Boys and girdles

I have seen the shape of the future. And it is almost see-through. Ever since my application as a host for That’s Entertainment was rejected due to aesthetic reasons, I have wondered what has kept many a young male artista looking so svelte despite a punishing work schedule that renders any notion of exercise as theoretical as a truth commission. Could they be undergoing regular bouts of liposuction? Could it be PhotoShop? Could it be tapeworms?

Or could all these male artistas actually be mutants?

Using the skills of cunning and misdirection that I have acquired from observing the previous administration, I finagled my way into the dressing room of a young male artista under the premise that I was the president of his Barangay San Lorenzo fan club and that I needed his autograph across my chest to establish my hierarchy in the club. But my real purpose for being here — after acquiring the autograph — was to find out what gave him the ability to pump and flail onstage like he only had a rudimentary skeletal system. Were his mad dancing skillz (they were so mad that we had to emphasize skill with the letter “z”) perhaps an indication of superior abilities? Or was he sticking his wet finger into an electrical socket? Or were they merely stuffing his underwear with Mexican fire ants?

When said artista ran backstage during the intermission, I was about to unbutton my shirt to bare my newly shaved chest for his signature when he hurriedly shed his jacket, his long-sleeved shirt and his scarf to reveal the almost naked truth: said male artista was wrapped in a full-body girdle to keep all his fat from bursting out of his outfit and injuring audience members. Although I tried to turn my eyes away from ogling him lest I go blind, the same morbid force that keeps you staring at a traffic accident kept me staring at his torso: a white, almost transparent girdle betrayed a writhing, undulating mass of flesh, bones and (when the undulations momentarily stopped) resurfacing nipples that were trapped underneath. No wonder he could dance like he had no bones: his whole body was held together by the girdle like crotch support for the entire body.

But due to the sweat he had generated from all his popping and flailing, exacerbated by wearing several hundred layers of clothing, said artista was quickly degenerating into a puddle of flesh that threatened to burst through his full-body girdle. Lucky for him, his production assistants were veterans at handling these anatomical malfunctions: they poured him out of the girdle into a life-size icebox and froze him in Carbonite, then let him Popsicle-ize there for the duration of intermission. After several minutes, they squeezed him back into his full-body girdle, poured some Mexican fire ants into his crotch area, and sent him bounding back onto the stage.

When I saw the great lengths (and greater widths) that this artista had gone through to maintain the impression of his V-formation physique, I thought it was high time that I give my own set of undulating nipples their opportunity to impress by being enveloped in an exo-skeleton of its own.

Then maybe I will finally get that call from Kuya Germs.

A Good Spanxing

Since the male artista’s full-body girdle was probably as expensive as an underused airport terminal, I scoured the lingerie section of the department (with my wife’s supervision) to find a more affordable undergarment that would at least make Kuya Germs grant me a cameo role in Master Showman.

And, lo and behold, the greatest invention purposefully made for the female anatomy was now available for the male anatomy, and we aren’t just talking about male sanitary pads! Forget about other male enhancements like codpieces, clutch bags and chest hair implants; you don’t need any of those when you have “compression” undershirts (which a less emasculating than a male girdle)! This is purportedly a kamiseta that improves the male physique (Aside from wearing a kamiseta that is three sizes too small from you). Compression undershirts are brought to you by Spanx, a company that not only manufactures female girdles, este, shaping apparel but it also a company that that takes great liberties with their spelling (Personally, I like words that use the letter “X” to create that extra oomph and sexiness, something the letters “K,” “W” or “Q” will never have). 

Take it from Sparx founder Sara Blakely, who has bravely challenged body configurations and correct spelling: “Men’s undershirts have been underperforming for as long as they’ve been around.”

(No wonder Fred Flintstone, Barney Rubble and Captain Caveman have always looked barrel shaped).

Adds Sara: “These undershirts with stretched-out necks and bulky cuts do nothing for the male physique. That is why I was inspired to create powerful undershirts that provide instant gratification.”

(“Instant gratification is what we live for!” screamed the Legion of Dirty Old Men (DOMs). “Because we don’t have much longer to live!”)

Continues Sara: “It’s practically your favorite T-shirt without your least favorite part… love handles!”

(Somewhere out there, a secret cabal of plastic surgeons have hired a team of mercenaries to take down Sara Blakely.)

The bilbil-busting shirt was Sara Blakely’s legacy to the misshapen, beer bellied and man-boobed. And now it was time for me to shape my own legacy.

I was choosing carefully between two compression shirts that I planned to get intimate with (you can’t be too careful nowadays). The first shirt was the everyday Cotton Compression that would make sure that I would never worry about those “pesky bulges” again (until, God forbid, you ever have to remove your undershirt). The packaging reads that it can “firm the chest,” “narrow the waistline,” “flatten the stomach” and “support the lower back.” My goodness, is this Sara Blakely a divine being? How else would she know what is in my most intimate of prayers? With a cotton compression shirt, who needs a gym instructor? Who needs a chiropractor? Who needs to go on a diet? Who even needs underwear!? The cotton compression fulfills all my issues with male inadequacy issues better than alcohol!

The other undershirt was a bit more XXX-Treme (O, may oomph ‘di ba?). This was the Zoned Performance undershirt whose job was to “manage the extra middle management.” Apparently, this shirt is best for men who have bilbil that is large enough to house alien civilizations in the folds of their flesh. This undershirt “firms and tones chest,” “improves posture through lumbar support” and “features targeted compression zones for the abdominals and torso.” (Ooooo, did that mean that I would never have to spray paint six-pack abs over my stomach again? My bilbils were quivering with excitement. And fear.) 

After checking to see that my bilbil was no longer hospitable for alien races, I chose to go with an everyday shirt. And since my only exercise as of late has been putting on and taking off my shirts, Sparx found a way to transform this exercise into an Olympic sport. In fact, these undershirts were so revolutionary that they even provided detailed instructions on how to properly put on the shirt. Please read carefully lest you be the victim of ignorance, recklessness or injury:

1. Pull shirt up to your underarms.

(The next one gets tricky…)

2. Pull shirt over head.

3. Work shirt down torso to a comfortable length.

(It’s good to know that I’ve finally been doing something right in my life).

Despite the detailed instructions, I still needed a crack team of yayas to help pull the shirt over my head. Three and a half hours, some lubricant and a slight bout of claustrophobia later, I finally slipped into my first compression shirt. I waltzed in front of the full-body mirror to ogle my new found physique and breathed out a compressed sigh of relief, “Thank God that this shirt is not see-through.”

Once I donned the shirt, I could feel the side effects that they had promised in the packaging: increased self-confidence, decreased waistline and, might I add, bloated ego. While the shirt started to conform and compress my body into areas that I thought were only imaginary, I realized that this type of skintight outfit must be all the rage in the superhero community (After all, who wants to be rescued by a superhero with a beer belly? I bet you Batman is really a fat b@#$%^). 

Although it was my plan to parade myself in public spaces clad only in my compression shirt, my wife advised me to put on at least a dress shirt (and preferably some underwear). “That way,” she reminded me, “You can feel like a superhero wearing his costume underneath his street clothes.” So after my wife forcibly dressed me under several layers of clothing (and some underwear), I was prancing around my office with a newfound confidence. There was little bit more square to my shoulders, a bit more snap in my step and a bit more socks stuffed into my briefs (I stuffed my underwear myself). I walked around with a toothy grin because I knew that I had something that made me better than the rest, like a pubic haircut or an airborne virus or a third nipple.

And the more radical thing about he compression shirt was that the longer you wore it, the tighter it became. Especially after eating a full meal with two plates of rice, a soft drink, ice cream, coffee and an after-diner chocolate mint. Absolutely amazing. 

After a grueling yet fully rewarding 15 minutes of enhanced confidence, it was time for the shirt to come off lest we develop a symbiotic relationship that my wife did not approve of. I better read the instructions more carefully this time around:

1. Work shirt up body.

2. Pull shirt up to your underarms.

(And the clincher…)

3. Grab gathered bottom and pull over head.

I read the instructions several times, reviewed the visual aids and even did some test runs to make sure that I got this right. But halfway through instructions 2 and 3, the shirt got stuck in one of the bilbils that was having its revenge against my oppressive regime. 

“Read the manual!” I panicked. “Read the manual! What does it say after pulling the shirt up to your underarms! Hurry it’s getting dark in here!”

It took five hours, a phone call to the Red Cross, a hysterical yaya and the Jaws of Life to pry me out of the compression shirt. I immediately patted down my chest and stomach to make sure that my organs were still in their anatomically correct positions. 

Once my gallbladder had returned to its proper place, I stood again in front of my trusty full-body mirror and was in slack-jawed awe. I had a chest that you would want to bounce centavos and mildly sharp objects off of, a stomach that was flat enough to use as an ironing board and a waistline that be perfect for a pair of male thongs. Now, this was a male artista physique worthy of Maser Showman.

Now I just wonder how long I can hold my breath…

* * *

Spanx is available in Rustan’s Department Stores.

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