The ghost of underwear past.
Nobody does fancy undies like a posse of Potts Point poofs.
It’s a little late, but I suppose I should begin by wishing all you Aussies a Happy Australia Day. For those non-Aussie readers, Australia Day is the 26th of January. A day when we celebrate the invasion of our great southern land in 1788 by getting really pissed. And by pissed I mean drunk, not angry. Once again I participated merrily. Not only was my Australia Day happy as in happy. It was happy as in gay. So gay, it was officially called Australia Gay. What started out as a good old Aussie barbeque ended with me gyrating on a balcony surrounded by an assortment of men. All ages. All shapes. All sizes. And all wearing nothing but their undies. I am still not entirely sure how this happened. I mean, of course I know it involved removal of outer garments in order to reveal said undies. And prance around therein. But memory of the sequence of events that led to this eludes me. The empty sachet in the pocket of the jeans that I eventually found was a a tell-tale sign. As were the sniff les of the Hollywood f lu that presented themselves. And the pounding heart and throbbing headache and f luctuating mood. Although none of them really provide clear insight into the conversation that culminated in: “Let’s take off our clothes and dance in our undies on the balcony while we celebrate a sunburnt country.” But it was quite the sight to behold. And there was much beholding. And much holding. And groping. And disappearing. There was only one woman in our midst. Who took all of this totally in her stride. But kept bleating about all the ‘fancy undies’. And indeed the undies were fancy. We’re not talking your boring old Calvins here. Anybody can do those. But nobody does fancy undies like a posse of Potts Point poofs. I mean there were the usual brands you’d expect to see in such circles. And even the smattering of Bonds and Jockeys seemed somehow special. It was like a 3D video catalogue of all possible underwear choices. For every possible type of man. A veritable celebration of diversity, bonding in their undergarments. Their fancy undergarments. And not much else. How come all these poofters came so prepared? It’s not like they knew they were going to be revealing their undies. Although we all hope to at some point. But not to a crowd. Of friends. Are all their undies this cool? Or do they save the good ones for special occasions? On the other days wearing the Rios from the 3-packs that their mums bought them. I have always really struggled with my underwear choices. I could never buy underwear online. And even in a store I can never tell how it is going to fit me, even by ripping open the box and holding them up. At this point it becomes apparent that underwear as a topic is inseparable from the major ongoing conversation in my life – that of my f luctuating waistline. The right undies can perform miracles. But finding them is a constant challenge. The heavily branded waistbands mentioned above are so often unnecessarily wide. Which I get are for structure and carrying out a girdle like function. Sure they hold it in to a degree. But they also push it up. Creating a muffin top and a most unfortunate line. Especially after a heavy meal. Therefore I prefer the waistband to be not only not quite so reinforced, but also narrow, and designed to sit low. Once that’s been sorted the next issue to be covered off is all about what sits below the waistband. I want comfort. And some freedom of movement. But support is oh so important as well. You want it to be proud. But protected. Held in place. But not squashed. So structure is essential. Even a little padding. Not that anybody would actually admit that. As really what it’s all about is ensuring that it f latters your package. In a way that appears natural. And at this point I’ll admit that I’m a grower and really not much of a show-er. Combine this with aforementioned f luctuating waistline, and you have a unique set of challenges in the search for the ultimate underwear. I find the available range limited. And when I do find something that works for me, it seems to be freakishly unpopular and does not remain on offer for long. When I was younger, and slimmer, and my dick seemed bigger, all my underwear was Valentino. Apparently I was richer too, for those things cost a fortune. But much to my dismay they stopped stocking them in David Jones, and I was unable to find them elsewhere. Luckily, I discovered Emporio Armani. They did them without the wide band all those years ago. They were my favourites. In fact, they may have represented the heyday in my wearing of intimate apparel. They were the undies most likely to elicit subtle impressed glances, and even compliments. This may or may not have something to do with their being my signature underwear during the time of my physical peak, and I was therefore sharing my physique with absolutely anyone (and I mean anyone) who cared to partake. The fact still remains that they were the best undies ever, who accompanied me through my most sexually active years, and managed to retain their elasticity well beyond any reasonable expectations. But even the greatest of garments have an expiry date. After these had worn out, and were no longer produced, I wandered in the underwear wilderness. Unsure of who I was. And where I was going. Until I came home. And discovered a local brand. That had reinvented itself. In exactly my size. And shape. And with all my requirements. A miracle, I know. The big O in fact. Oroton. Yes, Oroton. Our very own home-grown luxury brand from the ’70s. Famous for the glomesh bag. Now covering my nether regions in exactly the way I wanted. This was too good to be true. And I felt sure it wouldn’t last. So I have bought a lifetime’s supply. Or at least a decade’s. I have 365 pairs. As God is my witness, I will never be underprepared again.