Opinion
My husband and I are sinking into the steaming mineral waters of a hot spring in Colorado. Surrounded by Americans, I’m ready to join them in peak relaxation. Or at least I was – before I felt their eyeballs on us.
As a woman, I’m somewhat used to the occasional creepy stare in swimwear. But I begin to think the attention isn’t for me.
What we’re doing – soaking in one of many natural geothermal pools surrounding Steamboat Springs – is probably the most common post-skiing activity in the region. The hills around this cowboy mountain town are literally bursting with hot springs. Unlike the gender-divided onsens that require you go nude in the ski resorts of Japan, or the free-bodied saunas barring clothing in Finland, Americans expect you to don swimwear. Some Yanks even cover their heads with beanies in these stifling hot outdoor pools. (A trend I will never understand – I prefer to keep the lid open, letting drifting snowflakes cool my head.)
My husband has chosen what most Aussies would acknowledge as standard swimming attire. A pair of brightly coloured briefs that wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at Bondi, St Kilda or any public pool. Back home, Speedos, togs, sluggos and their various brand names are ubiquitous. The affectionately named budgie smugglers are as common as thongs at the Gold Coast airport.
But the subject of our neighbours’ attention is becoming increasingly obvious.
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Every time my husband climbs out of one steaming pool and hops into a different one, his fluorescent-coloured bottoms flash the brand name “BUDGY SMUGGLER” across his backside like a neon billboard. Conversations pause. Eyebrows rise.
Why? This is not a groundbreaking or niche fashion trend. Aussie men have been freeing their thighs for decades. Former prime ministers from Bob Hawke to Tony Abbott proudly donned the budgies without triggering a national scandal. At any suburban pool, surf club or backyard barbecue, an Australian man in sluggos carrying a sausage sandwich is entirely normal. Because our cultural image of masculinity uniquely insists a man can drink beer, discuss cricket and wear swimmers the size of a postage stamp without contradiction.
None of this is shocking to Europeans, either. In France, tight swimming briefs are often mandatory. Many public pools ban loose board shorts on hygiene grounds, arguing they carry in sand, sweat, tissues from pockets and whatever else people have dragged around all day. The French look at men wearing tiny briefs and declare: yes, this is sensible.
Americans, it turns out, have reached a different conclusion.
It finally triggers when I peer through the steam and realise not a single other man is wearing anything less than knee-length board shorts. Smirks are appearing everywhere, without a sluggo in sight. On cue, a woman blurts out with a half-laugh: “What’s a Budgy Smuggler?”
The penny drops faster than my husband’s reddening face.
Americans and Australians disagree on a few things. But here, in the spring waters of Colorado, a wider cultural divide washes up. Not politics. Not sport. Not tipping. It’s the jarring difference in attitudes toward a grown man’s upper thigh, and whether it should ever be allowed to see daylight.
The writer travelled as a guest of Steamboat Ski Resort.
