paul supported Make-A-Wish — but it took every ounce of his being to overcome his shyness.

Winter 2000

The gym’s Christmas in Winter party is in full swing. It’s the shortest day of the new millennium and I’m out celebrating with my girlfriend in Jackson’s Bar at the base of the International Hotel. I’m mingling with the gym crowd when I run into one of my regular class members. She reintroduces herself — I pretend I remember — and we chat for a bit. I’m about to excuse myself when she asks if I’d do her a favour. I lean in. She explains she’s organising a fundraiser for the Make-A-Wish Foundation. A rowdy group behind us makes it hard to catch the details, but she repeats: it’ll be fun, it’s for a good cause, to grant wishes for kids with life-threatening illnesses. How could I say no? I nod and promise we’ll talk more the following week.

More details leak out as the night goes on. The more I drink, the less I worry — until Monday comes and reality hits hard.

A formal invitation and instructions are left for me at the gym. I’m booked for a calendar shoot, media promo, and an event in late August. I realise I’m one of 14 men in the 2000 Launceston Man’O’Man Competition — billed as the event of the year to crown Launceston’s “Sexiest Man.” I can’t believe what I’ve agreed to. I immediately start scheming how to get out of it, but my partner is all encouragement. So I reluctantly follow through.

Over the next two months, I double down at the gym, do an oiled-up photo shoot, and somehow become Mr December.

On the night, I’m absolutely shitting myself. I’ve planned a fitness routine set to music, but the unknowns are eating me alive. The organisers keep saying, just be yourself. I wish they knew how impossible that feels when you’re an introvert about to prance around half-naked for 600 strangers.

Round one: each man performs a skit. I do my Rocky-inspired boxing routine. I’d practised it hundreds of times, down to every beat. But the moment I whip off my jacket and reveal my spray-tanned, oiled-up torso, the crowd erupts so loudly I can’t hear the music. I have to improvise the whole thing. Coins and notes are collected from the crowd after each performance — the two men with the least money are eliminated each round. Secretly, I hope to get the boot and escape early. No such luck.

Round two: sleepwear. I’d forgotten to bring any. I wrap a small white towel around my waist and step on stage while everyone else struts out in PJs and slippers. The MC immediately pounces: “Why are you wearing a towel to bed?” — “Oh, I get it folks, he sleeps naked!” The roof lifts off the hall. I survive again.

Round three: Dirty Dancing jeans. We’re paired with local female dancers. I get matched with Rachel Williams, who later became a well-known Southern Cross newsreader. I whisper for her to go easy on me. She smiles and makes me look like I know what I’m doing. I’m through.

Round four: swimwear. I’m standing there in Speedos when the MC comes up and pinches my chest: “Has this bloke been bitten by bees or what?” The crowd howls. I make it to round five.

Final round: four men left. One by one we’re given a random prop and told to improvise for the crowd. From under the stage, I hear Contestants One, Two, and Three get big cheers. I’m last — just like every round before — and my blood pressure is off the charts. I step into the lights and get handed a microphone and Cinderella’s shoe. I look at the shoe, the crowd, the drag queen standing opposite me. The MC says, “Your time starts now.” I hold up the shoe and mumble into the mic that I promised to return it to the pretty lady I met the other day — with a kiss. The crowd oohs and aahs as I walk over, twirl the drag queen around, and plant a dramatic kiss. The hall erupts. I make it to the final fundraiser round.

At the end of the night, all 14 of us return to the stage. The ten eliminated men are thanked and leave. The final four stand waiting. The MC announces the man in fourth place. The guy next to me shakes his head and exits to polite applause. My name is called next. Third place. There’s a collective groan and a cheer. I smile, wave, and slip away as the final two battle it out.

Under the stage, I finally exhale for the first time in weeks. My girlfriend finds me as I gather my stuff and head to the car. I don’t say a word the whole way home.

The next day, a tiny article appears in the paper. It names me as a “Launceston bodybuilder” and a “crowd favourite.” I just shake my head and tell my girlfriend I am officially retired from public man-flesh competitions.

Postscript
That night nearly killed me. My anxiety was sky-high. I didn’t sleep for days. I was so wound up I was a nightmare to live with. Did I help Make-A-Wish? Yes. Did I enjoy myself? Absolutely not. Am I available for your next sexy charity pageant? Not a chance in hell.