DO YOU OWN A SHIRT?

Yes, it’s summer. I know that means warmer temperatures. I know that in many cultures, that means guys may take off their shirts in public. I can expect to be flashed men’s pecs, biceps and bellies on a regular basis. But let me say I am thankful that this past weekend in Vancouver included cloudy skies and cooler weather. 

 

It’s nice to have a break from all that flashing.

 

I admit that it can be pleasant to see a nice set of pecs, bulging guns and six-pack abs. I suspect that many men with these physical assets ascribe to an “if you’ve got ’em, flaunt ’em” mindset. Most of them have to work at maintaining these gifts—yes, there’s usually a god-given base to start with—and I suppose there’s a desire to display what they’ve paid for in terms of protein powders, oatmeal-chicken breast-tuna diets and hours of workouts. 

 

I will also acknowledge that I am naturally biased against flashing. I have had body dysmorphia, ever since having to wear my first Speedo at the age of eight when they seemed to be all the rage in the ’70s. Donning a Speedo was the worst part of being on my high school swim team. I still don a Speedo (a boxer style, not a brief) when I swim laps each week, but I always choose a pool in another area of Vancouver so I can be assured I won’t run into anyone I know. I also don’t linger. No hot tub, thank you very much.

 

Being anorexic, all the body flashing stokes negative thinking about my own body. I need to be thinner. Why don’t the love handles ever go away? Sigh, any muscle mass I’d attained is fading with age.

 

This is primetime for body baring at beaches and while jogging outdoors. It was particularly hot in Vancouver last week and so I set out to cycle at 6 a.m. Already there were men walking and running shirtless on the seawall. I suppose my history of melanoma and my propensity to avoid midday sun spare me peak flesh exposure hours. There always seems to be a silver lining to various conditions I have or have had.

 

Still, there are times, even months beyond summer season, when I feel that being a gay man is particularly daunting for a person who is, in general, flash-averse. This morning in my Facebook feed, some guy in the group Gay Men’s Life After 60 posted a shirtless pic in jean shorts and received 419 likes. God, we really are a needy lot. I often look at a few gay news and writing websites to keep informed, to look for possible ideas for this blog and to consider whether I may have an article or idea to pitch to them. A week ago, I checked out Out Traveler for the first time. For a guy like me, it was a jarring introduction. 

 

The image of a Montreal winter
that NO ONE has.

The first images were of younger gay men in nothing but the tiniest of swimwear. Whether the article was about a hotel, a music festival or even Montreal as a winter vacation spot, it didn’t matter. The photos inviting you to click to read the article all included men who’d misplaced their shirts. I had to scroll down a ways before I found an article about lesbians. The image included smiling women in casual clothing…no one in a swimsuit. The first article about people who are trans featured a photo of a train. But, if something had anything to do with gay men, the requisite photo had to focus on shirtlessness and a decent body. The site only underscored the impression that gay men are shallow and gay “culture” is focused on being young. No, I would not be writing for this site. It was most definitely not a place for me.

 

I subscribe to notifications for a smaller gay travel website based in Canada, having first been referred to the editor after I’d pitched a travel article to a mainstream travel site. When I clicked on the latest features, I scrolled to the bottom where the editor always posts a short essay related to something about travel. This time his photo featured him without a shirt, showing off a nice chest. I’m sorry, but this seemed an odd choice for an editor’s photo—unprofessional, perhaps. The editor changes his photo each time, but the shirtless one is in regular rotation. Every time I see it I get the feeling this is also not a site I can write for. 

 

Years ago, I had problems with the Advocate’s online presence. When I was coming out in the late ’80s and early ’90s, I subscribed to Advocate magazine. It was a resource for me to read about what was happening in terms of queer rights throughout the U.S., where I lived at the time. I felt it was like a gay version of Time magazine. But as an online site that depended on generating clicks, the publication went through its own shirtless phase. Best photos from Philadelphia Pride! Best shots from London Pride! It was a sure bet that there were plenty of pictures of young and buff gay men in skimpy swim trunks. But perusing the site now, Advocate seems to have mostly gone back to its roots as a source for queer news—several articles about trans rights, a story about the tragedy at Berlin Pride, a few posts about anti-gay politicians. I had to scroll down quite a bit before coming upon a photo of two young, shirtless men for an article from July 16 entitled, “29 nude beaches every gay man should visit.” Gay men…still with a shallow side but less prominently so. Whew, I guess. To be fair CNN published a similar article yesterday, “Dare to bare: 25 of the world’s best nude beaches.” Yes, some people get concerned about tan lines though I’m not sure how that makes a list of nude beaches newsworthy. 

 

I am being picky but the ageism continues on gay sites with this being the lead photo for Advocate’s nude beach piece:

 

CNN, by contrast, included this pic:

 

Think I’ll leave it at that. Shirts for all, please. At least in the tote bag.

 

 

 

 

   

 

   

PLAYING THE AGE CARD WHILE HIKING

First view from Killing Time
mountain bike trail

Sometimes we make assumptions, we jump to conclusions, we are triggered over what may be innocuous. This happens more frequently when a comment or action seems to touch on our identity. I’ve had many occasions where, rightfully or wrongfully, I’ve taken a perceived shunning as homophobia when, well, maybe I just forgot to put on deodorant. 

 

Did I forget?! I can see myself applying the stick to my underarms but perhaps that was yesterday. Time blurs. Routines sometimes come with blips. As I get older, I’m not as sure of my memory, even regarding what I did five minutes ago. 

 

And, yes, age is the subject of yesterday’s incident that had me feeling too sensitive…and humored at the same time.

 

I consider myself a hiker, but I’ve only done a handful of outings during the past six months. Most of my hiking is in the mountains and I hike far less when trails are covered in snow and ice. It’s not so much the snow and ice—adding crampons to my hiking boots produces miraculous results—it’s the fact the trails are covered. On the hikes I did, the route was less clear in patches where there was only one person’s tracks to follow or, in a couple of cases, the tracks veered onto a trail I wasn’t taking and I had nothing to give me an assured sense I was still on a trail. 

 

My favourite hikes are still snow-covered for at least the next month, but I am now finding trail reports that there are options—no snow; just water and mud. (Hiking boots are themselves amazing… bring on the muck!) 

 

Yesterday, I ventured to Sumas Mountain Regional Park, about an hour from home to do what was supposed to be a 2.5-hour hike, a little bit on the short end in terms of what I like but, hey, I needed to recognize that my hiking legs were out of the habit of being just that. Start small, build up. How responsible of me. 

 

I pulled into the trailhead’s gravel parking lot just before ten in the morning. It was otherwise empty. I’d literally have the mountain to myself. Hurrah. No one’s music, no drones, hopefully no gunshots. (On a hike I did a couple of years ago in the area, there happened to be a shooting range at the base of the mountain. I was especially motivated to do the ascent!) 

 

I did the responsible things prior to taking to the trail. I took a photo of the trail map at the parking lot and texted Evan with a selfie that included what I was wearing and my license plate along with indicating what time I expected to return to the car. Please, let there be no cause for search parties. Or camera crews zooming in on a bug-bitten hiker with a sprained ankle, hauled out on a stretcher.

 

I can be dramatic.

 

My destination: Chadsey Lake and a loop hike taking me past Baker Rock. There was no Baker Rock on the trailhead map but I figured I’d come across a disproportionately enormous boulder and exchange greetings (“Hello, Baker!”), with the noteworthy rock staring back stone-faced.

 

As it turns out, I missed the Chadsey Lake turnoff, a tiny white sign at knee height two minutes from the parking lot. Instead, I found myself on Killing Time, a mountain biking trail that had me going downhill, not uphill. Checking my map photo, I would connect with a Centennial Trail and still reach the lake. No problem. 

 

Somehow, despite a considerable descent, I blocked out any notion that I’d have a considerable ascent as well. Stay in the moment, they say, when hiking. Mindfulness in motion, I call it. Yes, behold the ferns! Wonder how many mountain bikers have broken limbs—and how many per person—after going airborne on the many wooden ramps built on the trail. Er… maybe just focus on ferns.

 

Chadsey Lake

It took two hours to reach the lake. I texted Evan, surprised to have phone reception. It was looking like my 2.5-hour hike would be 4 hours. No problem. This was more in line with the length of hike I like to do. After I sat on a log and viewed Chadsey, I began my return trek, deciding to take a trail marked as “Parking Lot,” most likely the trail I’d missed in the first place. Maybe I’d cut off a bit of time, avoiding another prolonged descent-ascent sequence and coming upon some sprawled-out biker with an arm extended at an impossible angle. (Being squeamish, I’d be no help at all, just fainting at the scene. Sorry, biker dude.)

 

I was suddenly picking up signs easily. In addition to “Parking Lot,” another sign indicated the “East Lookout” was farther past the lake. I had no idea what I’d be looking out at but, figuring I wouldn’t be repeating this hike anytime soon, I decided to seize the day and hike onward. 

 

Much more muck. (Another shoutout to hiking boots!) Much more ascent. 

 

As a hiker or, more broadly, a human being, I’m not a fan of sweating. Ascents mean lots of brow wiping and shirt fanning. I would get used to this as hiking season picked up, but I will never embrace it. (I contend spin class and hot yoga enthusiasts are masochists.)

 

The problem with the trail signage was it failed to provide distances. Was the East Lookout half a kilometre ahead or was it in New Brunswick? The park map also failed to have a scale and the route to East Lookout included many wiggly lines which would make any scale (had there been one) challenging to use to create a distance and time estimate.

 

I’d gone over an hour, still ascending, sweating profusely, hoping I was still on the path to East Lookout but unsure. Knowing I’d taken the long route to Chadsey Lake in the morning didn’t boost my confidence about being on track. I simply kept following little orange squares intermittently nailed onto trees to mark a trail presumably to somewhere. 

 

I heard voices coming toward me and suddenly two labradors were sniffing my legs. Presumably they were piddled out with so many red cedars on offer and the ferns had taken on a redundancy. I was a new find. Very exciting!

 

Two young women (Late twenties? Early thirties?) hollered the standard apology given when off-leash dogs oblivious to personal bubbles offer hearty greetings and close-up knee exams. 

 

No problem. Much better than a bear encounter. Much, much better.

 

“Did you go to East Lookout?” I asked. “How far is it?”

 

“Yes,” one woman said. She looked at her hiking companion. “How long do you think?”

 

“Twenty minutes.”

 

Ah, well. Good. I was hoping for a number less than five, but I wasn’t going to turn back now. So close! The trek up continued. I would not be hiking to New Brunswick, after all. Whew!

 

At the twelve minute-mark, post knee-sniff, I observed a clear trail going straight up on my left. East Lookout? (Please.) No sign. No orange markers. Instead, a trail continued meandering to the right, orange markers aplenty. As I often do on hikes, I hesitated. I pondered. I wanted to take the unmarked path. I sensed it led to East Lookout. But I’m directionally challenged in the best of times. My senses regarding which way to go consistently fail me. Stick to the marked path. Let there be no search parties. 

 

My final piece of logic that kept me on-trail was the fact I wasn’t at the twenty minute-mark. Not even close. Forty percent more time on trail. Keep going!

 

About eight minutes later, I came upon three BC Hydro towers up one final hill. Yes! The towers marked the lookout. Made sense if not something especially scenic. There would be a clearing. I’d have my back to the fenced-in towers and the posted signs warning of possible electrocution. Whatever the view from East Lookout, I would take a few pics, dammit. I’d ooh and aah even if it were strictly performative. “You have reached your destination.”

 

But, no. All around the towers were trees. Just like all the trees along the trail. Nothing distinct. Not even a rock I could call Baker. (That thing was still in hiding, too.)

 

Okay, I know I began this post mentioning that my age may have made me sensitive, presumably on this hike. ’Tis true. Let’s get back to that.

 

The fact is that access to East Lookout was at the twelve minute-mark from when my knees went through doggy inspection. Due to all the looking around I did at the twenty minute-mark—no, I did not climb fences and risk electrocution—I didn’t actually arrive at the lookout until almost an hour after asking how much farther. I’d checked out yet another mountain bike trail (and scored a peekaboo view). I’d circled all around the towers, a couple of times inadvertently. Yes, very directionally challenged.   

 

Here’s where my being sixty and sporting a clearly white beard (finally) comes into play. I wondered if age was a factor when I was told it was another twenty minute-schlep to the lookout. Maybe they looked at me, some guy decidedly in the “sir” range from their assessment. Older guy. Sweating profusely. Gosh, yes, another twenty minutes. For him. 

 

Now, I know that’s ridiculous thinking entering my brain. Blame it on excess perspiration and not enough hydration. I’m the worst at hydrating. If I Google dehydration, one side effect must surely be paranoid thinking that one is too old for whatever activity is contributing to dehydration. 

 

Objectively, twelve minutes and twenty minutes are not far apart. It’s entirely possible that the woman who went with twenty gave that as a valid estimate of the time it had taken them to walk back from the lookout until they came upon me. Maybe she’s bad with time. Maybe they’d truly lost track of time, talking about the dynamics at work, relationship issues or the hot yoga class they were taking that evening. Yes, mascochists. 

 

Maybe there were doggy delays on account of the whole off-leash nature of their hike. Maybe the dogs continued marking red cedars even though the pee stream was running on empty. Maybe they sniffed and tried to track a mole or squirrel. I neither saw nor heard small animals the entire day, but I don’t have a dog’s sense of smell. Maybe an entire warren of bunnies existed between the lookout and the point where we came into contact. 

 

So many maybes. Why did I even entertain that they’d added on extra time for a sweaty, grey-bearded oldster to reach East Lookout? 

 

Why hadn’t I just followed my gut and gone up the unmarked trail in the first place. I’d have just been pleased to arrive early and would have applauded my fitness. I’d never have gone down the I look old tunnel because there wouldn’t have been a setback. 

 

Good grief—clearly an oldster’s expression—sometimes hiking isn’t mindful at all. Sometimes it offers too much time for obsessive thought.

 

View from East Lookout

My 2.5-hour hike turned out to be a 6-hour endurance test. Oh. My. Quads. I took a few Advil when I got home. And belatedly hydrated. But way to go, old guy. I’m readier for hiking season now. Let the muscles ache less next time.

 

Was East Lookout worth it? Absolutely! See for yourself.

 

 

  

DEAD TO YOU

You’ve heard the joke. It shows up on many Twitter bios: “In gay years, I’m dead.”

So I’ve got company. Rainbow zombies.

I suppose the age at which we qualify for a gay death certificate isn’t firmly established. Fifty? Forty? Again on Twitter, I’ve seen gay men bemoan the fact they’re turning thirty-two. I half-expect them to include a selfie, holding up a hand-printed poster board sign: The End Is Near. Or maybe it already happened.

Whatever the age, it’s clear that I’ve passed it. Fifty-five. Off life support. Flatlined. Dead.

And yet I still have a pulse. (Just checked again.) I still bear the signs of youth—and, by that, I mean a zit showed up on my back last week. I almost smiled. Almost. (There was a time in the ‘80s when I think I must have covered all-expense paid vacations to Tahiti for everyone on the Clearasil management team.) My bank account appears active—more withdrawals than deposits, nothing new there. My fridge has a several items with expiration dates still pending. (Never mind that bottle of “Calorie Wise” Kraft ranch dressing on the bottom shelf. There was never anything smart about that purchase.)

Ageism has long existed in the gay community. For a supposedly inclusive group, we’ve thrived on compartmentalizing ourselves, on creating clear divides rather than doing what we expect of others—embracing diversity.

When I first came on the scene, it was at the ripe “old” age of twenty-four. There was a whole back-pocket handkerchief culture still lingering but on the way out. Thank god. I didn’t understand it. For some reason, instilled fear in me. What was the difference between a green hanky in the left pocket and one in the right pocket? Did a yellow hanky really have something to do with urine or did people just find it entertaining to elicit looks of horror from me? If only there’d been Google or any sort of Internet. Dating myself, yes. Or some of you might think of it as carbon-dating.

I don’t recall if young gays were called twinks way, way back then. The common term I remember is chicken, more derisively used to label older gay men as chickenhawks. Being gay felt more underground back then. It was past the time when police would do raids on gay bars and the American Psychiatric Association had removed homosexuality from its listing of mental illnesses (although that news didn’t seem to have reached Texas). That’s about as far as gay rights had progressed. “Fag bashing” still floated about on the bored heterosexual men’s list of Things to Do This Weekend. The cheap thrill alternative was just driving by a reputed gay area, rolling down the window and yelling, “Faggot”, “Cocksucker” or something equally hateful/hysterical. Aside from a few straight women lovingly or not so lovingly referred as fag hags, it was safe to assume that everyone in a gay bar was gay. (The community hadn’t fully embraced bisexuals who were viewed as suspect, guys with one foot in and one foot out of the closet.) Coming out stories, commonly shared, were typically dramatic, often punctuated with references to being kicked out, disowned, damned to hell or simply the cause of a lot of tears and ensuing awkwardness.

I say all this because there was a sense that we were an oppressed group and, for some reason, it bred a sense of survival whereby caustic and campy attitudes were very much in vogue. It wasn’t just drag queens that read one another. Put-downs were part of gay play.

Without a doubt, older gays were often mocked by the younger set. “Look at that old queen...” A drunk older gay man or one who dared take off his shirt or went solo on a mostly empty dance floor made for easy dissing. I attributed all this to a great deal of insecurity—that comes with feeling oppressed—and a sense that in our main playing field, the gay bar, everyone was being sized up. Everyone was ripe for derision. Everyone except the rarefied hotties who knew all eyes were upon them and only paired up their kind, waiting for the dance floor to get crowded before taking off their shirts, and joining in, more grinding than actually busting a move.

I’ll admit that I played along as best I could. (No, definitely not as one of the gods!) The campiness often bothered me. It felt mean. But it went down better with a couple of Tom Collins. (I never took to beer unless I could stuff a half dozen lime wedges down the neck of the bottle.) Being camp was the sanctioned humor du jour and, while I was secretly appalled by many of the comments, I was also awed. How was it that these guys were so quick? I couldn’t keep up.

This is around the time that I honed my self-deprecating nature. If I could freely make fun of myself, it took away the sting of being a target by other gays. In theory, at least, that’s how it was supposed to go.

I will admit that I participated in disparaging older gays. They were easier fodder for people like me who struggled to nail a campy persona. There were certain bars that were almost no-go zones, places where the older among us congregated. We’d go every so often for a laugh, in the same way we’d occasionally do a couple of laps in The Spike, a leather bar. Niche groups. As if the gay community never really broke free from the crushing categorization mindset of high school. Gawking within our own supposed “community”. Lots of “Would you look at her...” Easiest line, often no elaboration required. Whether it was someone in leather or someone whose hair had gone salt-and-pepper, I’d always squirm and make a face of horror when one of my small pack would nod in that direction and say, “There’s your boyfriend.”

It’s all an example of how the “pride” part of gay pride was very much a work-in-progress. More of a fake it till you make it concept. I suppose flaunting pride worked better in parades than donning banners that read, “Gay Shame”.

The point to all of this is that I’d like to think gay culture has evolved. Enlightenment comes with acceptance. Indeed, the old campy humor seems very much passe, preserved by the drag queens but, even among them, it feels more forced than ever.

Here in North America, it seems a stretch to claim to be oppressed, at least for the LGB and Qs in our LGBTQ community. Announcing you’re gay draws fewer looks than saying you got a new tattoo. We can marry—something none of us packed into gay bars in 1990 would have ever believed possible. Sexual orientation is included in hate crime legislation in many jurisdictions. Same goes for housing and job discrimination laws. More to do, yes, but things seem to hinge more on a matter of time rather than on possibility.

Maybe it’s time we change our ways. Some of them, at least. Reflect. Keep whatever is or was good about gay culture but grow as well. All this time we’ve been focused on others changing to accept us. Oh, the strides we’ve made! How about acknowledging that we’ve got some changing to do, too? How about greater acceptance within our “community”?

At fifty-five, I don’t expect to be resuscitated anytime soon. I can accept that this is karma, biting me in the ass for past misconduct. I don’t plan on making buttons that say, “60 is the new 40” and passing them out at Pride. I can learn to knit. Maybe I’ll adopt half a dozen cats. (I’ll knit them little sweaters!) Still, I hope that gay men fretting over thirty candles on a cake can avoid getting their own death certificates until many decades from now. Let them continue to live, to be seen, to be heard and, most of all, to be valued.

OUT OF RANGE

Unread. Return to sender.

It’s the kind of rejection that should be easy to brush off. Nothing personal. I just didn’t meet the criteria. And yet that’s what stings.

I logged in to Plenty of Fish, the dating website where fish—at least of the gay kind—are not plentiful at all. It’s an understocked koi pond, a few bottom feeders mixed in with the perennials that haven’t changed their photos or profiles in a decade. The fact that I know this makes me a perennial, too. But my photos are current, crow’s feet and all. And not a single pic comes with freaky Instagram bunny ears.

Years ago, I recognized that the Plenty of Fish had been overfished. A logical person would simply delete his profile. But a logical person does so with a Plan B in mind. And I can’t find a viable Plan B. I joined a gay running group and simply found myself jogging solo at a set time and place that wasn’t even convenient. Not only did that prove fruitless in terms of dating and making friends, it just made me feel worse. Now I jog according to my own schedule. Just me and Carly Rae Jepsen or K.C. & the Sunshine Band. I joined a gay volleyball league, but that led to a freakish finger dislocation on the third outing, such that my volleyball days are over, my pinky permanently gnarled. I’m not a big drinker and I cannot imagine going old school, hanging out at a gay bar or pub. I suppose I could hang out in the produce section of my local grocery store, but I don’t want to be that guy who keeps fondling melons or eyeing cucumbers.

So that’s my long-winded defense for sticking with what doesn’t work: (Not So) Plenty of Fish. And, as I mentioned in my last post, it’s not working more than ever. It seems my inbox has been shuttered. (See above self-reference as a perennial.) If I sit back and wait, nothing changes. I become an insufferable whiner. Okay, more of one. Can you hear the whining springing from my fingers on the keyboard? Sorry ‘bout that.

It takes reminders that I need to be proactive, search the site and send a message or two every now and then. Cast the rod, see if anything comes other than a snag on some rocky shoal.

While my inbox remained out of order, I did notice this week that I’d at least been viewed. I clicked the profile. He’s 50, I’m 53. Nice photos. A smile even. Positive sounding profile. Worth a shot. Certainly nothing to lose.

I crafted a breezy message, pointing out similar interests and views. I suggested a coffee and/or a walk to see if there might be a connection. Then I pressed send.

The next screen was blank except for this tiny note at the top:

He accepts messages only from certain users. Why not try one of your Matches instead?

All my years on Plenty of Fish and I’d never experienced this. My message had been swatted away before it could even be read. I had to confirm my hunch so I looped back to his profile. At the very bottom appeared the following:

To send a message to this person you MUST meet the following criteria:

Male

Age: Between 30 and 50.

You must have a picture to contact this user.

Male: Check

Picture: Check

30-50: XXX

Two out of three ain’t anything. And he’d been the one who viewed my profile despite the fact each person’s age is stated before you even click it. Over 50. And he looked.

But I was aged out anyway. He’ll never know I tried to send a message. He can go on fishing for a thirty-year-old. His thing. Fine.

But it still feels like a face slap. Fishing prospects are looking even grimmer.