Twelve men -- in solo chapters representing the twelve months of the year (a New Year's reveler in January; a graduating schoolboy in March; and so on) -- strip to their bikinis, get wet, rub their bodies, but oddly, don't show their faces. I don't get it. The guys don't even do anything particularly wild (such as, there's no frontal nudity) to warrant the anonymity. It's a showcase of headless men doing boring things!
Granted, it's hard not to get enticed by close-ups of bodies, which range from light to dark-toned, baby-fatty to lean-and-ripped. There's miniscule masochistic pleasure to be had at watching patiently, waiting for something extraordinary to happen that doesn't, then settling for a guy's chin or obscured facial angles, imagining they're as hot as they're suggested to be. Sort of like the sexiness of a geisha's nape. You're thankful for what you get because they don't indulge you with much. But when it's over, you've merely sat through twelve months of blah.