Abs, Gays, Gyms, Bears: A Connection ?

I can't believe I haven't mentioned this much on my gay blog because it is has made a "massive" impact on my whole life.

I'm not ripped.  I'm not skinny.  I'm a big boy.  Not fat, but certainly "gay fat" or more acceptably, "a fattie" (but for the record, not as sorry as the abused body below).

My genetics and nutrition (Canada is a very giving land) ensured I grew an impressive frame, to be sure, but my lack of interest in sports (except hockey of course) and a love of all things food gave me quite a paunch in my younger years.

Most gays learn to appreciate a healthy physique and we try to stay in better-than-average shape.  Of course this is a blanket statement with many exceptions, perhaps no other category as complex as that called the "Bear" (more about that below).

For my frame, I'm mostly kept together today and I look wonderful clothed, thank you.  And I can flex myself a proud smile most of the time in the mirror, but unless I'm deep into tequila or something I'm by no means imagining myself to be an underwear model anytime soon.  Probably not even in a full thermal waffle suit, and then maybe only after a 12 week regimen.

Aww, you rest girl.

But there's no questioning that being gay has made me lose weight and keep it off.

Maybe there's a message there for fat closeted Republicans (though I can't think of any offhand nor would any images appearing here suggest otherwise.  Thanks lawyers).

But no matter how much better I look as a gay guy, I'm not looking forward to a 6-pack of abs any time soon.  Not on my belly, and probably not on my boyfriend's tum.

I'm starting to understand that there is an abs scene, and then there's the rest of us.  With some exceptions, as always (one of those exceptions is the string bean whose musculature shows through no matter what they do and what they eat -- if that's you, feel free to email me ;)

And of course it only takes $20 a song to have handfuls of hot abs at the wonderful if not a bit

To erase the imprint from the pic above

pricey adult gay male entertainment clubs like Campus and Stock Bar in Montreal and Flash and Remingtons here in Toronto.

I've never been able to re-live fingertip memories with such excitement and vivid detail before (perhaps I'm destined to be a cabinetmaker after all).

I always ask a ripped male stripper, "how often do you go to the gym ?"  They're not all gay, in fact gay strippers are usually the minority, but they're obviously bisexual considering they allow guys to grope them and (almost always ;) get aroused by the manly attention.

There has only been one guy who said he didn't work out, that the abs were a gift from nature, but I could swear I saw a bit of a twinkle in his eye along with his final word on the subject: "Honest !"

The gay-guy-gym scene, the hyper-muscled, hypersexual homosexual is mind-blowingly fun to experience... through movies and pictures and some erotic stories please and thanks, that's enough for this horny guy.

I just don't think I'd want to keep up.

Not advisable if you have athelete's foot

My body enjoys physical workouts closer to home, and closer to my own facilities.  I'm not looking to slide into someone's athelete's foot puddle anytime soon.

But there has been a lot of thought put into the gays-and-gyms thing.  Working-out to protect yourself and your loved ones against a known hateful element, just at the time when you've decided to stop hiding who you are, seems like a smart thing to do.

But in the end, it's more likely just another level of man-on-man hotness that I may never get to experience in a relationship.  It's an exclusive club, you gotta give abs to get 'em back, unless you're willing to pay $20 every couple of minutes for a bit of a feel of what many, many years of hard, monotonous work can do for the human physique.

Of course, there are plenty of exceptions.  The "blue collar" man is highly fascinating to me, but the gay/straight odds seem to plummet when going down this highway.

Then there are the bears.  "A Bear" used to just mean a big burly hairy gay guy, but it turns out that covers a lot of ground.  In the gay world, anyone with visible hair anywhere except the pits, crotch, and ass became a bear, or "bearish."

Bears are not necessarily fat, and in fact last year it seemed to swing so far the other way that bears couldn't be fat anymore !  This only lasted about a month or so last summer, and for now fat, hairy guys aren't just fat, hairy guys anymore.  They can be Bears once again.

For now.  Gay culture moves forward unrelentingly.

If I'm asked on a dating site, I'm clicking the "average" button.  Choosing this body type hasn't been traumatizing in the least.  Having to choose "a few extra lbs" with my extra paunch before I came out was not a fun thing to do.

If pressed, I'd suggest I'm "bearish, I guess" for the sole reason of my chest hair.  But body hair is a whole 'nother topic we can discuss another time.

Perhaps I'm a cub, whatever the hell that means.

And though I'm a good swimmer, I don't think I'm much of an otter.

It's Not Easy Being Gay

I've always attempted to immediately shrug-off any evidence of a mid-life crisis, especially now that I'm getting close to that literal median age using the scientific data of our day.

Congratulations Navy Lt. Gary Ross and civilian Dan Swezy

It's a "basic training" gay-guy move to try to hold-on to youth, but there's no special deal for gay dudes.  Everybody has to face Daddy Time (he might be hanging out in the leather bar) and with him comes, gasp... aging.

In case you haven't heard, it's not a perpetual Gay Dance Party for us man-leaning-bi or entirely homo guys.  And as time goes on, it seems things might even get a bit tougher.

Derek Hartley's first book gave me a stark impression of "that guy."  He's a 40-something who may be hanging near the door of the big gay bar, or maybe he's holding up a pillar on the dance floor.  He's still hanging where the young gays go, but he's a decade or two over the average age of the house.

I've been "that guy" and I'll be "that guy" again.  And again and again.  And again and again and again and again.

This April's surprise suicide of an author writing a book about dealing with getting gay old stirred-up feelings of contemplation and self-doubt, muddled with the usual sadness and disappointment surrounding a person's decision to take their own life, particularly in the GLBT community.

Sometimes we can't live with ourselves, but sexual freedom means we need to know ourselves first.  There's no cheating here.  You must know yourself. You must take your life into your own hands.

"Love yourself first" as caller Jimmy reminded us on tonight's Derek and Romaine Show on OutQ.

I might be completely at peace with my own life today but I must pause when I think that parts of the world want my head cut-off because I'm choosing to follow my passions instead of "making a decision" to ignore my true feelings.

I can't tell most of my beer-swilling guy coworkers these thoughts.  Regardless of how adorable fag hags appear in gay cinema, I can't confide in the girls at work either.  It wouldn't kill my career but any negative impact to my business that has nothing to do with my business is, obviously, unwelcomed.

Few are ready to confront their own feelings, let alone mine.

If I had someone special in my life, this would totally change, of course.  I have no interest in hiding a relationship if it seems it would be lasting.  Work sometimes involves "couples events" and I very much look forward to bringing my stud along, when... if I find him, that is.

I've learned to loathe dating websites and I haven't been out and about as much this Spring as last.  It's shockingly easy to allow work to create the bulk of your human interactions, but if there's one work lesson to learn, it's to not shit in your own backyard.  Or your front yard.  Or on your desk.

But the chance to instantly befriend a person after meeting them decreases dramatically over time, in case nobody's told you yet.  Getting old seems to add a multiplier of sorts.

There are probably too many variables here, but believe me when I tell you that gays aren't the only folks pondering the curse of time and the results of aging.  For gays, one added variable is the age when we declare our true feelings to ourselves, to friends, to family and then finally to the rest of the (civilized) world.

I've tried to tell my 80 year old dad as clearly as possible, but he keeps "forgetting" and asking me when I'm bringing a girl to the next Family Dinner.

Jesus.

Can't blame him, though.  I haven't exactly declared my homo preference with Broadway lights, yet.

I even catch myself continuing to sometimes challenge my own sexuality.  Perhaps all the hetero guys are faking it, too.  After all, it's amazingly homo how most hetero guys talk -- they might think it's keeping them straight, but maybe it's all about self-doubt and pack-driven negative reinforcement.

Add this new "gay dead" illusion to being gay and over 40 and pop goes the weasel -- shitty pun, to be sure, but this man's suicide doesn't tell a story about anything except the life of this one man.

The rest of us will get through our 40s.  And 50s.  And 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s and beyond.

Together, hopefully.