.  (And the stepmother?  Totally creepy.)

Take a gander at Wikipedia (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_DeCoteau) or the Internet Movie Database (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0213983/) to get a full list of his productions.  You'll be glad you didn't pay full-price at the cinema, but there's eye candy galore!  Cheap B-movies with lots of skivvies and swimwear are a great thrill!

I'll be having company during the Fourth of July week, and so won't be posting.  But worry not, underwear fans ... I'll be back to you guys as soon as humanly possible!  Stay tuned for more information, thoughts, and waxing philosophic on underwear and the men who wear it!

Exotic ... or Erotic?

Yesterday, I accompanied friends to the mall, and among the group was a German/Turkish teenager finishing up a year of study here in Michigan.  She and I were both commenting on the hot young guy who waited on us in Lululemon, the yoga clothing retailer, and I made the comment about "how Italian, how hot, how ... exotic" he looked.  (I also then went on to mention that although he was really good-looking, there would be no way he could talk me into a matching yoga-shirt-and-shorts combination at $138.00.  That's a pair of shoes, for Pete's sake.  Or at least five or six pairs of primo underwear.  Two or three if you're buying them off strippers, as I am wont to do.)  I then went on to wax philosophic about how boring it can sometimes be to be American.  "For the most part," I was complaining, "we can't compare with the French, or the Turks, or the Italians, or the Greeks ... it's not fair.  There's nothing exotic about us.  There's nothing ... mysterious, nothing than just simmers.  Being American in America is just ... just ... blah."

She applied her German heritage full-on to consider my comment analytically and then replied, "Well, I can understand that.  America is the 'melting pot,' isn't it?  You're everybody.  Everybody is you."

BAM.  It hit me.  She was absolutely, positively right.  This was the reason behind the reason Americans find foreigners so interesting: it's because we're somehow tapping into the exotic.  When confronted with a good-looking guy at home who lives down the street, having him parade in front of me in a pair of boxer briefs is erotic as hell.  But, take the same boxer briefs, same time of day, entirely identical circumstances, and make the guy Norwegian, and you get erotic and exotic.

Out of the mouths of babes, right?  BAM.

I talk to Tom (and other people, too) about how much I enjoyed living in Europe, and given the mess the United States is in politically right now, how much I would like a one-way, first-class ticket to Copenhagen, or Budapest, or Turin, or anywhere on the continent.  You know, the fantasy of opening that little used bookstore on the shores of the Adriatic (exotic), and becoming the eccentric American in the village full of buff vineyard workers (erotic).  Unfortunately, that's about as close to reality as I can get.  Want to or not, I'm in no position to move to Europe and go off on some wild adventure that involves a list of members of the United Nations and every brand of underwear on the planet.  (My therapist would suggest to my that I actually am in the position to do so, but I would have to "re-frame" - her term, not mine - my priorities.)

You see, it's because I have responsibilities.  (Not exotic or erotic.)  I bitch constantly about having said responsibilities instead of choices (which can be exotic and/or erotic), and it sticks in my craw that there are individuals who can slough their responsibilities so easily without worrying about the aftermath.  It's something I wish I could do, but I can't, because I have a conscience.  (Two, actually.  Tom is always on stand-by to reel me back in to a little place he likes to call "reality.")  To simply pick up and leave my house, my dog, my partner, my Visa bill, my mother (which admittedly, would be easy), and the one hundred other irons I have in the fire is just not feasible.  It's because I'm old.  It's because I'm responsible.  It's because I'm a nice guy.

Crap.

I guess my days of living in Corsica, being majordomo to a young French businessman will have to wait.  Still, though, it's nice to know that I've established the keystone to my logic.  My fascination with the male body is an eroticism that I enjoy.  So is my underwear fetish.  What makes it exotic is how the people I interact with (American or not) run with that information.  Most of them know nothing about it, which if you think about it, makes people watching a much more interesting activity.

Our Supreme Court decided yesterday that the federal DOMA (Defense of Marriage Act) was unconstitutional.  (Duh.)  Sure enough, all of the couples on the television, splashed over the news, were holding hands, kissing, crying, thanking everyone and everything for acknowledging them.  It was a like gay Woodstock, except people weren't walking around naked high on acid.  For me, it was enlightening and empowering: lots of pretty men to look at.  Some exotic, some erotic.  Some of both.  I don't usually do my people watching on television, since it's usually not happening in real time.  But when I was at the mall yesterday, I started doing more intense people watching following my epiphany.  Nobody was talking about DOMA being put down.  Nobody was worried about the excessive heat outside.  People were wearing as little as possible and enjoying the air conditioning.  I was enjoying the multitude of tank tops on muscular guys and specimens such as Mr. Lululemon.

I related to Tom everything that had happened, including my new definition of "exotic."  And although I now have clarity, I may be poisoned against my own kind.  Now instead of just looking at guys, or watching guys dance in their shorts, or looking at pictures of guys (dancing) in their shorts, I'm going to be thinking, "Nice underwear.  Wonder if he's Russian?"

Not everyone or everything is erotic to everyone else, but is everyone exotic to everyone else?  Are we so embedded into our own lives and experiences that magic moments pass us by every day and we don't realize it?  Have we become conditioned to automatically reject what is in front of us because it's so commonplace, in favor of something that's always new and exciting?  I think we have, and I think I especially will need to start tempering my attitudes a little bit.  I mean, after all, there are good looking guys here in Michigan (hello, Mr. Lululemon); I just have to find what makes them exotic in addition to imagining the characteristics that would define as erotic.

Broadening our Horizons

Yesterday, I briefly touched on "foreign" brands of underwear, and when I say "foreign," I mean foreign to the American connoisseur.  Unlike cars, appliances, colognes, sports and other specialties, most American men probably don't focus on such things as undershorts.  I do, but only because I've lived in Europe, I've been exposed to the European style and way of doing things, and because European men are ten times better looking than American men.

When it comes to being foreign, I am constantly explaining to our exchange students to use their accents to their advantage.  There's nothing wrong with saying, "I don't understand," (if it will get you out of trouble or away from someone you don't want to talk to ... it's rude, sure, but every once in a while, it's one of those things that simply need to be done), and I think that anything which is outside the American scope of experience should be treated as exotic and enticing.  Certainly there is always some fascination with meeting a stranger from a far-off place, right?  Travel books are full of tips on what to say, how foreigners act, etc.

We try food, local customs, we meet and rub elbows with the locals ... so why should articles of clothing be any different?  I'm sure there are women who have traveled to India and decided to try a sari.  If you go to Japan, slip on a kimono.  Or perhaps the national/folk costume of the locale, like a comfortable pair of Lederhosen when you're in Munich.  My point is - we don't have these things in America.  Americans, in general, need to broaden their horizons, and I say, start with the basics.

That's where this blog comes in.  I'm glad I'm starting to get some hits off this website, and I hope there will be more at some point and from wider areas of the globe.  What do you wear where you live?  What's the "must have" for your bits?  What keeps you and your mates comfortable while you're at the soccer/rugby game?  Tell me, reader from South Africa, that you don't automatically slip on a pair of Calvins and that you have something else to offer.  Or you, Mr. Australia ... are you wearing AussieBums, or something just as form-fitting and hot?  England, are you all wearing Beckham's brand, or Bikkembergs?  What about you, Italy?  I know you have Intimissimi, but what else?

In my drawer you'll find Unico, Clever, 2(x)ist, Emporio Armani, Obviously Male, Joe Boxer, Andrew Christian ... lots of stuff, but I want a global reach for a global audience.  Think about what you wear, and tell me.  Surprise me!  I might even go so far as to set up a post office box so we can do an international swap.  (And how cool would that be?  "Oh, yeah, this pair came from Arkady in Petrograd; these are from Nils in Copenhagen; here's some from Lionel in Canberra; and these are from Juan in Chile.  Neat, huh?")

What's in your underwear drawer?  What's popular where you live?  Broaden the horizons of your underwear brothers everywhere!

From "Super Moon" to Superman

To start, a completely off-topic observation: the "super moon" on Sunday night was one of the most awesome astronomical spectacles I have ever seen.  Don't know what you saw where you were, but here in Michigan, the moon was hanging really low in the sky, huge, and a beautiful orange-ish color that later became misty green.  Tom and I did our gazing from the stands in the soccer field (and got eaten alive by mosquitoes in the process), and then we retired to our porch with our dog to just watch and appreciate it some more.

I really am a romantic at heart.  A cynical, obsessive, "underwear whore" romantic, I grant you, but still a romantic, just the same.

After all, it's the simple things, right?

Simple things.  Like ... when Superman debuted, he was a simple super hero ... with lots of baggage, sure, but one that was an ideal - able to leap tall buildings, faster than a speeding bullet, etc.  And he wore his underwear on the outside of his suit.  Have you ever noticed that nobody really called him out about that?  You walk outside today wearing your undershorts over your pants (or in just your fracking undershorts), and people will definitely ask you if you're all right, if you're confused, if you're having "one of those days," call 911, avoid eye contact, etc.

It's a simple thing, all right, but it bugs me.  Always has.  Don't know why.  And until now, every incarnation of Superman to date has had the same "wearing-the-red-undies-on-the-outside" fashion gaffe.  Now, if I had to choose a leader from this group as to who pulls it off the best, it would be Gerard Christopher (who, technically, was Superboy) and Dean Cain, from the television incarnation titled Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman.  There's not much more to be said, except both were muscular, both were extremely handsome, and, in the words of Cain's television mother on the series, "There's a reason they call them tights, dear."  (And an extra tip of the scales in Dean's favor - he's a Michigan native.)

Now we fast forward to 2013.  Someone has finally listened, paid attention, and had the epiphany: "Hey ... wait a minute ... what if he wears his underwear where he's supposed to?!?  I ... smell ... OSCAR."  If you've been totally out of the loop on the media buzz surrounding Man of Steel, I won't give away any spoilers but I will say this: if you are a die-hard, follow-Superman's-mythology-to-the-letter type of fan, I don't know if you will like it.  (I am ... and I did.)  Henry Cavill is believable in the role of this American icon, if you can look past his using a Midwest accent and forget he was the Greek hero Theseus in Immortals, where everyone dresses scantily and speaks so formally.

And ... blare of trumpets ... I really liked the new costuming, so kudos to James Acheson and Michael Wilkinson for their designs.  (Interesting and quite telling that they're men, don't you think?)  We still have a skin-tight body suit that leaves little to the imagination, although I was a bit disappointed at the lack of ... um, "below the waist" body shots.  I mean, if you go to the trouble to re-boot a mythology, I say "in for a penny, in for a pound."  I also found it interesting that Superman has chest hair - that we can see.  (Not a lot, just enough.)  And although I'm sure the classic I'm-the-better-man fight scene between Cavill's Man of Steel and Michael Shannon's General Zod is a lot of computer-generated special effects - I say, two buff guys wrestling around in tight blue bodysuits?  Front row seat, please.

Since I am now stymied as to what our newest Kal-El looks like in his briefs now that the red undies are gone, I have to use research and the Internet to guess at what label Cavill might be using to support his junk: what do guys wear in England?  Gigo?  Obviously Male?  Camel?  Pipe?  Sloggi?  Big Boys?  Or do they automatically Bend It Like (David) Beckham and support their home-grown soccer star's brand?  Why am I left to my imagination?  Did they address this in his audition?

Or ... is Cavill just one of those guys who does it old style (commando)?  If you think about it, kinda gives new meaning to the term "Super Moon", doesn't it?

My Own Personal Underwear Vending Machine

When I found the photo below on-line from an event in Britain, it set my mind to thinking: who would I want in my own personal underwear vending machine?

It's a great concept, if you think about it.  Imagine how careful you would be with your quarters, because most of us get a pass by our significant others, "The List," of individuals we're allowed to dally with if the opportunity arises - even though it never will.  But still ... who would make "The List"?  You have the famous and the obscure; the popular and the fifteen-minutes-of-fame-is-over; and the handsome and the "nice personality."  There are so many choices; and I admit freely, it doesn't take much for it to change every day.

Given my preferences and this is all based in fantasy, I would definitely want an international smorgasbord of Grade A beef, in stunningly-cut Speedos or briefs.  No offense - but is there anyone out there who would pick Steve Buscemi, Danny DeVito, or Clint Howard?  I don't think so.  If given their choice, people automatically choose beefcake (Stephen Dorff) over pound cake (Stephen King), or boobs on the chest (Jessica Biel) vs. boobs at the knees (Jessica Tandy), know what I mean?

So, if my own personal underwear vending machine had ten slots of totally hot guys rocking a fresh, tight pair of skivvies ("so tight you can tell what religion they are," according to Robin Williams), here's how I would get my gratification.  Difficult choices all, as there are so many individuals with unique qualifications to choose from:

• Canadian actor Stephen Amell, who is currently burning up the TV screen as Oliver Queen (alter ego The Green Arrow) on CW's Arrow.  He can also play sinister: he was cast as Joran van der Sloot in the Lifetime movie Justice for Natalee Holloway.  (Everybody likes a good guy who's a bad boy.)

• The other half to Master of Ceremonies NPH (Neil Patrick Harris) himself, former actor and chef David Burtka.  David has a lot going for him in my book: he's married to NPH and can, in a pinch, describe his husband's attributes (high five!); stunning, boyish good looks; he likes kids (the two of them have twins); he still has an acting career open to him if he wants one (he played Scooter - a former boyfriend of Lily's Alyson Hannigan - on How I Met Your Mother); he can sing (he's been on Broadway); he wears the right colors in a Michigan State/University of Michigan football game (go, Wolverines!); and if you're having one of those days, he can make you fried chicken and bring it to you in bed.  Definitely a multi-tasker who deserves inclusion.

• Italian-born actor, singer and underwear model Francesco Cura, who has since started working in New York and Los Angeles.  He studied art history and began training as a classical opera singer when it was discovered he had a four-octave range.  He had a small role as a vineyard worker in the latest Disney "Wizards" franchise, The Wizards Return, Alex vs. Alex.  (Steamiest, expressive eyes and facial features; his portfolio is riveting: http://www.francisjcura.com/.)

• American pornographic actor, model, and recording artist Johnny Hazzard (who also performs under Frankie Valenti, his birth name).  He had a hit single titled "Deeper Into You" and starred in the second season of the cable series The Lair, not to mention who-knows-how-many guy-on-guy adult films.  (He has lots of tattoos and is extremely ... flexible.  View his music video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_3I6UcoKZ4.)

• Actor Garrett Hedlund, who has had starring roles in Tron: Legacy and Eragon.  He first hit the silver screen opposite Brad Pitt in Troy, where he played Pitt's (Achilles') doomed cousin, Patroclus.  (Just plain old-fashioned cute, he's a Minnesota farm boy who's not afraid to show a little skin.  Thank you, Four Brothers.)

• French-Algerian actor Salim Kechiouche, who acts mainly in French film and is known primarily for his nude scenes.  (He plays gay, he plays straight; he plays normal, he plays psychotic.  He's supposed to be portraying Odysseus on French cable in June.  Hope I can find it.  Link to him at http://salimkechiouche.com/site/.)

• Actor, commentator, emcee and business entrepreneur Mario Lopez, who has been in the business since his preteen years on Kids Incorporated.  Better known to audiences as A.C. Slater in Saved by the Bell, he also portrayed Olympic diving medalist Greg Louganis (my personal hero, who at 53, still looks damn fine in a Speedo) in Breaking the Surface: The Greg Louganis Story.  He recently launched his personal underwear line, Rated M for Men and Their Very Special Guests.  (After losing a Super Bowl bet to fellow commentator Maria Menounos, Mario had to streak through Los Angeles' Grove shopping complex in some purple "Rated M" briefs, sneakers, and a Baltimore Ravens helmet.  Take a look at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/02/06/mario-lopezs-underwear_n_2631456.html.)

• True Blood werewolf Joseph Manganiello, whose most recent film credit was as a stripper named "Big Dick Richie" (the name says it all!) in Magic Mike, co-starring Alex Pettyfer, Channing Tatum and Matt Bomer.  (Definitely confirms my position in the whole Team Edward/Team Jacob debate ... let's just say I'm a dog lover.)

• Bisexual Brazilian model and activist Rodiney Santiago, who notes the following on his personal website: "five-foot-eleven; flawless teeth, healthy-looking gums; likes chocolate; sleeps in his underwear; limited body hair" ... among other things.  (Smoldering Latin sexuality is always a plus ... Rowr.  http://rodineysantiago.com/.)

• American actor, musician and Julliard alum Sam Witwer, currently playing vampire Aidan White on the American version of Being Human. He's the lead singer of his own band, The Crashtones - he states that his first love is music - and he's had supporting roles on JAG, Battlestar: Galactica, and Smallville. Interesting factoid: on the first episode of The Walking Dead, he played the zombie soldier inside the tank.  (I love a guy who is multi-faceted ... you know: bloodsucker, zombie, arch villain/nemesis, etc. You will, too, if you check out http://samwitwerfans.com/.)

Now ... who has quarters? I'm going to need a lot of them (especially for the second guy from the right).

Underwear of the Future

What does the future hold for us, underwear fans?  One can only imagine, I suppose.  We know where we've been, and we know where we are, but where are we going?  If history is any indication, all things are cyclical: fashion styles, mores, a return to the classics, if you will.  I'm sure the human race will continue to evolve, and as it does, I'm also sure that we'll discover new fabrics, new fashion standards, and new fits along with what has worked before.

Being a fan of science fiction and comics (yes, I was that kid before I became a swimmer ... I was a theater geek, too), I thought it might be beneficial to get your imaginations wandering and minds focusing on what the future might hold for us.  Let's visit our special retrospective celebrating the future of underwear, circa 2013, and review what television and film have explored for us.  Maybe it will serve as inspiration for readers of the blog, or maybe just an eye opener.  And, of course, since I am by no means an encyclopedia of every science fiction movie, series or comic book, some of your suggestions can make their way into a future post.

Now, here are your runners-up and winner of The Future Underwear Cavalcade.  (Keep in mind there was no swimsuit, talent, or evening wear competition - I'm going strictly off what I know and what is visible, if you get my drift.  I'm also not including historical dramas, action/adventure films, etc. here.  All of this is strictly sci-fi.)

Bringing up the back of the pack are your Honorable Mentions.  There are three, each special and unique in their own way:

Honorable Mention #1: The costumes/everyday wear of the citizens of the City of Domes in the 1976 film adaptation of William F. Nolan's dystopian novel, Logan's Run.  While there are no specific underwear shots and brief flashes of female frontal nudity, the material was sheer, extremely form-fitting, and there were plenty of side-boob/butt shots of the female performers.  There is one scene where our protagonists, Logan and Jessica, enter "The Love Shop," where an orgy is in progress.  Still, the basic primary colors of the simple costumes and their fit left very little to the imagination.  The film was visually impressive for its time, and won a Special Academy Award for achievement in visual effects.

Honorable Mention #2: Richard Tatro's body suit/leotard from the classic Star Trek episode "I, Mudd."  Tatro plays Norman, an android (and, gauging from the fit of his costume, an anatomically-correct one at that) that leads over 200,000 other androids on a planet with no masters, until Harry Mudd comes into the picture.  What follows is a hilarious slapstick send-up that terminates with William Shatner's Kirk and Mudd having to resort to a logical paradox to make Norman's circuits overload.  The smoke coming from Norman's head is just the pièce de résistance as he breaks down, standing up and still in "underwear" glory.  I'm glad Tatro was confident enough with his manhood to give the role a try.

Honorable Mention #3: The form-fitting uniforms from the British sci-fi series Space: 1999, which was telecast from 1975-1977.  Although the costumes underwent a major makeover for the second of the two series, the tunics and pants left very little to the imagination.  And, of course, although it was set in 1999 (and beyond), it's fun to see what we now know to be fashions that were strictly indicative of the 1970s - full beards, long Monkees-style haircuts and platform shoes.  We didn't see any proper underwear (there were brief swimwear shots occasionally for scenes in the solarium, scattered throughout the episodes), although a second series' episode, "Catacombs of the Moon," did take place during a "heat crisis," forcing the men of Moonbase Alpha to wear tight tank tops.

Your runners-up are:

Fourth Runner-Up: The 1984 science fiction/comedy The Ice Pirates.  Starring many (now-)big names, such as Robert Urich, Michael D. Roberts, Mary Crosby, Anjelica Huston, Ron Perlman, John Matuszak, and Bruce Vilanch, the titular heroes are trying to find a mythical planet of water in a parched universe.  Our heroes run afoul of the bad guys and are sent to a "eunuch factory."  Urich and Roberts escape being neutered by Mary Crosby, but still have to go through the ruse of having been castrated, significant because the eunuchs are sold in a showroom on turntables and are forced to wear iridescent tank tops and matching leotards.  (How "gay".)  Capped off with Urich doing a falsetto ... priceless.

Third Runner-Up: The all-too-brief medieval underwear shot at the beginning of 2003 movie Timeline, based on the novel by Michael Crichton.  Set primarily in 14th century France, our heroes have to avoid having history changed at a decisive battle between the English and the French.  Jayson Merrill's "Vincent Taub" is one of the time travelers who has returned from 1357 wearing full Renaissance-era garb.  He ends up in a hospital, which is where we get our shot of what appears to be a linen-type boxer short.  The scene is all-too-quick, but Merrill has a handsome, boy-next-door quality that pulls it off.  (Too bad his character dies and that's the last we see of him.)

Second Runner-Up: Sam J. Jones' leather briefs in the titular 1980 film Flash Gordon.  (NOT Flesh Gordon.  Flash Gordon.)  Although the movie bombed in the United States, it was relatively popular in Britain and Europe and managed to snag Jones some small television jobs, cameos (such as in Ted), and a repeat printing of his 1975 Playgirl spread.  The briefs actually get a decent amount of screen time, primarily as he's marched into Ming the Merciless' execution chamber.  The beefy pecs don't hurt, either.  Unfortunately it turns creepy: his resurrection from a coffin by Ming's daughter Aura, in which he's still wearing said briefs and covered with a satin shroud.  But there's tongue-in-cheek byplay, too, especially as Aura tells him, "I like you ... a lot."

First Runner-Up: It's not Star Trek unless Jim Kirk is getting laid, right?  Although we had plenty to whisper about from the classic series, we never got to see any of Shatner's business.  Change of direction for the 2009 J.J. Abrams incarnation, where one of our first scenes is Chris Pine's Kirk getting it on with Uhura's Academy roommate.  Kirk is a briefs man!  Pine pulls it off well as a guy who's cheated out of sex, has to hide under the bed, and is eventually thrown out of the room - while wearing nothing but his skivvies.  The scene could have been longer, but it was nicely complemented by the 2013 sequel Into Darkness, where he's a wearing a wetsuit, and the camera is perfectly positioned to see what we want to see.

And the WINNER is ...

Sting, as Feyd-Rautha in the 1984 box office bomb Dune, which has since rebounded into popular sci-fi culture.  Frank Herbert's story lags (the book seemed endless), there a lot of characters who do nothing and have no purpose, but anyone who's seen it knows that Sting's steam-capsule, sweat-covered, lithe body, with looking-like-a-bird-with-wings-wide bikini brief just can't be beaten.  The crazed smile and his efficient, definitive, "I will kill him!" at the end of the film just add icing to the cake.  Fortunately, he had his career as a musician to fall back on, and we can now appreciate such songs as "Russians," "Fields of Gold," "Alien in New York," and numerous Sting wanna-bes (Gotye's "Someone That I Used to Know" comes to mind).

So, there you have it ... this is what the future holds for appreciators of underwear, everywhere.  I like it!

Joxygen (or, A Rose By Any Other Name)

What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man.  O, be some other name!

What's in a name? that which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title.

--- "Romeo and Juliet," Act II, scene ii.

I had to percolate on this one for a few days, because I wasn't sure if this was one of those "I need to go there" topics.  It's a fact of life that all mammals have some type of odor, and for most of them, that odor is what tells friend from foe, brother from sister, Panthera leo from panthera tigris.  But let's be real: one of the most relevant arguments between couples is the smell that comes from working out, night sweat, the lack of showering for five days, etc., and it's usually directed at the guy and his clothes.  So, I'm going there.  It's a bit off-theme, which I admit completely, but I think the argument can be made that the body "wears" an odor.

One of my college roommates (B.K.B.) was a former football player, and he is the one who introduced  me to the term "joxygen" (jock + oxygen = joxygen), meant to describe the odor originating from a guy's "special secret no-no place," to paraphrase Martin Short's Clifford.  Now, I should probably make clear that B. did not go around with a pair of boxers in hand (yes, boxers ... that lowest form of undergarment) demanding, "Smell these!"  No, he did not.  In fact, it was quite the opposite.  Although he no longer played football, he did belong to a band, and was accustomed to weekend-long jam sessions or trips to the middle of nowhere for a gig, so it wasn't unusual for him to arrive home ... pungent.

Same thing for my sons over the past five years.  There's nothing so ... ripe ... as a teenage European male athlete, especially my last two (and I want it noted, I love my kids to death, but seriously ... what the hell are kids secreting nowadays?).  I used to complain they were taking too many showers, until Tom pointed out they had weight lifting as their last period in school, were at basketball or wrestling practice after school, and liked to go for a workout - after school but before dinner.  Not really surprising then when their laundry would arrive downstairs in piles that were sopping wet (yuck), smelling to high heaven (double yuck) and that they were constantly taking showers.  After a month of doing baskets of laundry that had to be held at arm's length, I had to join Tom in not caring how often they were showering, much less what they were doing in there.  I simply paid my quadrupled water bill in fuming silence.

There's a certain disparity involved with matters of this type.  Guys are perfectly content to smell their own effluvia and not bat an eye, but other guys (in this case, roommates/exchange sons) don't want to be anywhere near said underwear, much less touch it.  ("Let's save that for our girlfriends/parents.  They won't say anything because they love us.")  Never mind that you've seen your best friend in a jock strap, or, as in my and B.'s case, shared a bedroom (two bunks, you dirty-minded sods); never mind that in the extremest cases, you've actually rubbed up against another guy's genitalia on purpose.  But don't hand another guy your underwear.  That's like touching plutonium.

B. would chuck his shorts into the basket in his closet, slap his hands clean and head off to do his calculus.  I felt like I was missing something.  Honestly.  I've covered in previous posts that I was a swimmer, and when you're a swimmer, you don't get joxygen because you're literally and constantly in or under water: swim a few laps, shower to rinse off.  Prepare to dive, shower and rinse off.  Come out of pool after dive, shower and rinse off.  Swim 500 meters, shower and rinse off.  Swimmers don't have the same opportunity that allows germs and microbes to grow as guys who play physical sports do.  If anything, we smell clean because of the chlorine.  (That s*** strips away everything.  It's like turpentine.)

I actually had to embark on my journey of self-actualization (i.e. come out of the closet) before I learned the true meaning of joxygen, and that was only because I was dating someone.  All of the normal barriers were gone, and seeing the guy I was dating after a game of racquetball or spending a weekend together put everything into perspective.  Guys smell.  No two ways about it.  And when those smells are compacted into a very small and tight space - "the special secret no-no place" - it's enough to make most people lose their lunch, no matter how practiced their gag reflex.

(Keep in mind, and I have to be clear on this, I'm not talking about the natural odor our bodies have.  I'm not talking about the scent of his body wash combined with his cologne, or that woodsy, mannish smell he has at the end of a non-workout day.  These are comfortable smells, not full-on blown-out joxygen.  And it doesn't preclude some midnight cuddling, or a little "sumpin' sumpin'", as my friend Monty refers to intimacy.)

I compare it to those old Summer's Eve commercials, and I admit I never understood the lead-in: "Mom, do you ever have that not-so-fresh feeling?"  Now that I have 44 years of life under my belt, a majority of them spent with guys of various builds, makes, models, and jock mentalities, I know precisely what the young woman is referring to.  She's referring to that reeking, old-car, oh-my-God-you're-making-my-eyes-water stink that some guys absolutely just revel in.  Ick.  I've never understood how a guy can feel more masculine by smelling like a lawn mower in a sewer.

Now I'll admit that since I've been unemployed (November 15 and counting), I've had my days where I haven't showered or changed out of my bathrobe, but that's where I draw the line.  Tom would leave me if I went full-tilt Matthew McConaughey (no deodorant, shampoo, cologne, underwear) on him, and I have absolutely no desire to descend into the depths defined by Brad Pitt in Kalifornia: pure white-trash, holes-in-my-socks, hold-a-gun-like-it's-your-pecker "yuck."  That's just not a draw, even if it's the best you can do under the circumstances.  Gay men get this, as I think it's part of the genetic re-sequencing that made us what we are (perfect!), and I feel sorry for (wo)men who have lunkhead boyfriends who don't.  I mean, even Quiche Lorraine from Bloom County wasn't afraid to tell Steve Dallas, "I can't wash your socks without tossing my cookies."  If your formula for doing laundry includes a pair of tongs for items of clothing your cat wouldn't touch, there's a problem.  For goodness sake, stand up to the joxygen!  Don't suffer in silence!  Burn those babies!  (We now teach our kids to do their own laundry if they don't know how to already.  Always an eye-opener.)

My last thoughts on joxygen - it's there for a reason (man musk?), but I think the human has evolved to the point where we don't need to sniff each other to ascertain the viability of a potential mate.  In the same vein, having a little bit of that inner lumberjack doesn't hurt either, if it makes you feel good about yourself.  No, joxygen is something that definitely needs to be cultivated in moderation.  You let that stuff go, and there's no telling what could happen - your undershorts could spontaneously combust, you could attract zombies during an apocalypse, who knows?

The Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  The Ancillary to the Golden Rule: Fresh undies, every day.  And don't forget to wash ... you know, all over.

Rhymes with "Shommando"

You'd think that a blog dedicated to underwear, the male form, and everything it wears would avoid a subject like "going commando."  We'll, I'm not!  I'm grabbing this topic by the balls (so to speak).

All kidding aside, I won't lie and say I've never gone commando.  Every guy has.  Although usually not of necessity (and there are times, admittedly, when circumstance leaves us no choice), going commando has enjoyed its own popularity and become a reasonable "go to" for most guys.

I don't go commando, by choice, for several reasons.  First, there's the whole "I'm an underwear whore" thing.  Next, if I do go commando - say, on a special bar night, or because God forbid, I'm out of clean undershorts - I always feel uncomfortable because I'm used to having that underwear barrier in my pants.  Third is the physical consequence of chafing.  Doesn't matter how careful I am, I always end up sore, and if I want to have the feeling of scraping my scrotum with sandpaper, I'll just buy the sandpaper.  Lastly, despite my best efforts, you can always tell that I'm commando.  I've never been able to figure out how to wear my jeans so that people can't tell.  That's part of the mystery, it's part of the fun - getting in the back room with a guy, unzipping and pow!

The only time I definitely go commando with no hesitation is when I wear my kilt.  That's right, I own an honest-to-goodness true Highlander's kilt, and let me tell you: when you're wearing wool on a hot summer day and you get a nice breeze flitting up there to cool your privates - it's f***ing awesome.  I always have to do a double-take when I sit down, though.  Don't want to scare the kiddies or get arrested.

Jon Hamm of Mad Men is famous for his preference of commando, and I say good for him.  It doesn't hurt that he's nice to look at, certainly; but I would say for him that going commando is just a bonus.  I used to laugh heartily at the antics of Matt LeBlanc (Joey on Friends) since his decision not to wear underwear would always make itself known at the most inopportune of times (such as when he and Ross were hanging on for dear life from a fire escape).

Men should be used to going commando, since I'm sure cavemen didn't haggle in the cave with their wives - "What do you think, Urga?  Calvin Kleins or Aussie Bums today?"  But I don't think a lot of guys really look at this as a viable option.  For many of the same reasons I've already explained, most straight men aren't comfortable with discussing their genital-coverings-choice, and although most guys will admit to having done it, I don't think they'll volunteer it on the spot.

And besides, if everyone went commando, it would destroy the male undergarment industry.  I think it's safe to say, "Go commando if necessary, but don't make it a habit."  Next thing will be, "Well, if I don't have to wear underwear, I don't have to wear pants," which will lead to an increase in the indecent exposure arrest rate, and which will, in turn, lead to an increase in repeat offending.

Jail is one place you want underwear.  And pants.

"Wife Beater": Underwear or Not?

Is the perennial accessory attributable to trailer trash and jocks "underwear" or not?

Let's discuss.

I define "underwear" as something which is worn "under" one's clothing - therefore, undershorts, bras, panties, thongs, etc. all easily fall into this category.  But then we have to examine things such as sports bras, undershirts (V-necks, crew necks ... you know, those things businessmen wear under button-downs), muscle shirts, midriff shirts, sleeveless shirts ... the stuff we usually sleep in but wouldn't normally wear outside.  So, I ask you: where does the tank top belong?

In its most rudimentary form, the "wife beater" is squarely in the fine fashion department in every trailer park. We've all seen the guy at the mall wearing a stained tank top as his daily wear, and usually he's way too thin or way too non-attractive to pull it off.  It looks junky.  His arms are spindly.  Usually he also has two or three rugrats spinning around him and he's decorated with poorly brought-off tattoos, a wallet on a chain, and jean shorts which reach to his ankles.  In this case, this is the guy who should be either escorted from the mall to change or given a gay personal shopper as a form of community service.

Then there's the tank top that belongs to the bodybuilder.  This is the guy who can wear it with class.  Doesn't matter if it has a round or square hem, or whether it reaches to mid chest or solar plexus.  This is the guy who needs to be seen in a tank top.  I think it's because he's trolling for compliments or partners.  He's usually either a really, really nice guy who's incredibly sensitive or shy and just happens to be built like a brick s***house, or he's a complete doofus lunk who thinks with his bits and his muscles.  Either way, it's a "win, win" from a physical standpoint.

Lastly, you've got the guy who wears a tank top because it's all he has to wear underneath a long sleeve shirt that doesn't match anything else.  Tom and I fall into this category (although I would arguably try to push him into the "incredibly sensitive" column).  We're definitely not bodybuilders, but we're also not stick figures.  We're guys with some meat on them that isn't all muscle.  Or, in sports parlance, Tom is the former quarterback who has eased into middle age, and I am the former swimmer who has done likewise.  Basically, you can tell we were former athletes, but we haven't let middle age particularly define our existence.  We're aging gracefully, and we both feel that the older we get (like most men) the more confident and serene we become.

(There's also a fourth, extremely small category for the tank top that is strictly reserved for porn stars and the extremely well-built.  Yes, they should wear them; yes, they deserve to wear them; but they look better out of them.  Just sayin'.  There's also the fashion tank top.  I'm not kidding!   Watch Wolverine or any of the X-Men movies and tell me that Wolverine is wearing Hanes.  He's not.  If that tank top isn't couture and doesn't have at least a 800-thread count, I'll eat your shorts.)

I guess my issue with the "wife beater" phenomenon is that the so-called experts - websites, department stores, fashion houses - don't know where they belong either.  Some classify them strictly as undergarments, some as sportswear, and I think this disparity is confusing the everyday American male consumer.  If we buy underwear, we wear it as underwear.  If we buy sportswear, it goes with us to the gym.  Very rarely are we confronted with something like a dress code when it comes to such items, and it doesn't help that fashion mores and sense change with each passing week - I mean, some examples are obvious: you don't wear a three-piece Armani suit to play Laser Tag and you don't wear just a tank top to church.

You definitely wear one to get arrested, and no one will call you out if you wear one to school on a hot day.  So where's the line?  How do I know if I'm showing my underwear or not?  We're taught to believe that it's clothes that make the man ... but I'm beginning to think it's the man who defines the clothes.

To Pierce or Not to Pierce: Is This Really a Question?

Serious talk time, guys.

When does body modification go to far?  I've said before I don't mind scars and tattoos (and I don't, because each one has a story behind it that makes for an interesting tell), and I don't mind piercings, either.  I'm an old hand at the tattoo game: I have six, and all of them I consider to be tasteful and neutral.  With the exception of one, they really don't show, so I don't get a lot of strange looks from passers-by who have none.

My inventory:

• A crystal, moon, and scroll bearing my fraternity letters on my left shoulder blade.
• A bear paw on my right pectoral (actually a cover-up of a panther's head).
• The Chinese character for "believe" on my left pelvic bone (covered by most underwear choices).
• A large Maori pattern on my right thigh that reaches my onto my lower back and buttock (Google "Frederic Michalak tattoo").
• The Chinese character for "strength" on my upper right arm, with my daughter's name and birth date.
• A sleeve on my left arm stretching on to my left pectoral consisting of tribal banding (Google "Johnny Hazzard tattoo") and a Taurus symbol.

Anyone who has gotten a tattoo knows they're addictive and is always going for more.  I always intended to stop at one, but doesn't look like that happened, does it?

Then we get to piercing.  I, like most males growing up in the eighties, took the plunge and got my left ear pierced.  (Dad was less than pleased.)  I eventually ended up getting three in the left and one in the right, but only two in the left are currently open.  I sport nice, generic, sterling silver hoops that snap shut, because they're the only earrings my fingers can accommodate.  (There should be some kind of training class for the clasps that are found on earrings ... I'd love to wear "captured ball" hoops, but my fingers are way too big to screw those little f***ers in.)

Last November 30, I took the plunge and got my nipples pierced.  It was something that was born out of something else, and I knew that if I didn't do it then, I never would.  The guy who did the piercing (Tyler) was an expert and sported quite a bit of body art and jewelry himself (don't they all?), and I must have quizzed him into the ground about what I was getting into.

You see, what I was really trying to get up the nerve to do was a Prince Albert.  Nice, big fat ring dangling from my equipment.  Basically, my own door knocker.  I'd seen pictures on the Internet; I'd even watched someone's YouTube posting of their procedure, and it looked easy.  The guy didn't scream, cry out ... just a flinch at the magic moment, a wide-eyed look of surprise and done.  (Keep in mind that the camera was always on his face.  They mentioned that at the beginning, that there would be no photography of junk.  I have to assume it was authentic, since it was done inside an actual business with rubber gloves, drapes and the whole business.)  I had even read a hilarious chapter in Bob Smith's Openly Bob about a co-worker who flashed his piece for his buddies.  So, based on my scanty research, I had determined that Prince Alberts looked really cool, were relatively pain-free with the exception of say, the first 48 hours, were incredibly erogenous (let's face it: the prime reason for getting one), and would heal more quickly than normal if I was responsive to diligent.

I was sold, although Tom had made it clear he'll divorce me and burn the remains if I get one.  He doesn't want to be intimate with someone who has one.  I hadn't thought about it from a partner's point of view, of course, because I was relying on everything I'd read, and was relying on the heightening of my pleasure.  Tom put it into more basic terms: "There's going to be a heavy, metal ring knocking on my teeth.  What if I lose a filling or chip a tooth?"

He had a point, so I had buried the desire to get a Prince Albert, secretly nursing it from time to time by discreetly asking friends and acquaintances (my tattoo artists, Dave and Brent), my massage therapist (Luke), and even Tyler himself if they had one.  You mention a Prince Albert to guys and they have one of two reactions: they either smile proudly and grasp their junk with a satisfied smirk ... or, they gasp audibly and grasp their junk in an effort to block out imaginary pain identical to having bamboo shoved under the fingernails.  (I'd say 0.1% of the former; 99.9% of the latter.)

Tyler, a professional whose job it is to keep both straight and gay men firmly anchored to Earth when it comes to expressing themselves while in their mid-life crises, calmly explained to me that a Prince Albert was something he would never do.  "Unlike most pierces, this one never goes away.  You're always gonna have a second hole in your urethra, for starters.  And for another, it's prone to infection and takes forever to heal.  It's only comfortable once it is healed, and that's different on everyone."  He also leaned in to confide what I discovered would be the coup de grâce to my primitive male urges: "And you'll never pee standing up again.  You have to sit all the time, or you dribble and spray."

Ouch.

Since this is the basic difference between men and women, it didn't seem like much of a sell to a prospective partner, having him walk nonchalantly into the bathroom to brush his teeth and find me plopped on the throne.  I attempted a weak foray into re-taking my mental territory: "But the Internet said ..."

Tyler held up a hand.  "You can't believe the Internet.  Everyone's story is different.  Every body and every piercing heals differently regardless of how hygienically it's done.  I would never recommend a P.A.  They're just not worth it."

Since Tyler was obviously not a man's man, my next comment could have been construed as a come-on.  "What about my nips?  Do you do those?"  I lifted my sweatshirt, assuming he would need to do a visual inspection.

"Sure."  We walked into the studio and he pointed out various gauges, explaining the process as he did so.  Then came the clincher.  "I normally do these at $50.00 a pair or $35.00 apiece, but it's slow today, so I'll do 'em both for thirty-five right now."

Tom loves a bargain.  He is the Coupon Cutter Champion and although I'm not, I also enjoy a discount on certain things.  Tom keeps hoping his love for getting groceries on sale will transfer to me lock, stock, and barrel, but it hasn't.  However, Tyler had hit a soft spot, and apparently my face showed it.  I couldn't back out now, I realized, or I would be showing how wishy-washy I could be.  Quickly I ran the information through my head: two nipples, on sale, hygienic, easier to take care of, don't have to sit to pee.

"Sold."

And so began the most excruciating fifteen minutes of my life.  I give Tyler a hand, because he's obviously a professional, but nothing prepares you for this.  (Childbirth may be up there, but being a man, I can't be sure.)  The most surreal thing I remember about the procedure wasn't the extremely tight D-clamps he latched onto the very tip of nipples and slightly twisting to get the positioning he needed, or the needle the size of a swizzle stick he jammed through the skin.  It was the small knot of tattoo groupies sitting outside the open door of the piercing room, having a conversation while I was getting stuck, who weren't in the least bit dismayed about hearing my twin screams of, "Jesus Christ, motherf***er, son of a b****!" at the top of my lungs.

"Okay, you're done."  Breathing heavily, I look down and sure enough, two matching rings of surgical stainless steel now adorn my nips.  I might have been wrong, but I could swear I could see blood pulsing underneath the skin, which was red, extremely tight, and creepy-in-a-good-way painful.

I am now a piercing veteran.  I have still debated getting a Prince Albert from time to time, horror stories and Tom's point-blank refusal of ever sleeping with me again notwithstanding.  It still sounds fascinating to me, a throwback to the Victorian age when men were men, wearing twenty pounds of clothing - waistcoats, breeches, vests, top hats, the works.  And although the pain of getting my nipples pierced has more than faded, I have to think about what would happen if I let a needle that size near my junk on purpose.

Then, I found the photo below, posted on our old friend the Internet, with the caption, "My underwear after I got my Prince Albert."  And it has effectively put a (D-)clamp on any further desire for undergoing any more piercing.  I mean, really - there are better and much more enjoyable ways to ruin a pair of underwear.  So, when I think of to pierce or not to pierce, I think of this.  If you're a guy who can do it, more power to you (and let me know how that works for you).  For me, twinges of regret aside, I think I'll stick to what I have and finish my tattoo sleeve ... I am, after all, 44 years old, and anyone that would truly be interested in my having a Prince Albert would be young enough to be my son.

So, when you debate to pierce or not to pierce: keep this image in your head.  And of having to sit down to pee with the ladies.

Underwear Profile #2: Francois Sagat

We've covered that European men are among the sexiest on the planet.  Now ... who in that field is the sexiest?

Arguably, it's Francois Sagat, a rather prolific and extremely buff French pornographic actor who has done his fair share of films.  Sagat is also a model, and has cautiously branched out into mainstream film (Saw VI, L.A. Zombie) that makes good use of his physique and other attributes.

If you're wild about tattoos, Sagat is also your man, as he's got several - the most distinctive is a scalp tattoo that covers his entire head (he claims he got it when his hair started to thin and that he didn't believe his head has proportionate or symmetrical, so the tattoo mimics an actual hairline).  Because he likes Arab men, he has a star and crescent on his back, and he has the Greek transliteration of his name tattooed on his left forearm.  The fact that he's got just the right amount of chest hair doesn't hurt, either.

I admit to having a fetish for porn stars, the same way straight guys do, but even if he wasn't, I'd be taken in anyway by his smoldering French-ness, his sexiness, and of course, the fact that he's gay.  I've sent him several "likes" on Facebook and even a fan letter (no response), but I hope one day he'll knock on the door because he needs to use the bathroom.

You'll get just about anything you can dream of by using Google - skin tight body wear, bare-chested beefcake photos, leather ensembles, Speedos, the works ... and although there are "underwear" shots of this hunky chunk of Gallic cheese, none of them seemed particularly suited to my needs.  So, even though this is an "underwear profile," you're not getting underwear, per se.

I leave you to your imaginations and the wonders of Google Images to see what you're missing and to find the setting for your particular thermostat.  Happy hunting and à bientôt!

Let's Talk Speedos

I mentioned in a previous post that, in addition to being a fan of (boxer) briefs, I am also an advocate of that swimwear favorite, the Speedo.

When I was younger, we'll say twelve, I didn't get the Speedo hype.  And growing up as I did in rural Alabama's Gulf Coast, it wasn't usual to see them at the beach on the weekends.  In fact, I don't recall seeing any.  I only became enamored of Speedos when I joined the swim team and discovered that my dress code consisted of a Lycra swimsuit.

Today, I don't own a pair of board shorts or loose trunks.  Everything I have is in the Speedo category - Aussie Bum, Tyr - you name it, I own it.  And because I am an advocate of underwear that keeps my junk where I want it, it only seems natural to have swimwear that does the same thing.  I'll start with the generalization that (boxer) briefs today are still the rage.  (Keep in mind that I'm not really in a position to do any hard-core research: I don't know that many 25-and-under studs who will readily answer the question, "Boxers or briefs?" when approached by another guy.)

So, these 25-and-unders wear undergarments that keep them stationary.  These same college students and young professionals also usually wear shirts from Abercrombie & Fitch or Hollister that are so tight their nipples break through the fabric.  Ah, yes ... and let's not forget the skinny jeans that have become so popular.  The point is: they wear clothing that is form-fitting and meant to show off their pecs, their quads, their delts, and every other muscle on the planet.  Jocks do not hesitate to take off their shirts for a good game of shirts and skins, and compression shorts have become a ready replacement for the jockstrap.

So ... if you're willing to wear clothes that fit you that tightly, why won't you wear a Speedo?  The only differences between board shorts and Speedos is the length of the leg and the fit.  And, if you're showing the tops of your (boxer) briefs anyway to the point that it's your junk that's keeping your pants up, there's no reason not to wear a Speedo.

I refuse to believe that guys are that self-conscious, so what is it?  Any swimmer will tell you that Speedos (or even jammers) are the way to go for comfort and speed, and most guys will hike up the hems on their boardies in order to get a really high tan line.  Why go through all that trouble when - ta-da! - you can wear a Speedo and not have to bother?

MAKES NO SENSE.

Now, I grant you that there are older men out there who have a reason not to, usually tied to body image.  I even remember reading a news story several years ago about a middle-aged professional lifeguard who refused to undergo his annual competency exam in a Speedo (a requirement for that particular municipality ... his argument was that no one wants to see an old man - even a macho, professional, and well-built old man - in a Speedo).

Age shouldn't make a difference about this fashion trend, though, and it doesn't in Europe.  But unless you're straight and frequenting a gay beach in San Francisco, I can't imagine that your everyday-college-jock is going to be approached by other everyday-college-jocks with the comment, "Love the way your junk is so round and anchored.  Looks good, bro."

Therefore, I entreat everyone and anyone reading these posts to stop being Speedo-discriminatory and give them a try, a genuine go-to-the-beach-lay-back-and-get-a-suntan try.  I doubt you'll receive any really derogatory commentary (directly), and who knows?  You might actually get lucky, depending on where you go and who you're trying to attract.  Thing is, it's not fair to bash something without giving it a try.  I'm willing to lay even money that you'll discover - ta-da! - you like them.  And you'll wonder why you never did it before.  (If Justin Timberlake, Keith Urban, Sean Astin, Aaron Eckhart, Jerry O'Connell, Josh Duhamel and David Hasselhoff, as well as any number of European and Australian celebrities can do it, you can too!)

Once you go Speedo, you never go back.

When Size DOES Matter

Made you look.

Get your minds out of the gutters, guys.  (Not that it doesn't belong there, anyway; but I can see how a blog about underwear and titles such as this would instantly lead to some not-so-pure thoughts.)  This rant is about the media and the disparity it perpetuates.

These are my own observations: normal, everyday, network television absolutely, positively seems to ignore the fact that anything sheer or form-fitting (briefs, long johns and boxer briefs) exist.  I can't recall the last time I hooked into NBC and saw the (male) star of the show waltzing around in anything but boxers.  (I did see Stephen Pasquale in a quick Speedo shot on the quickly-canceled-now-you-see-it-now-you-don't Do No Harm, but since we're talking about underwear and not swimwear, it technically doesn't count.)  It seems like Hollywood is backsliding into Jockeys and boxers, which don't do their wearers any justice: it degrades their status as sex symbols.

I used to deride actors who dedicated themselves strictly to independent projects, but now I understand the draw.  These movies and shows usually end up on cable, where the rules are a bit more lax.  It's a shame that sexism abounds and that women can prance around in next to nothing, but a guy can't be given the same consideration when it comes to undershorts.  If he's not wearing Y-fronts or baggy boxers, we usually only get treated to a waistband (if that) or a camera shot that suggests nudity, and frustrated viewers like myself mutter, "Pan down!"  I can't remember the last time I was watching television with male friends, women were walking around in a bra and panties, and they were panting ... "Oh, yeah, put on that camisole ... oh, yeah, a tight T-shirt.  Put on the tight T-shirt."

Please.  It's only after the "family hour" that we get any hint of an actor's underwear choices, and even then, it's hit-or-miss.

Movies seem to be the exact opposite - who can forget Ryan Reynolds' turn as Green Lantern?  (It turns out everyone can, since the movie was universally panned, even on nerd-fest superhero friendly The Big Bang Theory.  I for one enjoyed it.)  We got to see Ryan in two ever-so-brief (get it?) shots - one where he's bounding out of bed with Miss Right Now, and another where he's being scanned by an alien computer.  Frankly, those shots weren't long enough.

The one exception that occurs to me in movie context is Jason Statham.  I don't think I've seen him in anything besides a balloon-y pair of boxer shorts, and I feel like I'm being cheated.  Not only does he have, like, -3% body fat and pectorals you could bounce a moon rock on, but he's got that whole not-Samson thing going with the way he shaves his head.  Throw into the mix that he was considered for the national British swim team (Speedos), and well, there you go.  Why the hell isn't he prancing around in a pair of briefs or some really tight trunks?  Inquiring minds want to know!

I know it probably has to do with latent body image on the part of the actor; perhaps there's even a bit of wanting to play the mystique card, too.  You know, keep the audience coming back for more.  Sex symbols must have a tough time with this ... how much is enough?  Too much?  It's disappointing for audiences to shell out $10.00 for a movie that has the promise of a favorite leading man, and it's the little Easter eggs that make spending the money worth it.  Colin Farrell doing full-frontal nudity (A Home at the End of the World, Alexander)?  I am so there.  Ewan McGregor (I Love You Philip Morris)?  Ditto.

Putting the subject in the context of wanton sexism isn't crude.  It's a basic truism: People like looking at (nearly-)naked bodies.  I feel that, if you have the guts to strut your stuff, you should go the full Monty.  It only makes sense.  And it shouldn't matter if it's television, cable, film, or direct-to-video.  Get the censors out of heads and our libidos.  It's what people pay for.  (I mean, really: who's going to see Behind the Candelabra because they're absolutely gunning to find out all the details of Liberace's life?  Uh-uh.  It's because you get to see Matt Damon in a very skimpy brief.)

Size DOES matter, but it's the size of the screen.  Let us guess at the size of what you're covering.  The issue is, there has to be an outline.  A boxer short leaves too much guesswork, and I don't want to guess.  I want to know.  Too much guessing makes my head hurt.

Let's Get Zesty

I had a completely different post in mind for today's submission, but in the interest in keeping up on "current events" and looking at other media, I decided to run with this one.  It isn't about underwear, but it is about the male form, so that counts in my book.  (In fact, in the broadest sense, it's about no underwear, so we're still on topic.  Kinda.)

Take a look at today's accompanying photo.  This guy's name, according to the Internet, is Anderson Davis.  He's the subject of a Kraft advertising campaign (both print and audio) titled "Let's Get Zesty," profiling their Italian salad dressing.  While the print advertising is simple in concept (naked guy, picnic, salad dressing), the commercials show him stirring salad dressing while butter melts in his proximity; slapping pizza dough (I'm not going there; I could, but I'm not); seductively spinning salad; and in the ultimate kicker, he proclaims, "Once you go Italian, you'll never go back."  The camera then zooms in on the Italian sausages (still not going there) he's grilling in a kitchen filling up with steam.

He even has a Twitter following (@TheZestyGuy) that advises, "Marinate ... all ... night ... long."

Wow, do I have sudden desire to drink Kraft Italian dressing by the bottle!

Of course, the conservative groups are calling for Kraft's figurative head, as they see the ads as a push against upstanding, Christian values.  (Apparently upstanding Christians don't go on picnics, eat sausages or pizza, or marinate their meat.)  "Kraft has gone too far and will push away loyal, conservative customers with this new ad campaign," One Million Moms said on its website.  "Christians will not be able to buy Kraft dressings or any of their products until they clean up their advertising."

Won't be able to?  Are you f***ing kidding me?  (These are the same repressed women who sit in their kitchens worrying about their children being unduly influenced by the Teletubbies.)

Some of the commentary on Yahoo! has been hilarious.  My favorites:

• "Glad it wasn't for Oscar Meyer." - Douglas
• "I make my own salad dressing.  Unfortunately, however, I can't whip up a man like this from the ingredients in my refrigerator." - Booboo
• "Should have had him lay on his stomach and asked if you want your salad tossed." - Mr.
• "Kraft dressing sucks but this guy is worth devouring until your gag reflex is no more." - Z

The best comments compared the hubbub to the Liquid Plumr "I'm Here to Snake Your Drain" ad starring Aaron O'Connell (now of OWN's The Haves and the Have Nots) and Allstate's Mayhem character, played by Law & Order: SVU alum Dean Winters, but the comment of the day goes to Molly, who asked, "Where are the One Million Dads protesting all the commercials with almost naked women in them?"

Boo-ya.

I say, good for Kraft and good for Anderson Davis.  This campaign has launched him into the public eye and  into what I assume will be a very lucrative career in film (and if not that, at least porn).  Any company that's willing to push the boundaries a little bit and make society less uptight is doing the right thing, in my book.  If you disagree, start your own blog with your own opinions, but be sure to refer people over here so they can see both sides.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go purchase some stock and eat a case of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.  Yum ... yum ... YUM.

Hole-y Underpants!

Note: I have always HATED the word "underpants."  Don't know why.  It's like the same thing an acquaintance of mine had with the words "doily" and "babushka".  It just sounded better as part of the title.

So, since we've talked and nattered about underwear in general, who wears what kinds, the type of material, etc., it's time to move on into the realm of something new in the underwear world: underwear that comes ready-made with holes in it.

Keep in mind I'm not talking about something similar to the ripped jeans we used to buy for $100.00 a pair. (Quite frankly, if I want a pair of jeans with holes in it, I would simply head down to The Salvation Army, fork out a buck for a pair on the rack, and go crazy with scissors.  The only real reason to wear underwear with holes in it is to have your partner literally rip them off you.  It's hot.  Trust me.)  I'm talking about fashion underwear that's supposed to be super sexy for both you and your partner, the kind with a notch below the treasure trail or the kind that are butt-less (and go great with chaps).  I'm also not talking about a g-string, a jockstrap, or that one pair with the little hole in the seam between your legs that you can't bring yourself to throw away because of good memories.

I'm talking strictly about the "made-that-way" pairs that run you an arm and a leg.

I don't own a pair of these yet.  I'm tempted, because I'm an underwear whore (have I mentioned that already?) and because I desperately want to believe that the stuff on the model looks as good or better on me.  I can't justify forking over thirty? forty? fifty? dollars for a pair of fashion shorts with holes in them, when I'm paying just as much for a primo pair of Andrew Christians, Clever, Unico, or something similar.  (Tom would kill me if I did; there's a back story to this involving strippers that I won't get into just now.)

But let's face it: until there's a "Victor's Secret" for men that will sell all kinds of "come-hither-and-f***-me" undergarments, we have to pursue our kink where we can.  I often wonder if men would actually shop at a Victor's Secret the same way women flock to Victoria's.  Probably not, as most (straight) men don't like to shop anyway, and straight men have enough issues shopping at a romance store like Lover's Lane.  I mean, can you picture it?  You're out with your buddies, walking the mall, getting ready to see Dying Hard and Tied Up, and to kill time you wander into Victor's Secret because they have a pair of aqua briefs that you just absolutely have to have or you'll die ....  Won't happen.  Not only will your friends dump your a**, they'll start having really awkward conversations about "that one night in college" and how it affected you and how they're not gay.

(I suspect this is why guys do so much shopping on-line.  It saves time, everything arrives in nondescript boxes, and the only person who knows how much of a freak you really are is the guy on the other end of the computer screen who has to pack and ship your order.  The same argument can be expanded to the opposite of those who shop at big and tall stores: the "short and squat"s.  Although I'm 5'7", I have a really hard time finding clothes that fit, and I won't even go into how difficult it is to find shoes I like in the right size.  I believe there are probably as many short and squat people out there as there are big and tall, but you don't hear about how two-thirds of the American population is undertall and broad.  All you hear about are the two-thirds that are overweight or obese.  And where do morbidly obese people go?  The same place as the morbidly thin?)

In general, I have issues with the way the fashion industry treats men and women who don't fit into the Abercrombie & Fitch paradigm.  (I, however, do not have issues with Abercrombie & Fitch models, as long as they're over 18 and speak English.  Hell, no!)  It all comes back to wanting to wear what makes you feel good, and what's the first thing you put on in the morning?

Hel-lo ... your skivvies.

But do business executives and call center agents alike think about the brand of underwear they're slipping into?  I doubt it, unless they're gay, and even then, you have to wonder.  I've met guys who are fashionistas from the word "go," and I've met guys whose choices have made me whimper "stop."  But just think about it - the age-old fantasy of being trapped in the elevator with the sexual encounter of your dreams: slipping off his pants to find ... what?  Nothing?  Something sheer?

Or maybe, just maybe, a new pair/style of underwear you've never experienced before?  I doubt you'll be left impressed by that old pair of Hanes that should have been thrown out last month.

So, the next time you go shopping (online), think about the elevator.  When you get up in the morning, think about the elevator.  And when you see that gorgeous hunk from I.T. who has been giving you that look, while he's bent over underneath your desk in a pair of jeans that are just too flattering, think about trapping him in the elevator and what you hope he's wearing and what you should be.

It's All in the Mix

I'm glad that underwear manufacturers have come to the realization that cotton isn't the only way to go.  For all that cotton is the "wonder fabric," sometimes it leaves a little bit to be desired.  I, for one, can't wear 100% cotton undershorts.  It doesn't matter that the rest of my wardrobe is made of cotton, for the most part; for my junk, plain cotton just doesn't work.

Guys, in general, don't look at labels.  We don't compare the amount of sodium in Brand A to Brand B - we'll eat it anyway.  We don't try on clothes in the store - if it doesn't fit, we'll return it.  We could care less if something is made of silk or straw - it all goes into the same batch of laundry.  And I used to fall strictly into this category, until underwear became a fashion industry.

When I was old enough to become responsible for buying my own skivvies (there's a cutoff date for every guy, when his Mom decides, "Not going there anymore," - which I believe also roughly corresponds to the first time she catches him masturbating), I did what every student does: I threw the package into the cart without looking at what I was actually buying.  After ruining said skivvies in the laundry, I had to start looking at labels, which required looking at styles.

In the eighties, underwear came in a tube.  You got three of four pairs in different colors, and it was cool.  There was always the guy who would stick with Hanes Y-fronts, or the guy who had to wear silk boxers, but I was the "buy-your-underwear-in-a-tube" guy.  The underwear-in-a-tube has gone the way of the dinosaur, and we now buy our fashion undershorts by the pair - either in a box with a window or on the hanger with those little clips.  (There is an exception to this rule - the almost-like-Hanes-name-brands-that-come-six-to-a-pack, the ones Tom gets because he's frugal.)

It was after a few errors that I learned everything was in the mix and that I had to start checking the labels.  My undershorts have to be a mix of cotton and whatever it is - Lycra, "elastene," other - in order for it to fit properly and feel okay.  All of the major brands have learned this, so it makes it easy, but every once in a while, one sneaks in there that shouldn't be.  Since I love a bargain and wear a small size (in some cases, extra small), I love checking out the bins at Marshall's to see what fashion pairs are available.  You have to be careful, though ... people have the tendency of taking Calvin Kleins and sticking them into Undergear boxes.

So, in addition to getting what you're actually buying, you can't just rely on the box.  You have to check the skivvies themselves to make sure you're getting the mix you need.  It's amazing some of the recipes manufacturers have come up with, but as long as it's a mix, I usually don't have an issue.  And now that I have become spoiled by "The Mix," I can't go back.  I'll be in big trouble if mixes ever go out of style.

To each their own, I guess, except for the "wear-your-pants-around-your-knees" brigade.  Still don't get it, and refuse to.  Long live The Mix!

Underwear Profile #1: Erko Jun

For those underwear enthusiasts who like bodybuilding and fitness, I point you in the direction of one Erko Jun, a Bosnian-born bodybuilder currently residing in Antwerp, Belgium.  Erko has also graced various modeling venues, isn't shy about posing in his skivvies (I know he's done underwear shoots in the Netherlands), and sports what appears to be a Polynesian half-sleeve on his right forearm.

I became aware of Erko through another blog, and he is definitely on my "wanna-meet-you" wish list.  Not that I'm an expert, and speaking solely for myself, he's one of those "99.9% guys" I've previously mentioned.

He's squarely in the trunk/boxer brief category of underwear preference; give him a Google and see what you think.  His personal website is www.erkojun.com.

As a teaser, try this on for size:

I See London, I See France

Here's a news flash: Justin Bieber and other meathead members of the Sagging Pants fraternity are doing youth a disservice by making them believe hip-hoppers everywhere will be denied their dream of a multi-million dollar recording contract by wearing clothes that actually fit.  Justin and his posse think the belting of pants at the hips/thighs/knees in order to flash a chosen and preferred brand name of undershorts is comparable to Miss America actually attaining world peace.

I think I share the feelings of American parents, educators, and adults everywhere by saying, "Justin, we don't get it.  We can't get it.  We refuse to get it.  Pull up your pants, you putz."

This whole sagging pants business bugs me, and I am by no means a prude.  As I've made clear in my two previous posts, underwear is my turn-on, but let's be clear - I like to see men in their underwear, not boys.  I don't have any aversion to the male form: I've been to Europe.  I've visited bath houses.  I have a thing for tattoos and scars.  I can appreciate all manner of build.  And I've done things that most people would definitely raise an eyebrow to.

But pederasty isn't my style.

My two sons, ages 17 and 18, are classic examples of this "I See London, I See France" fashion trend.  (I should probably clarify that they aren't my sons.  They're rent-a-kids, exchange students that Tom and I have brought into our home for a school year.  This is something we've actually been doing for eight years now - we have a great time every year with the teenagers, both female and male, who have lived with us, and we've gotten a pretty good lesson in the "global village concept" to boot.)  All of the boys we've hosted have been followers of the practice except one, and we never get used to it.

Every year we think it'll be different, but no go.  They arrive in the airport with pants around their knees, and they leave the airport with pants around their knees despite our best efforts.

Perhaps I'm nitpicking, but one of the disparities of the whole "let me show you the briefs/boxer briefs/boxers I'm wearing" fashion statement is that these same kids refuse, absolutely refuse to wear Speedos.  (I'm a fan of Speedos, too, but we'll address that in a future post.)  I can't wrap my head around this logic: "Sure, I'll let you get a glimpse of my crotch fly or even lower, let you see the hairline of my manscaping routine (another future post), but don't ask me to wear something that's form fitting, that's acceptable, and which is normal for where I'm from."

Doesn't make sense.

It would be different if they didn't, but these are the same kids who actually bring Speedos with them for their stay.  But do they wear them?  No.  Why bring them then?  Board shorts are all the rage, I'm told, for European males under the age of thirty.  Erik, from Germany, even went so far as to tell me that his father still wears a Speedo when he goes to the beach or pool, but he (Erik) wouldn't be caught dead in one or be seen around his father if he's wearing his: "Only old people wear them."  (We even had one student that went so far as to wear a Speedo under his board shorts, so as to still have the whole "underwear is showing" look while on vacation.)

Because I was a swimmer, I took his comment with a bit of pique and proudly informed him that not only do I own and wear a Speedo, I have a sunga and Speedo trunks as well.  In fact, none of my swim wear can be considered a normal swim trunk.  And because I happened to take his comment so personally, I asked, "If you're not willing to strip down to Speedos, why are you willing to show practically the same thing when you're fully clothed?  Why do 'old people' want to see your business hanging out over the belt line of your pants, then?"  (And, like teenagers everywhere, I got a snort of derision and a monosyllabic mumble as a reply, because obviously, Tom and I just don't get it.)

Apparently.  It's become a running joke to tell the boys to pull their pants up.  They figure us out pretty early (I think it's part of the overlap in year-to-year communication - last year's kids rat us out to next year's kids, letting them know what they can get away with and what behaviors and patterns work here), and it doesn't take long for them to start pulling their shirts down instead of pulling their pants up.  This fashion rebellion runs over into everything - school (and our principal, gotta love him, keeps trying to drive the point home that he, the school counselor, and the rest of the faculty don't want to see the waistband either), family functions (where admittedly, the idea of having a European present is a bit of an attention-getter, especially to nieces coming of age), and even prom, when we explain how a tuxedo works and fits.  (The same student that did the Speedo/board shorts arrangement complained that his tuxedo pants didn't fit because they felt funny.  Exasperated, I snapped, "It's because they're on your waist!")

There's an axiom that states 99.9% of European men are highly attractive.  We have our fair share of great-looking guys (and even more "uggos," to borrow a technical term from Friends), but even when I go to a bar, I don't see men in their twenties and thirties with their pants around their knees and ankles.  (That usually comes later ... duh.)  I have met some extremely attractive men from Europe, and I dare say that as our boys grow older and mature, they will fit into that category with no issues whatsoever.  But these great looking guys from Europe wear their pants where they belong, so I have to wonder if Erik and Dávid will continue to belt their pants around their thighs as they move through bar hopping, bed hopping, marriage and kids.

Like all fashion trends that go the way of the dinosaur, I suppose they'll look back on the numerous photos documenting their choices (thank you, Facebook; thank you, Internet) and groan, "What was I thinking?  Why on Earth did I ever listen to Justin Bieber?"  Kids never listen.  We didn't either, when our parents wanted to know why we were wearing T-shirts under a sport coat; why guys were piercing their ears; when we sported our "Flock of Seagulls" haircuts; or when gauze pants were all the rage.

Some things are just basic information.  I knew when I was 17, as I know now, that my undershorts belong under my pants, not on top of them ...

... that is, if I choose to wear any at all.