Underwear reveals a lot about a guy. This realization smacks me between the eyes as I stare at my reflection in the mirror of my dressing room.
A few minutes before, the wardrobe gal hands me a unitard. I chuckle a bit while stretching the fabric between my fingers. “I can see my fingers through the thin material.. and what do I wear underneath?” I ask her. “Maybe nothing?” she says. “Did you bring flesh colored briefs?”
I think, while tugging down my low-rise tighty whities, that the wardrobe designer should know more about men. And underwear. Specifically, that men don’t really wear flesh colored underwear. She really should have brought me something to wear underneath the unitard for this commercial. But for whatever reason she did not, and regrettably, these low-rise tighty whities are the last real underwear I’ll wear today.
For those who don’t know what a unitard is, it’s a tight-fitting one-piece garment of stretchable fabric (usually a spandex/cotton blend) that covers the body from the neck to the ankles. It can have long sleeves, short sleeves, or in my case, a tank-top type cut.
Tighty whities off. Unitard on. I now see in the mirror that something is most certainly supposed to be worn underneath this thing. But there is nothing underneath, and the unitard’s fabric, slightly magical in its ability to cling, transforms itself into a second skin–finds its way into every crevice of my body. It even has a little dimple where my belly button is. Turning around, I laugh and think that even a plumber would blush showing so much back there. Turning again front side to the mirror, I see that there’s just too much male anatomy visible! There are just some things you can’t show on television! But there’s nothing to be done.
I let out a sigh and head for the door and to the studio. I walk from the dressing room through a series of cubicles where accountant types are working, down a few hallways to the back of the building. Heads pop up in my wake. I hear the straight-laced accountant types whispering “did you just see that?” “My word..”
Finally, I make it to the director, who is chatting it up with the wardrobe gal. He looks me over, starting at my feet and moving up to my waist—and that’s where his eyes stop. He blurts: “We can’t show that on TV! I can totally see your junk.”
I glance over the to the wardrobe gal to see how she plans on rectifying the situation. Mute. With furrowed brow. “I think we need a dance belt here,” I suggest.
The wardrobe gal looks up at me and asks “What’s a dance belt?” Point taken, she really does not know enough to be doing what she’s doing. For those that don’t know, and it’s really OK if you don’t, unless you’re in wardrobe, a dance belt is a specialized undergarment commonly worn by male dancers to support the goods. Most are similar in design to thongs and really do wonders for enhancement.
There was no dance belt. I shoot the commercial with nothing but a unitard. I leap around enthusiastically (I was getting paid to be there after all) and think to myself, “maybe they can add a blur bar over my nether regions.”
I’ve since picked up a dance belt [and have proudly been wearing it underneath the tights required for my trapeze training class.] Interestingly to me, the dance belt, similarly to the unitard, doesn’t constrict movement and is actually an enjoyable wear. The string of the dance belt presents a slightly weird feeling (for those that have never wore one) but it grows on you.
I’ve since picked up flesh colored briefs, too, but I haven’t been presented with a winning opportunity to wear them.
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