Bum’s Rush
Recently it was revealed by the press, acting in its solemn capacity as the Fourth Estate, that actor Owen Wilson doesn’t have much of a keister. In the notorious thong scene in “You, Me and Dupree”--now evacuating theaters nationwide--the filmmakers chose to employ a “butt double” rather than grace us with the authentic Wilsonian tuchis.
This, of course, is not Owen’s fault. Indeed, the condition is hereditary. Owen’s brother, Luke, also required a stand-in for his sitter in the movie “My Super Ex-Girlfriend.” Nor are the Wilson brothers the first male movie stars to require a little extra help. It was widely rumored that Frank Sinatra--all 120 soaking-wet pounds of him--stuffed his back pockets with handkerchiefs for the movie “On the Town,” and who could blame him? Sharing the screen with Gene Kelly’s fabulous lighter-than-air bubble butt would be like entering a noble chin competition against Mt. Rushmore.
It might come as some satisfaction to women who long have endured the piece-by-piece objectification of the female form--great rack, great legs, great J. Lo!--that men are becoming increasingly self-conscious about parts of their anatomy. Particularly, it seems, their spanker. You could attribute this to many things. I personally blame the Tour de France, where dozens of the world’s hardest quarter-bouncing behinds have tended to create unreasonable expectations of the male caboose.
This year, a company called Undergear--a subsidiary of International Male--began offering its “Shape Enhancer” collection, which immediately began outselling other items in the Undergear catalog by 50%, spokeswoman Tamara Young says. The collection includes such items as the nylon/spandex One-Piece Body Trimmer, an elastic singlet that, says the catalog, “eliminates trouble spots as quickly as you can slip into it, flattening your midsection and giving you a trim, well-toned appearance.” Hmmm. This garment looked like a recipe for a whole-body male muffin top.
Of course, there is nothing really new about a male corset, a technology that goes back centuries. However, given the epidemic of fattiness in America, it stands to reason the man-girdle could take on a new currency, if not urgency.
But I was more interested in the catalog’s selection of hemispherically enhanced men’s underwear--that is, interested in a totally journalistic, not-gay sort of way. It’s no secret that women have a thing for a nice, shapely male bottom. Until recently, men were forced to accept their posterior fates, or would secretly improvise their own prosthetics, a la Sinatra’s handkerchiefs. Not anymore. Commerce to the rescue.
Is it possible that padded rump-underoos will become the male equivalent of the padded bra? And, by the way, how can you tell who’s sporting the cheater-skivvies and who’s not? This called for an investigation.
I contacted the Undergear company, and soon I received a lumpy package with an assortment from the Shape Enhancer collection. I thought I’d wear one of these things for a day and see if I noticed any uptick in female attention. Or male, for that matter. For the purposes of this experiment, I wasn’t picky.
The first thing I tried on was the One-Piece Body Trimmer, a surprisingly heavy, rubbery body bandage with a reinforced belly panel and three-snap crotch panel. Sexy! The catalog copy says it will eliminate problems as soon as you “slip into it.” However, you don’t slip into it. It’s more like crawling down the gullet of an anaconda. In the time it took me to brush my teeth, I was having a spandex panic attack. Off it came.
Digging around in the shipping bag, I found the Go Softwear Padded Butt briefs. They were standard cotton briefs, with two oval pads about a quarter-inch thick sewn into the, um, globes. I shimmied into them. The first thing I noticed is that for a man with a reasonably sized and shaped hinder, the butt bustier really makes a difference. Suddenly, I had a huge back porch. Wow!
Soon I was strolling around the office, casually looking behind me now and then to see if any women were checking out my new friend. Occasionally, I’d catch a glance, but it was filled more with concern than desire. Apparently the briefs made me look as if I’d done something drastic in my pants.
I was disappointed. My butt wasn’t really making an impression. Perhaps I just needed to work it more. I tried putting more sashay in my step. It looked like I had the flouncy male equivalent of mad cow disease.
What was I expecting? A pinch? A wolf-whistle from pursed gloss-red lips? I don’t know. But overall the experiment in corrective underwear had been a failure. Not even a longing glance at my badonkadonk.
The padded briefs did provide me a moment of clarity, even solidarity. My constant state of vigilance--ogling my own can in store windows, shiny elevator doors, any reflective surface--must be the lot of women obliged to fluff themselves up with padded bras and cinch themselves down with control-top pantyhose. Your body is never quite your own. You’re always afraid that something has shifted into a telltale lump or let loose in a splurging display of ungovernable fat.
One never knows when the end is near.
