Reflections on Andrew Christian: When did you first discover sexy underwear?
For many of us, perhaps the first awakening to our sexuality was standing in the men’s section looking at packages — double entendre, noted — of Calvin Klein models wearing simple white briefs. “Tighty whities,” as many recalled on IG.
Other guys I spoke to on social media recalled their mothers being there, shopping back-to-school. All clandestine flush faces, or other states … of arousal.
A bit further back on the timeline, it was the JCPenney circular. Others said it was a Sears catalogue, a staple in many communities where mail-order was a necessity. Not an indulgence. Before the Internet was a literal shopping destination, others said it was the International Male catalogue.
International Male is long gone. However, if you type the name into a browser, you’re redirected to InternationalJock.com. So many brands there now, Stud. CellBlock13. Emporio Armani and Nasty Pig.
BikeAthletic.com, the historic producer of the practical, functional, athletic jockstrap, has quietly, seemingly pivoted to a gay market.
Pride jockstraps. Mesh. Yellow. Pink. Royal blue. One can even personalize them with “Zaddy, Loverboy, Bear, Bike Boy.” Or playful patches like a red apple saying New York City, or a Pride rainbow.
These are not your grandfather’s locker room editions.
For my former college roommate, Kevin Williams, it was the Rocky Horror Picture Show that led to his awakening about “skimpier underwear.”
“That, coupled with photos or videos of European guys in Speedos, definitely got me excited about seeing guys almost naked,” he shared via Instagram. But, for him, it was Andrew Christian. “I didn’t venture into trying out jockstraps, thongs, or tiny briefs until Andrew Christian exploded onto the scene. Even watching porn, the standby was Calvin Klein, but then it was all about Andrew Christian.”
He promptly ordered online.
As a young college lad in pre-September 11th, NY, I remember seeing the adult shops in Chelsea. The underwear in the window was sexy but … not something you could wear every day. Imagine being at your first internship, being asked who was leaving blue sequins in the bathroom?
My first pair of sexy underwear came from Bloomingdale’s. A tiny Calvin Klein brief with no labels or fly. They reminded me of something an artist’s model might wear.
Then a Playboy thong. I struggled with the Playboy product at first: Why would a gay man purchase from Hugh Hefner’s empire? Until I separated the words and found the allure. The brand became a command. Slyly issued with a raised eyebrow, “Play, boy.”
The garments in Chelsea, however, were showpieces, play pieces. Older, wiser, more experienced, or just savvier guys would often have multiple choices in a nightstand. After meeting someone in the East Village, a few hours later, my eyes were aglow at pleather shorts or bejeweled jockstraps.
When I relocated to Wilton Manors, FL, to be one of the senior editors with the now-shuttered South Florida Gay News, suddenly … it was everywhere. Or I should say, he was everywhere. The Shoppes of Wilton Manors on Wilton Drive boasted at least two spots catering to the gay aesthetic.
Upon venturing into one for the first time, the voice of an elderly Jewish grandmother popped into my head, “You’re gonna pay $25 for that? There’s no back!” I ignored her: I spent nearly 100 bucks on a few jockstraps and thongs emblazoned with the name Andrew Christian.
Which came with the Trophy Boys.
…and the posters.
…and the stickers.
…and calendars.
…and how they felt.
Naughty, but suitable for the office. No sequins dropping onto bathroom tiles. A jockstrap lifted and separated.
Like “Play, boy”, the ACs felt naughty but practical. Was it my Catholic guilt? How could something so sexy bear the name Christian?
Momentum seemed to pick up. In the days of Google Chat, that little box that chimed in when you were supposed to be working on … work. I was in a long-term chat with my friend Wes. I would not call him a prude; he was a gogo dancer in his DC college days. But, wasn’t chatty about his escapades. Until underwear came up … or down.
To my surprise, he said, “There is nothing better than a sexy pair of manties on a guy.”
It was validating. For every new pair of “manties” I bought, a pair of my “normal underwear” vanished into the dumpster.
Oddly, the adoption of sexy underwear for men has, in one particular case, had an opposite effect. At nude beaches, clothing optional pool parties, or resorts like Island House, Key West, the guy in the backless number somehow looks more naked than the guy next to him wearing only sunglasses and a smile. The former looks more vulnerable, willing. The latter, just hanging out.
My first roommate in Florida worked at an adult bookstore. When things went on sale, he’d come home with pairs for both of us.
We ran with a little pack of guys our age, all with Italian surnames. When the sun went down at our mostly gay-occupied apartment complex, sometimes we’d saunter to the pool in our AC gear. Then languidly lounge in wet jockstraps, eating pizza, drinking wine under palm trees. The pizza delivery guy never scandalized, it was Wilton Manors. Besides, he showed us that he was wearing a pair of ACs too.
