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.

 

 

 

 

   

 

   

SHAPE (Documentary Film Review)

I’ve seen a lot of mediocre documentaries since the introduction of streaming channels. They can be cheaply made, a series of interviews on a single set, a few cheesy reenactments, too often the key people not participating in the production, leaving the “truth” to be told by people two or three degrees from what actually happened. Because of this, I now make snap decisions, tuning out many a documentary within the first five minutes.  

 

Shape: When Idolisation Leads to Exclusion is an Australian documentary available for watching on YouTube that I may have given up on, but someone I respect as a deeper thinker recommended it to my partner, Evan, and so I decided to stick it out. I would watch it; Evan would watch it; then we’d come together to discuss over FaceTime. Being as we have a Vancouver – Denver long-distance relationship, our version of movie night can take a few days to unfold. 

 

Shape unfolds on a simple set, a stage on which six different queer people appear separately to offer their opinions on finding one’s place in the gay community and how one’s appearance plays a major factor in a de facto sorting system.

 

The interviewees, along with how they are identified in the film are: Miss Jay (drag queen); Stewart (casual model / dance party promoter); Stefan (Gen X, 55); Aaron (President, Vic Bears); Budi (intersectionality, equity and justice trainer; consultant; director, Ananda Training & Consultancy); and Glen (associate professor, La Trobe University / clinical psychologist).

 

Aaron, a self-described bear,
sees gay men as having
restrictive views on body shape.
He believes there is even
work to be done among bears.

Nothing in the film is earth-shattering, at least not for anyone who has been immersed in the gay community in the past several decades. From the film’s outset, I found myself nodding but wondering if I needed to stick with the ninety-minute documentary. It felt like listening to a new alphabet song—all familiar letters, just different rhythms and notes. 

 

And yet I stayed with it. I resisted the temptation to get up and tidy the living room or do the dinner dishes while the documentary droned on. I wondered if there might be a different take, however slight, when listening to a half dozen people immersed in, or at least exposed to, Australia’s gay scene.

 

“To be as diverse as we think we are,” Aaron says, “we need to get rid of the discrimination.” Hmm…the differences, if any, would be subtle.

 

Stefan, in his mid-50s, often
comes across as exasperated 
by ageism amongst gays.

The film is slow in the beginning. With half a dozen interviewees, it takes a while to get to know them. They have each been chosen to offer a slightly different take on gay inclusion, and lack thereof. Connection on film, just as in the gay scene takes time. For many a viewer, the familiarity of the gripes made about gay interactions may lead one to turn away—been there, heard that. 

 

Still there’s something to be said for the cumulative effect of six strangers, talking separately, yet echoing one another, delivering one consistent message: things are messed up. 

 

The film becomes most compelling when the interviewees are asked to read and react to Grindr profiles. In the virtual world, many do not even consider the pretense of politeness and acceptance. It’s brutal hearing profiles men have typed, saved and posted that boldly—and offensively—say this is what I want; this is what I don’t want. “This” is not a product, however; instead, it is whole groups of people. We know this about Grindr, but listening to the participants read and respond makes one want to auto-delete everyone’s profile. Grindr is too far gone. Is there a way to start over?

 

I had another reason to be hesitant in viewing Shape. The main topic is about an important one—how our looks, in general, and our bodies, more specifically—affect our integration into the gay community. I have an eating disorder. Too much talk over body ideals and body flaws can be triggering. I’m presently in one of my greater periods of struggle. One body shot or one phrase might hit me the wrong way and set me back even more. Because of this, I am grateful the film limits its images of body ideals at least until two-thirds in. One shirtless white model, who does not have a speaking part poses between interview segments. Then there is a model who would be called a twink, one who would be a daddy and one who is Asian, each of them fitting a proximation of a body ideal. By limiting the men and images, I did not become overwhelmed by notions of body perfection. 

 

When the film starts to talk about men portrayed on social media and in ads, there is a deluge of The Body Beautiful but by then I was invested enough in the film and I’d heard enough from the interviewees, each offering a form of support by saying this objectification and the higher stature it brings in the gay community are fucked up. 

 

Budi, who is of Indonesian
descent, makes many astute
comments about how gays 
discriminate over race, height
and views of masculinity and
femininity.

I didn’t reach for the button to close my YouTube window. I managed to watch the whole documentary without feeling any more messed up than I am. In fact, I went away with my feelings affirmed. Yes, the “community” has some growing up to do. The acceptance and inclusion we seek in greater society is often lacking within the Pride fold, particularly amongst gay men.

 

In general, I think gays are nicer people. We’re kind; we’re sensitive. 

 

Until we’re not. There’s the group mentality that I witnessed—and, yes, partook in—as I was coming out in the late ’80s. The gay bar was a sieve, washing away all the Not Good Enoughs, limiting everyone’s gaze to men with seemingly perfect hair, faces and bodies. Little things—a bit of body hair, a possible love handle, an underwhelming bicep—constituted reasons to overlook so many people. “Swipe left” culture existed long before the apps.  

 

I’ve often lamented that groups of gay men often go through a difficult journey—even now—in coming out, only to find rejection and cliquey behaviors in the very “community” that knows all too well about the struggle to be truly accepted for who we are. Why must we continue to dismiss and discriminate amongst our own?

 

Shape is worth a watch. Better yet, it’s worth watching with a partner and/or friends. While the messages are familiar, sometimes it helps to hear things from other people, offering another opportunity for reflection about our place in the “community” and what we can do or not do to stop us from swimming in the shallow end so we can explore deeper topics and people. The discussion that can arise during and after watching this documentary might cause some of us to rethink how we view our own, be it ourselves or our community. 

 

If you do watch it, feel to leave a comment or two about your thoughts. I’m curious to know what takeaways others get from the film.

 

 

 

 

BODIES ARE COOL (Book Review)

By Tyler Feder

(Dial Books for Young Readers, 2021)

I’m on book alert wherever I go. Libraries, bookstores and Free Little Libraries (Love ’em!) are obvious places to browse unknown titles and reconnect with things read, but I’m pleasantly distracted by book sightings in cafes, on planes, and when passing park benches where someone has decided to put the day on pause and dig into a biography, a romance, an essay collection or maybe that Dragons Love Tacos picture book yet again, no kids necessary. (It’s the literary way to celebrate Taco Tuesday.)

 

I first spotted Bodies Are Cool in a curated collection at Kits Beach Coffee where they have several bookshelves stocked with their Equitable Literacy Library. It would drive the anti-woke crowd crazy. (Fine by me.) As they explain online:

Our wide range of books and interactive selections examine the intersections between colonial-settler history, climate, justice, anti-racism, cultural awareness and gender that goes beyond the binary…We have books that encourage self-inquiry, healing, nurturing our eco-systems, essays and poems and a sensory section for children and adults.

 

I was focused on a writing project at the time so I only scanned titles during the time it took the barista to prepare my oat milk latte. I’d biked there and knew from the good vibes I’d be back. I could have a more serious browse next time. 

 

A couple weeks later, I biked to a vegan bakery, To Live For. (This is where anti-woke folk click away, if they haven’t already done so, to get updates on the latest conspiracy theories and “alternative facts.” Have a nice day.) The place was packed midmorning on a Monday, the line extending outside. (A thriving vegan establishment! Made me smile.) While waiting for another oat milk latte, I spotted a tidy collection of children’s books, items to let parents and young children bond or, more likely, occupy the kiddos while mommies (and daddies) got a daily dose of adult conversation. Once again, Bodies Are Cool was part of the collection. I made a note of the title and eventually checked it out at the library. So glad I did!

 

This book is both simple and brilliant. It’s what you’d think it would be, based on the title and the cover illustration which features bodies of different skin colors, sizes and markings, wearing swimsuits (or is it underwear?), floating on a soft pink background. Each double-page spread focuses on a particular aspect of bodies (eyes; body hair; tummy sizes) and expressly normalizes how diverse our bodies are. The text on each spread ends with, “Bodies are cool!” 

 

Sixteen times: “Bodies are cool!”

 

Hallelujah! 

 

Round bodies, muscled bodies,

curvy curves and straight bodies,

jiggly-wiggly fat bodies.

bodies are cool!

 

(I got a little edgy over the reference to “fat bodies,” but that’s because I’ve grown up with fat weaponized, meant to ridicule and shame. That’s not what this book is about. The word is taken back, used matter-of-factly. I have to remind myself that obese has a medical definition, fact-based, instead of playground-pitched.) 

 

There are seven images of people in various wheelchairs, a rarity in picture books that aren’t specifically about someone needing one. People are shown with canes, crutches and arm supports. A woman in a dance class has a prosthetic leg. People wear glasses, someone has an eyepatch, another walks with a seeing-eye dog (and a white cane). There’s so much more, including things I’ve likely missed in my first three reads. Blotchy skin, scars, hairy legs, bald heads, bandanas, hijabs, turbans, swim caps, helmets. 

 

The beauty of picture books is they can be read and viewed, quickly or lingered upon. Repeated readings allow for the focus to change. In a book like this, new images and attributes will be noticed each time. Questions get blurted.

 

“Why is her stomach like that?” 

 

“Eww. His skin!”

 

“What’s wrong with that boy’s hair?”

 

With a picture book, unfiltered comments create teachable moments. Kids will notice differences and ask questions that lack tact. But their questions can be answered by a trusted, non-judgmental adult instead of by a classmate with bullying tendencies.

 

If only this book had been around when I was growing up.

 

I remember a familiar admonishment from my mother when we’d be at the mall or grocery store: “Don’t stare.” Children are naturally curious and they tend to look longer when seeing some aspect of a person they haven’t seen before. There is a natural curiosity. In those don’t-stare instances, there was never any follow-up discussion to what I might have crassly phrased as, “What’s wrong with that person?” No learning. Differences were not to be talked about. It only meant that, next time, I’d have the same inclination to look and then self-censor. Something was bad about me. I wasn’t supposed to see a difference. I certainly wasn’t supposed to wonder about it. Social propriety, a big thing in my upbringing, nixed social understanding. 

 

Somewhere in Texas, in Keller Independent School District, maybe elsewhere, this book is banned. Hard to know why. My best guess is the text saying, “This body, that body, his and her and their body. However YOU define your body! Bodies are cool!” An offending pronoun, an objection to defining your own body. Apparently, society must do that (as defined by God-fearing Texans). Let the harm go on. 

I hope families regularly check out this book. I hope they ask librarians to order it. I hope they buy a copy for their home library.

 

With this book, children will learn as they are ready to, based on what they notice. They will connect the illustrations to what they see in the real world. They may still stare, but more likely as an a-ha/I Spy moment: Bodies are cool!

 

A book like this as a part of one’s childhood has the potential to reduce instances of low self-esteem and body image struggles as a child, during the awkward adolescent years and into adulthood when many people continue to size up bodies, when we continue to be inundated by images of Ryan Gosling’s abs, Ariana Grande’s petiteness, Julia Roberts’ hair and that dude in the latest Calvin Klein ads. 

 

I think of my own body issues, my eating disorder and the prevalence of body dysmorphia among gay men. Gay bars could be harsh, a hierarchy established immediately upon walking or sashaying in. Now, I suppose, with gay bars no longer an epicenter of gay culture, the dismissals aren’t so much to one’s face, but empty message boxes on dating apps leave users to speculate how many times their best pics were met with a rapid swipe left. If only we’d all grown up with this book.

 

Alas, not everyone will gain access to Bodies Are Cool. Not everyone will accept the message. There will always be forces that rank and revile. Still, this book can make a difference, both for the youngster to whom the book is read and the adult reading it and answering the questions that pop up. 

 

Bodies Are Cool is very, very cool.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE SWIMSUIT ISSUE, 2022

Sorry to disappoint. You won’t find a pic of Elizabeth Hurley here, rocking a bikini at 57. Google again. You’ll find her.

 

I’ve blogged about swimsuits before. One tiny article of clothing exposes so much in terms of skin and insecurities. They say fashion goes in cycles and I’m still waiting for men’s early twentieth-century swim apparel to return to vogue.  

 

Alas, we’re stuck with bare chests and bellies at least until Vogue taps Harry Styles’s shoulder for another buzzy photo shoot to offer an uptick in subscriptions. Until then, my dilemma continues. I love swimming, but I hate suiting up. 

 

Swimming has played a major part in my life. I grew up privileged with a pool in our backyard. My family spent spring breaks on the Gulf of Mexico in Florida where I’d splash about in the waves and didn’t think twice about combing the beach for seashells, no shoes, no shirt required. In summer, we’d spend weeks at our family cottage on a beach along the Ottawa River, where I’d join friends playing King of the Raft, canoeing and water skiing. I had a favorite Ottawa Valley shirt I wore too much, but most of the time I went around shirtless, my pale skin turning from the traditional first burn of the season—ouch!—to some shade of bronze, with ever-growing freckle constellations.

 

I was on swim team in high school, by no means a star athlete; it was my exit pass to get away from all the other uncoordinated geeks who weren’t on the football team, the basketball team, the track team, the tennis team or even in golf. After only a week of acculturation at my East Texas high school, I knew I’d face permanent ostracization if I stayed enrolled in basic P.E. Swim team was one small step above P.E. and it spared me from dreaded rope climbs and being full- or half-nelsoned on never-washed wrestling mats by sweaty guys who’d hadn’t been told it was time to start wearing deodorant. 

 

Throughout university, I lifeguarded during the summers. I worked at a pool operated by an association supporting persons with developmental disabilities and, after my first week there, I knew I wanted to become a special education teacher. So, yeah, swimming means a lot to me.

 

Somewhere along the way, I stopped being nonchalant about wearing a Speedo and letting my tummy catch some rays. I became aware of guys like Leif Garrett and Shaun Cassidy with surfer bods gracing teen fan magazines and Tom Selleck and Lee Majors captured in beachy shots for People. I’d glimpse at myself in the mirror—no chest, no abs, a fleshy midriff that couldn’t pass that dadgum Special K “pinch more than an inch” test…which, to this day, I believe damaged so many psyches. There have been class action lawsuits against tobacco manufacturers, but I’m still waiting to opt in on legal action against Kellogg’s.

 

I suddenly felt like I should cover up. It’s not like I lost confidence. I never had that in the first place. I just stopped being oblivious. I didn’t have anything to show off. It would be better for all if I shirted up. 

 

Photos of me in just a swimsuit after high school are extremely rare. I don’t ever give anyone the opportunity to snap a shot. I swim laps in pools where I’m 98% certain I will not run into anyone I know. At the cottage, I won’t swim in front of it if anyone else is there. If it’s unbearably hot, I’ll walk to the end of the beach—“It’s not as rocky there,” I say—and take a quick dip before covering myself in a towel which I always leave at the shore’s edge. I no longer get burns or tans or a single freckle much less a constellation because skin exposure is too brief.

 

There was one photo I actually allowed to be taken in late summer 2014. While flying somewhere, I’d picked up the airline’s magazine—remember those?—and read about swim vacations where people swim each day as part of their travel journey in Croatia, Slovenia or even in Lake Powell, Arizona. When I did the research back home, the trips turned out to be quite pricey, but I stumbled upon information about a monthly swim from Alcatraz to shore in San Francisco. I lived in a rural area on BC’s Sunshine Coast at the time and did a bit of open water ocean swimming to train for the event. A colleague who was in a paddling club volunteered to take me along with her outrigger team one Saturday morning, venturing farther out to sea so the I could jump in the water and swim along the craft, the outrigging crew serving as my guides. She snapped a picture of me with my shirt off just as I was about to jump in and took more photos as I swam alongside the boat. 

 

As it turned out, I rather liked the photo. I was in good shape, having lost weight during a hospital stay four months earlier and working out fanatically thereafter. I posted several of the shots on Facebook—a braver act for me than the actual Alcatraz swim. Unfortunately, a friend commented that from my position in the boat, it appeared as though the ‘iako (the wooden boom) extending from the vessel looked like a long appendage jutting from between my legs. Um, ew. And, yes, she had a point. My only swimsuit pic from the twenty-first century had the illusion of being obscene if one wanted to imagine me growing a wooden man-part. I was mortified!

 

It was a sign. The world would be a better place if I kept my shirt on. Indeed, I successfully swam from Alcatraz in a wetsuit for reasons unrelated to vanity. While a few participants swam in Speedos, the majority wanted more warmth as we navigated the colder waters in the San Francisco Bay. But, yeah, the day of flashing my belly was done. Silver lining: in the years since, I’ve surely saved a fair amount of money on sunscreen. Not enough to afford an extra trip to Stockholm, but surely a few lattes with Oatly from Sweden. Skål!

 

My partner, Evan, does not have body issues. He can be as self-conscious as any gay man, but it doesn’t get in the way of living life to its fullest. He’s an avid yoga participant, one of those nuts who insists on doing it in studios where they crank up the heat and the men don’t where shirts. Given the temperature setting, the mirrors everywhere, the abnormal stretching—I have zero flexibility or coordination—and the shirtless component, it literally sounds like Hell. He continues to pitch the idea of us doing a class together, but Hell will have to freeze over…or at least turn on the A/C before that ever happens. Even then, not gonna happen. If I attempted the tree pose, it would be “Timber!” after a mere second and the “downward dog” cue would have me glancing at the mats, hoping to spot an off-leash schnauzer. Sadly, I’m a tad rusty with my role in the “shake a paw” routine. Not yoga, but way more Zen.

 

Being as Evan’s apartment is two blocks from Lake Union in Seattle, we often walk down to have a picnic and watch for the resident beaver who’s as elusive as the Loch Ness Monster when I’m present. During my last couple of visits, we’ve gone swimming. If it were just Evan and strangers who are not my neighbors, taking my shirt off and wading in sloooowly wouldn’t be a big deal. But Evan’s way more social than I am. He invites friends. (The introvert in me thinks, Good god, who does that?! My logical mind butts in with the reply: Um…everyone but you. Damn.)

 

So I’ve had to appear normal, acting something possibly resembling casual as I lift my shirt over my head, turn away from the friends who are hopefully still distracted by my decoy blurt—“Was that the beaver over there?”—and wade in. STAT! You get used to the cold water once you’re fully submerged, right?

 

On my latest visit, I met Evan and his friend Ronald down at a dock after I spent the day café-hopping, writing in Seattle’s Fremont and Ballard neighborhoods. I hadn’t packed a swimsuit so I had to borrow one of Evan’s before heading over. The guy is even more of a clothes horse than I am and, as a former Miami resident, he had thirty suits to choose from. Unfortunately, as a former Miami gay, all of them were far skimpier than anything I own. Was this swimwear or fabric samples? Hell was hounding me.

 

Evan texted: “Where are you?” Then: “Hurry.” No doubt, he knew I was fretting. He knew I was two minutes away from a fashion crisis to eclipse any Milan runway meltdown or that Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction at the Super Bowl. I slipped on a swimsuit, pulled my shorts over it and headed to the dock, trying to take deep breaths and going over my own calming script: “You do this and you get a double scoop at Salt & Straw.” Neither carrot nor stick will ever motivate me, but Freckled Mint Chocolate Chip has had encouraging results. 

 

The dock was crowded, mostly by thirty-something hipsters proudly exposing body tattoos. (If I’d been inked at that age, my body would be an ode to Ace of Base (central upper back), “No soup for you!” (scrawled upward, right calf) and a double nod to Angela Lansbury, as Jessica Fletcher (right forearm) and Beauty and the Beast’s Mrs. Potts (left ankle). 

 

No tattoos for me. Thank god.

 

After ten minutes of chitchat, Evan was ready for another dip in the lake. Ronald declined. That meant I could keep Ronald company or shed the shirt and go for a swim. Sometimes being an introvert is a motivator too. If Freckled Mint Chocolate Chip is my carrot, the prospect of continuing a conversation with someone I’m still getting to know is my stick. Shirt off. Hello, lake.

 

But I was too slow to the plunge. I heard Evan say, “Ronald, will you take our picture?” Some smiles are more forced than others. And prolonged. Ronald suddenly assumed the role of professional photographer. 

 

“Okay, look at each other.”

“Now one gazing out at the water. And another.”

“Come on, James. Smile.”

 

Not as bad as hot yoga, I told myself. But Hell-adjacent.  

 

At last, it was over. I went with cannonball instead of wading in. Sorry, Ronald. Did I get you wet? “Did the phone get wet? Is it damaged?” No, dammit, it was just fine. Stupid beach towels!

 

The swim turned out to be great fun. The two of us swam out to a mooring which I ascended, assisted by knotted ropes, something eighteen-year-old me wouldn’t have even tried. Maybe I wanted to show off for my boyfriend. He followed my lead and then came the inevitable quandary: how to get down. It was twist on one of my recurring nightmares where I’m standing on the edge of a high-dive, legs shaking, a crowd watching, a lineup of seven-year-olds waiting on the ladder, encouraging/taunting me with, “Jump!” and “Hurry up, old man!”

 

Evan called to shore, “Ronald! Take our picture!” In a sleep-time nightmare, you can will your eyes to open and be done with it. I blinked, but nothing changed. This was my comeuppance for showing off. “Let’s jump together,” Evan said. “On three…”

 

“I’m not ready,” I said while trying to retain my fake smile for the click-happy photographer on shore. Turns out that, as I’ve gotten older, whatever fear of heights I’ve had has gotten worse. I imagined the lake feeling like concrete when I hit it. I thought about my body submerging deep down in a thicket of slimy seaweed with prehistoric looking fish wondering if the mole on my back might be worth a bite. I wondered if one of the wine bottles on the dock might shatter as my scream hit the highest C-note on the way down. 

 

I could have stayed atop that mooring all evening. Eventually, I’d be able to wave down the Coast Guard. Perhaps a sea gull might take perch atop my head. (Snap that, Ronald.)

 

Evan only had to say “On three” a couple of dozen times. I feared Ronald was getting too many shots, my fake smile long-departed, my body far too exposed. “One, two—”

 

Down we went. Back to shore. Covered by a towel. (Me, at least.) It was as fine a time it could be, all things considered.

 

Mercifully, the pics of us on the
lake are distant and blurred. That's
Evan in front, me behind. I swear,
things looked scarier from up there.

Five days later, I allowed myself to remember the occasion. I texted Evan, asking if he could nudge Ronald to send along the photos. I was genuinely curious, gay vanity gaining the edge over body insecurity. It wasn’t long until my phone buzzed in rapid succession. Evan’s one of those who texts each thought separately. Photo after photo arrived on my screen. Aw, my Evan. So handsome. And I dared to glance at the ghostly white figure by his side. I didn’t see fat. I didn’t see anything particularly horrifying. I allowed myself to conclude my body was okay. Trick photography perhaps? I’ll take it. But, no, dear reader, I won’t post it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

DRESS YOU UP

Like most people, my body image affects the way I dress. I have an eating disorder so I’ve been plagued by seeing fat on me that may not actually be there. It’s like I have my own set of funhouse mirrors that reflect the cruelest images. 

 

Because of this, I hide under my clothes. The eighties were great years because the fashion of the day rebelled against the skin-tight jeans of the previous decade—Brooke Shields: “Nothing comes between me and my Calvins”—and welcomed pleated pants, shoulder pads, baggy jeans, loose-fitting Guess sweatshirts and parachute pants. The bigger the better, including the hair. 

 

Where is the eighties revival?

 

In truth, I’ve long since stepped away from clothes that could comfortably fit me and three other people. Loose clothing had its own triggering risks. I panicked whenever I viewed the ripples from excess fabric as my own layers of flab. Logically, I knew this was not the case, but I still felt I projected the image of a fat man. 

 

Nowadays, I wear more appropriate-sized clothing. Things fit me well enough. Still, whenever I’m in a relationship, my partner wants to see me in new clothes. It’s never been a reenactment of “Pretty Woman” with a Richard Gere doppelgänger loading me down with shopping bags full of the latest designs in Beverly Hills. I have a modest income as do the guys I date. But every guy I’ve been with has wanted to tweak my wardrobe. It’s not so much about fashion choices. I have a decent eye and I splurge on nicer items rather than sifting through sale racks at outlet stores. It’s the sizing that my boyfriends think I get wrong. 

 

I buy clothes that fit me, but my boyfriends want clothes that flatter me. Daniel, a guy I dated at the beginning of COVID, wasn’t so nuanced with words but he meant it as a compliment when he repeatedly said, “You look much better with your clothes off.” What he was trying to say was that I was in really good shape and no one could see how much so based on the clothes I wore. 

 

Every single boyfriend has steered me away from size Large. It makes me uneasy. I’m 6’1”. I don’t want to walk down Davie Street with people eying me for all the wrong reasons. Did he buy that ensemble at Baby Gap? (Matching bib and booties in the backpack.) 

 

My Portland boyfriend got me down to Medium in some brands. It always takes a lot of coaxing to get me to step out of the fitting room and stand in front of a full-length mirror while a salesperson says, “It looks terrific!” I’d take her word for it more if I knew she weren’t on commission. Sure, she could cross her fingers, thinking I’d still buy the shirt if I retreated behind the curtain to try on one size larger, but she must know of studies that show that, the more thinking time a patron puts into an apparel purchase, the less likely it is going to happen.[1] Don’t we all have a shelf in our closet with impulse buys we’ve never worn?

 

I will admit that it feels sexy going into clothing shops with a boyfriend and trying on clothes for one another’s appraisal. I hope that never goes away. I don’t want to try on items, tentatively step out of the fitting room and have my guy gaze up momentarily from his phone, only to shrug and say, “Yeah. Get it if you want,” before looking back down at his screen and pretending he understands what TikTok is all about.[2]

 

Evan has taken the whole clothes shopping event to an entirely new level. He’s been setting aside the Large hoodies I reach for and handing me the Small version instead. 

 

Small?! 

 

It’s part of an odd ritual that works for us. I hold up the garment, roll my eyes and say, “You’re kidding.” Evan points to the fitting room and says, “Go.” At least half the time, the thing seems to fit. (The rest of the time, it’s enough of a horror show for me to retain my knee-jerk eye roll reaction. So far, I haven’t needed a salesperson or EMT to cut me out of any item of clothing as I struggle to take in air, but maybe I’m pushing my luck. That’s the kind of happening that will make the evening news, thanks to store security camera footage.)

 

If I’ve gone down two sizes in shirts—at least sometimes—things are even more dramatic with pants and, egad, shorts. My latest purchases are down by three, even four, inches in the waist. In my sized-down pants, I can fasten the top button without gasping or cramping. I can even carry on a conversation with my normal voice instead of with some breathy, helium-tinged tone. And, better still, rolls of flesh don’t hang over the belt. This is not on account of rapid weight loss due to some COVID-activated banana bread diet. I promise. In fact, I don’t eat that stuff. Bananas, good. Bread, better. Banana bread? A tragedy. 

 

According to Evan, I now have a butt…or at least a mirage of one due to the denim fit. In my twenties, I was desperate for butt implants so, if he likes what he sees, I’m not going argue the point. I can save my plastic surgery fund for my eyes, neck and some especially alluring elbows. 

 

I’m most shocked by the shorts and swimsuits Evan’s had me try on. I now own a pair of $95 short shorts that make me seem 6’10” in photos, the legs looking like they belong on a gazelle instead of a pasty Scottish/English guy who must apply gobs of SPF 70 sunscreen to skin that hasn’t seen the light of day in decades. I have worn the shorts on a few occasions, but never in Vancouver where I live. Let the people of Salida, Colorado and Taos, New Mexico get all worked up over the need for new dress codes for daring Canadians ambling along downtown sidewalks. 

 

While it’s true I was on swim team in high school and wore Speedos for practices and swim meets,[3] I’ve reverted to a more modest look with age. I prefer loose, long trunks that look like basketball shorts with the hemline covering the tops of the kneecaps. Most often, when Evan dangles a swimsuit for me to try on, I hold up my hand, giving him my best traffic cop “stop” signal. “Not enough fabric,” I say. He can’t argue the point, but he’s persistent. The dude lived a few years in Miami and I swear it’s skewed his entire perception of what is acceptable to wear in public. I have one new swimsuit. What it lacks in material it makes up for in brightness, a rainbow of sherbet colors, with two hues missing. You can only get so much on a small swatch of fabric, after all.

 

I’m not entirely uncomfortable with the way I’ve been dressing. Sometimes it even feels good, especially since I have a boyfriend who appears so dazzled when I wear more formfitting clothing. Still, I can only hope that Marc Jacobs, Mr. Turk and Tom Ford will unveil new cloak collections for Summer 2023. Hell, it might be an act of charity for them to bring back parachute pants, too. The world has surely seen more than it ever wanted of this fifty-something body.  

 

 

 

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[1] Full disclosure, I don’t know if there are any such studies with such a conclusion, but this is the internet. There’s a low threshold in terms of how much backing I need for anything I declare. While I’m at it, I’ll posit that studies have shown that people with any sense of taste abhor cargo pants and Crocs. Stop resisting, guys. Throw those things out!

[2] For me, Tik Tok will always be a Kesha song. That’s as hip as I need to be. And I’m self-aware enough to know I can never attempt to “randomly” fit the lyric, “Po-Po shut us down” into a conversation.

[3] It helped that we all wore Speedos. The only way to survive a public appearance in unflattering clothing is to have an entire herd similarly garbed. See also, bridesmaids.