After my three part column on nude modeling (which was banned in several districts of Manila, in family planning centers, and in all-female colleges) I thought I had my fill on naked men to last me until the end of days.  

But then came along the Bench Denim and Underwear show (Although I don’t think people trooped to Araneta to gape at denim).

Another Bench underwear show, another painful rejection by Ben Chan to show off the fruits of my loom with the rest of the civilized world.  Doesn’t Tito Ben realize that I have done everything legally permissible under the anti-terror laws to be part of this flesh fest!?  Despite the write-in campaign of my three female readers, despite exposing myself to select employees of Bench as they exited their head office, and despite having my DOM chuwariwaps detain both Piolo Pascual and John Lloyd Cruz at the Adonis KTV on Quezon City so I could take their places on the runway that evening (Yeah, I’m man enough to replace both of them.  Walang kokontra.), but Bench can’t seem to forget about the last temporary restraining order they had issued against me two years ago.   

Despite the TRO, Bench management was still magnanimous enough to give me and my wife patron seat tickets so that we could be close enough to see the baby oil glisten on the stretch marks of the models. I suspect, though, that they also sent my wife a ticket just so that she could restrain me from streaking onto the stage and showing off my political statement.

“Do I need to pump you full of horse tranquilizers like I did two years ago?” my wife said as she lovingly cuffed my hands.  “Or will you behave this time around?”

“No need, jail warden of my heart.” I winced back.  “I already know what to expect.”

For the men who are Bench underwear show virgins, you might be laboring under the impression that this uber-event is a cleavage carnival.  Well, yes!  It is a fiesta cleavage carnival.  Especially if you want your fiesta filled with gratuitous cleavage exposure from women.  And men.  (I just lost my DOM readers right there)  As for me, I have grown resigned to the fact that the instant gratification that comes with seeing young nubile females strutting down the catwalk in their well-crafted silicone is overcome by the instant consequence of seeing young nubile men strutting down the catwalk with their well-sculpted derrieres.    

Bench always manages to put up an underwear show that is full of pomp, full of spectacle and full of fantasy. I haven’t seen a show this unbelievable since the President’s last State of the Nation Address.  Unlike the previous underwear show that thrust us back into the time of jeproks, bad trips and Annie Batungbakal, this show thrust us into parallel universe that is better appreciated after taking in some post-modern Philosophy courses, some German Opera and some mild hallucinogens.  So despite my subtle aversion to and seething jealousy of well-sculpted male derrieres, there are still ways to enjoy the Bench underwear show without feeling violated. Allow me to be your heterosexual guide to a parallel world where there is no fat, no shame and no outer garments. 

 HOW TO ENJOY MALES IN UNDERWEAR WITHOUT EVEN CRYING

 To avoid psychological counseling, drag your significant other with you to the show.  If she loves you, she will tell exactly you when to cover your eyes and when to open them again.  Remember, her precise timing is key to a healthy mental state.  If you accidentally open your eyes to gawk at Rafael Rossel exposing the fruits of his loom, this can lead to bangungot, regurgitated meals and issues of inadequacy.  However, if you have a loving wife like mine, who has wanted sweet revenge on me ever since her first unapproved cameo in this column, then she will wait until the last possible second for a well-endowed male model to thrust his Brazilian wax in my face.  Not even sticking hot pokers in your eyes will erase that thrust from memory. 

If you have to look at men in underwear, try to distract yourself.  Me, I like to wrap barbed wire around my thighs as a form of self-mortification.  But if you don’t have any spare barbed wire, you can always replace mortification with anger. I get angry when I see well-oiled men with defined musculature wearing underwear two sizes too small, unfairly bloating their disproportionate anatomy to a packed audience.  “Damn them!” I thought, “I could have been the one exposing my disproportionate anatomy at them!”  I was so angry that I even had to remind my wife as she blinded Zanjoe Marudo with several hundred photos.  “Nothing is for real in showbiz, sweetheart.  So please refrain from making any mental comparisons.”

Think of the Bench underwear show as a reflection of the state of our country’s economy.  The spiraling oil prices have taken its toll even on our fashion industry: You can tell by just how much the male underwear has shrunk in size since the last Bench show.  If this event is any indication of how well our economy will fare under GMA, then during the 2010 Bench show, we will have underwear the size of dental floss.  God save us from hernia.  And if our underwear can be ravaged in this fashion, If our underwear will be ravaged in this fashion, what more of our clothes!?  Will we all soon become reluctant exhibitionists?  But do not fret, my mandatory clothes-wearing brethren, because our fashion pioneers at Bench have shown us that being fully clothed is just sooooo outdated.  As long as you have chiseled bodies, washboard abs and disgustingly good looks, you need only to pair your underwear with thigh high socks, neckties and shoulder pads.  Or if clothing becomes too passé for you, you can also wear common household like metal rings, umbrellas or bath louffahs. And if oil prices continue to eat into your underwear budget, you can always wear a plain supporter. I know, it may leave you feeling a bit of a draft, but look on the bright side: it will make number two a whole lot easier.     

And when the titillation of thousands of women and gay men drown out your cries for help, then I guess you have no choice but to join them in the mass hysterics.   If you’re chained to the seat like I am, then I suggest that you cease struggling and enjoy all the novelty that this show exudes. When I finally gave in to the fiesta cleavage carnival, I could hear Kuya Germs screaming in my head, “Now, that’s Entertainment!” If you do think about it, where else will you see grown men wearing origami birds and hockey masks cavort with great horned beasts and green aliens while the Sound of Music plays in the background? Where else will you see a wholesome pop princess Sarah Geronimo sashaying across the catwalk with a whole lotta shaking going on princess Francine Prieto?  And where else will you get to see a whey protein-enhanced Diether Ocampo hypnotizing us with his massive pectorals while twiddling with the garter of his underwear? (Not that I was really paying attention) This is the bizarre and the bazaar. This is the smoke and the mirrors.  This is the crass and the class. This is what a Bench underwear show is unapologetically about.  (Although I think Bench management ought to apologize to me especially after Diether Ocampo threw his underwear in my general direction. You wouldn’t believe how many women and gay men I had to fight of just to keep it.)

I crossed myself when the lights finally dimmed and I thought the show was coming to a close.  “Thank you Lord” I mumbled, “That Sarah Geronimo came out fully clothed, or else I would never be able to watch my DVD collection of “Sarah, The Teen Princess” ever again.”  But before I could call the DOMs to release Piolo and John Lloyd, the lights came back on and suddenly the stage swarmed with hundreds of nigh-naked men exposing their backsides to the audience.   After my initial shock, this sea of half-naked men started gyrating their behinds while waving their hands in the air.  I wasn’t quite sure if these men were performing modern dance, synchronized swimming, or flagging down airplanes, but this was not something I really wanted an answer to.  

I was about to go into seizure until a shirtless Sam Milby pranced onto the stage, strutted towards our general direction, and then made me kindat.  (Ok, it was not for me, it was for my wife.  Basta, he was making kindat at our general direction) So, all is good. Now, excuse me. I have to go home now to take additional injections of testosterone.