BRIEFLY SPEAKING

I'm a Nasty Pig.

My underwear says so.

I thought I was worse off wearing old Fruit of the Looms with holes all along the elastic waistband. Not intentional extra hole features. I don't think Fruit of the Loom makes that kind. But I'm betting Nasty Pig does.

My Nasty Pig briefs are tame. A simple Speedo-like cut boldly coloured in red and black. According to the picture on the package, I’m supposed to look cut when I wear them. Six-pack abs. That v-line that’s sort of hot but makes me think of starving people. And, best of all, absolutely no muffin-top overhang.

The picture lies. Maybe I’m too old. (Maybe clothing should have age guidelines. That’d put me in long johns and suspenders.) Maybe I just don’t have the right body. (Why can’t I just accept that?) Maybe I’m just a plain white Fruit of the Loom guy.

It’s crushing to discover that I’m a Nasty Pig fraud. If they wanted to protect the brand, they’d have spent less time on the pouch and more time on developing a sensor tag that sounded the alarm when the wrong guy—that would be me—tried to update his underwear drawer. They should have ejected me from the men’s undies specialty shop like Willie Wonka got rid of Augustus Gloop. No fancy (under)pants for you!

Perhaps that would have been for the better. I’m unsure what to do with my Nasty Pig purchase. My momma instilled in me the importance of always wearing clean underwear, but what if I get in a car accident, I become unconscious and I’m transported to hospital and the doctors discover my scandalous Nasty Pig label? Would they refuse to operate, even if my briefs are freshly washed with Tide Mountain Spring-scented detergent? (Maybe they’d dillydally as an Instagram-addicted scrub nurse posts a pic. It’s the end of the world as we know it and it has nothing to do with the big baby in the White House.)

I’m seriously limited in when I can slip on my Piggy apparel. Can’t wear them if I plan on driving, can’t wear ‘em if I go through an airport screening. Security officials would deem me a risk for…something. I’m sure there’s some language that applies on page 152 of the manual under the heading “General Unsavoriness”. (Updated versions will specifically reference imposters sporting sexy undies under a new heading, “Missing the (Marky) Mark”.)

I can’t wear my briefs to the gym either. No way I’m revealing them in the change room. The exposed belly is enough to show I’m not worthy. Why drive the point home any further? ‘Roid boys don’t take kindly to having protein shake decision-making (Extra shots of bee pollen and Creatine?) interrupted by a fit of laughter. ‘Roid boys must conserve facial muscle movements; everything must be channeled to the biceps.

I guess I can only be a Nasty Pig in the presence of my boyfriend. Really, that’s the way it should be. I’ll try not to take offense when he quickly turns the light switch to Off. It seems he has a special sensitivity to glare. Happens when I wear my ol’ Fruit of the Looms, too.

SPLITTING HAIRS

Let’s continue on the subject of hair. When I wrote about my dislike of ear and nose hair, I feared I might offend someone. Shuddup, man. Ear hair is my best asset. But, no. The response on Twitter has been an expression of universal disgust regarding such growth (although one fellow alarmingly added that hairy feet are sexy).

The pressure is on, guys. Check your ears and nose as part of your daily grooming routine. (Dear god, you do have a grooming routine, don’t you?)

But let’s move on to body hair. (Easy, foot fetishists, I’m not going that low. Ever.) For this post, I’ll focus on the chest and abdominal area. Is a hairy chest sexy?

I don’t think most straight men give this any thought. Hairy. Smooth. Whatever. You are what you are. It’s one of those rare occasions when I’m envious of them. For gay men, there seem to be clear preferences. Not just preferences—I get the sense this is a polarizing, make-or-break subject.

My earliest memories of an other-world, one beyond my immediate family and friends, arise from the ‘70s. Based on my aunt’s People magazine subscription, it seemed clear that men with hairy chests had the clear sexy edge. The more hair, the more manly. Lee Majors. Robert Redford. Andy and Barry Gibb (but not Robin or Maurice). And somehow I knew about Burt Reynolds posing for Playgirl, lying there in all his hirsute glory. Hairy guys were hunky. Hairless men then were as appealing as hairless cats today—an acquired taste at best. Smoothies like Sean Cassidy and Leif Garrett were for Tiger Beat, for silly girls making the transition from hair- and genital-free Ken dolls.

Later, carrying the hairy banner into the ‘80s was Tom Selleck. But then something changed. It was probably long before Marky Mark, but I’m going to blame him anyway, posing in just his Calvins on glorious, accident-inducing billboards and dancing around in black and white videos that played in heavy rotation on MTV and in gay bars. Gay men lusted over Mr. Mark, all the while failing to notice my feeble cruising efforts. Even if there were predecessors, he made smooth chests—and redonkulously defined abs—the gay standard.

Suddenly, the Freddie Mercury look was très passé. (Miss you, man.) Smooth ruled. Greg Louganis. Antonio Sabato, Jr. Rob Lowe. Brad Pitt. Ricky Martin. Hairy men lost status. But they defiantly took on the name “bears” and, yes, they continue(d) to thrive as some sort of gay subculture.

I am naturally hairy. I get it from my father. Even pre-Marky Mark, I questioned whether all that hair was a good thing. My grandfather and my mother would coax me to eat whatever I ping-ponged around my dinner plate—peas, acorn squash, liver—with the curious incentive, “Eat it. It’ll put hair on your chest.” I remember thinking I could do without the liver…and the hair. And I distinctly remember a day at the beach when my friend Jean-Paul saw my father in a swimsuit and said, “Whoa. Is your dad part gorilla or what?” (Hairy gay men wisely chose not to compare themselves to other primates. Who hasn’t cuddled with a teddy bear? But orangutans? Not so much.)

For my personal tastes, I’d say I’m on the less hairy middling ground. I like men with smooth chests and midriffs. Their muscles are better defined without anything in the way. But some hair is sexy, too. And by “some,” it’s got to be more than a few strands sprouting around the nipple. That’s as appealing as a hairy mole.

There does come a point where a hairy front is too much. Maybe Jean-Paul’s comment still swirls in my head. For the hairier guys, if you’re not shaving, you may need to do some pruning. It becomes too much of a good thing.

Admittedly, I think too much about hair matters. As a gay man, I’m already part of a minority. I cringe at the “bear” label. I don’t want to be further marginalized, even if, based on my own Pride parade observations, the bear set seem to know how to have a good time. For me, to shave or not to shave is an ongoing question. I continue to shave. (I tried waxing once and I am convinced I went into shock. Seriously. I am a wuss to the core. Body hair in no way makes me a manly man.) Even though I shave, I no longer freak when whiskers surface. I don’t rush to the bathroom to go through the shaving ritual. I can let them grow out a tad before I plow ‘em down once more.

So where are you on this issue? Is it an issue at all or a figment of my imagination?