This article appears in the launch issue of Manila Bulletin’s super cool new men’s magazine, Garage, coming out sometime between now and February 2017.

Everybody needs to agree on this: real men work out to look sexy.

Once upon a time, being buff served a practical purpose. Buff cavemen slaughtered more stegosaurus for steak-and-bowling nights than scrawny ones. Buff religious figures (see: Samson, 88 Old Testament Road, Rome) put up bigger fights than their daintier counterparts (see: Jesus Christ, 3 Salvation Way, Bethlehem) before dying at the hands of pagans.

But these days, being buff satisfies a less pragmatic but infinitely more pleasurable cause than securing dinosaur steaks or conquering infidel hordes: bagging babes. I’ve learned one thing from the ones I’ve dated. All else being equal, they would rather make out with a sleek, nicely-toned dude than a pudgy man-boobed one.

Sadly, muscles don’t come easily. It’s not uncommon to see a skinny nerd complaining how six months of workouts have failed to produce the slightest change in his physique, except for a mildly uncomfortable hernia. Neither is it unusual to see a chunky slob moaning how despite a daily 8-kilometer jog, he still can’t see his toes without an intricate system of perfectly aligned hand mirrors and a miniature forklift.

Here’s the tragic reality. Just like on our LTO tests, we sometimes need to cheat to get babe-baggingly sexy. This is where fitness supplements come in.

Supplements falls broadly into two categories: mass-builders (which make us Really Big), and mass-reducers (which make us Really Ripped). There is, of course, the third category of anabolic steroids, which make us Really Dead, but seeing how dead men don’t get to bag quite as many babes as live ones do, we will artfully ignore them for now.

First Sexiness Postulate: to get Really Big, muscles need protein to reconstruct themselves. Chicken breasts, tuna, and lean pork seem to be favorites among the monsters I’ve lifted weights with. The problem is that these natural protein-packed choices come with excess baggage like sodium and calories.

Here’s where protein shakes come in. Concentrated protein in powder form with minimal nasties. Brilliant. If Bruce Banner had heard of them, he’d never gone lounging in front of a gamma ray to mutate himself into a permanently roid-raged, green freak.

They don’t taste particularly great though.

Imagine a tall, cold glass filled with a rich, creamy, chocolate froth. Sounds nice? Now imagine accidentally tipping a muddy-tasting ladleful of munggo guisado into it. (That fluttering you hear is the sound of bodybuilders all over the country nodding sadly in agreement.)

Second Sexiness Postulate: getting Really Ripped means burning more calories than are consumed. Since it’s impossible to convince us real men to swear off pizza and sisig, fitness manufacturers instead sell us products called thermogenics, whose function is to throw our metabolic systems into overdrive the Whole Freaking Day.

Here’s how they make you feel.

You’re in an incessant sweat. Your pulse is racing the whole day. I am told that your body is operating two degrees above normal. No wonder bodybuilders are cranky. Their armpits are perpetually damp. Imagine having to walk into a swank Serendra date with wet armpits. There is no way you would be sweetly pleasant in this state.

I suppose that what I am looking for is compassion for bodybuilders, despite their general appearance as a conceited, temperamental bunch.

I ask you this – if you ate nothing but munggo milkshakes, and had persistently wet underarms, wouldn’t you be in a foul mood too? Around us are men who have sacrificed worldly wonders like deep-dish pizzas and frappucinos for a simple, noble vision: to be sexy enough to bag a babe. I say that vision is worth respecting. We have no stegosaurus left to slaughter, no barbarian heretics to slay. A man of muscle needs assurance that he remains relevant and useful to this world.

And what better reassurance is there than being loved?