KEEPING TWITTER FROM BECOMING "X"

There are many things that make me question why I’m still on Twitter. The new, ridiculous name is just one of them. It’s like the app is going through its awkward Prince/Puff Diddy phase. Just because Facebook is trying on a stupid name change doesn’t mean Twitter should follow. But monkey see, monkey do. These boneheads are billionaires?!

 

In truth, I’ve never really understood Twitter. A tech leader at work talked rhapsodically about it back in 2009. He was connecting with golf lovers in North Carolina and guys who gave insightful critiques on the latest software. Golfers! Techies! It was the pitch from hell. But my first book had been published the year before and I figured I could do some belated promotion or at least build a following for the next book release. (Sigh…still waiting.)

 

The way I remember it, the Twitter stream felt overwhelming. As I’d read tweets, the app would tell me there were 28 new tweets, then 56, then 140. How was I supposed to keep up? I rued dropping out of that speed reading class I took on weekends in high school. (The microfiche slides really did smell like vomit.) When I tried tweeting, I kept being dashed by the character limit. I had to be more concise in sharing my thoughts about the Beijing Olympics, Michael Jackson’s death and Adam Lambert on “American Idol.” When I’d cut things down, I wondered if I was really saying anything. 

 

I’m still wondering. 

 

Maybe that’s the problem. Over time, tweets changed. Influenced by more visual social media like Pinterest, Instagram and TikTok, tweets started including photos, memes and giphy attachments. The images were supposed to draw people to your words but then it got to the point where the words were superfluous. Any aspirations of connecting gave way to accruing likes. 

 

Like the picture of my breakfast. (No, there’s no such thing as too much syrup.)

 

Like the photo of a waterfall from my hike. (Or is it a shot of the leaky faucet in the bathroom?)

 

Like my haircut. (If I were bald, I’d have twenty percent less Twitter content.)

 

Despite all my griping to friends who aren’t on any form of social media, I’ve adapted. If I don’t have a photo for my tweet, I search Google Images to paste something. Notice my tweet! Like it! Comment! Retweet! These are the basic needs we seek to have met on Twitter.

 

There was a time, somewhere around 2015, when I couldn’t check my Twitter account in public. I’d be sitting in a café, taking a quick writing break, checking to see if the Katy Perry-Taylor Swift feud was trending again, and a photo of naked man would pop up…or, more often, a photo of a certain part of a naked man would, yes, pop up. Porn photos, porn clips. Aack! I’d blush and break out in sweat as I flipped my laptop shut or threw my phone into my open backpack.

 

I’d spent considerable time building my Twitter following to prove to literary agents I had a means of promoting my still-unpublished Epic Gay Novel. (It’s hysterical! It’s heartfelt! Unfortunately, it does not include zombies, magical realism or space aliens that fall in love with inflatable Rock Hudson dolls.) I specifically followed gay men, hoping they’d follow back. This is when I realized how much gay men liked gay porn. They posted it. They retweeted it. I blocked the most frequent offenders. It meant a potential loss of buyers for my Epic Gay Novel, but I made a calculated decision that they were too busy watching porn (and ordering inflatable Rock Hudson dolls online) to read my book. Sure, there are references to porn in the book but, without pictures, they would come off as drab as my graphic-free tweets of 2009-2014. 

 

I suspect the Twitter police finally took action. I don’t see porn or any element of nudity anymore. It’s safe to login again at Starbucks or on public transit. I don’t have to wait until I’m home to view snazzy haircuts and yummy brunches (How is there not a world shortage of maple syrup?).

 

But a new, problematic trend emerged. My stream has been increasingly cluttered with guys posting shirtless selfies. 

 

Look at me! I’m at the gym. My bicep grew, didn’t it?

 

I’m cooking. Topless! (Why risk getting marinara sauce on a sweatshirt?)

 

Like my haircut? (I groomed my chest, too.)

 

Sigh. Gays love skin. 

 

That’s okay. I just grew up being told there’s a time and place for everything. I can Google shirtless guys. I’m sure there are sites I can bookmark. I can even make a certain shirtless cover shot of Ryan Reynolds from Entertainment Weekly (June 26/July 3, 2009 double issue) my screensaver. 

 

I don’t log into Twitter to see men flashing pecs and biceps. As regular as it’s become, it’s still annoying. Pec-man, for whatever reason, needs people to like his photo. I suspect he likes his chest. Other people liking it is its own endorphin rush. Is this narcissism? Is it extreme neediness? Is this a brazen If you’ve got it, then flaunt it mindset? Beats me. All I know is I don’t want to see it.

 

It's not healthy for me and I have a hunch it’s not healthy for a lot of people. One person’s body pride can make another person feel envy and even shame. I have lived a lifetime sizing up my body against others…along with my own brutal self-assessments. I’ve worked hard to get close to self-acceptance. Still, every half naked Twitter post tests me. It’s unwelcome. Call it foolish, but I still scroll Twitter in search of people who have something to say or, if nothing else, a cool beach shot that makes me suddenly Google the Whitsunday Islands. Gym selfies irk me. They feel invasive. If I wanted to be immersed with gym bods, I’d get an Anytime Fitness membership instead of working out alone in the tiny but well-equipped fitness center in my building.

 

A month ago, I began blocking Pec-men and Bicep Buds. One of the first things I discovered was that I didn’t actually follow most of these guys. That was, in and of itself, a relief. I’ve tried to be discerning about whom I follow. These posts were Twitter’s doing, coming through on my phone on the stream labelled “For you” which includes some people I follow but also spits out unwanted content arising from the site’s #$%*^ algorithm. Since I identify as gay, Twitter decided I wanted to see shirtless studs…even though my history of likes has never endorsed clothing-minimal posts.

 

(I have another Twitter account (@gregorywalters –Follow me!) that’s more focused on books and writing. It’s also flooded with folks I don’t follow. I don’t mind as much. Mostly it’s meals from vegans and posts from miniature schnauzers who’ve figured out how to create their own accounts. They really are a bright breed.)

 

I blocked body-baring bros ruthlessly. For the first couple of weeks, this meant I was even more focused on such posts. I was stopping on each one, rather than quickly scrolling past. 

 

Block. Ha! 

Another block. Yes! 

 

It felt cathartic. No shirt? No stream for you!

 

Twitter and its cursed algorithm got the message. Guys in my feed are now fully dressed. One has an affinity for bow ties. Another wears different glasses. I like their quirks; I “like” their posts. Twitter no longer makes me feel like I need to squeeze in a longer bike ride or gnaw on celery stalks for dinner. At last, the bare-chested boys are at bay. Let others reinforce their need to be seen. I can scroll without the muscle assault.

 

Now if only more people on Twitter said something. Original thoughts and not lazy retweets. Of course, if that ever came to be, I’d feel less need to head out and have real conversations with people off-screen. I may never figure out the purpose of Twitter. Maybe that’s a good thing.  

 

 

PLEASE DON'T LIKE ME (Part One)

If awkwardness were viewed as a skill, I’ve reached mastery. Top of the résumé.

 

I’ve spent a lifetime wishing certain guys were gay. Now I’m hoping one isn’t. It’s a guy I met at the gym. Not some big, cruisy fitness sweatshop where guys take videos of themselves bench pressing the equivalent to a minibus and where guys nonchalantly linger in the locker room, wrapped in a towel, needing other patrons to notice them. (Oddly, this seems to be a straight guy thing.) I ran into Damien in the convenient little gym in my building, max three users at a time during COVID. 

 

I regularly sign up for the 2:00 p.m. slot, handing off the relay baton to him at 3. Due to the time of day, each of us typically gets the space to himself. (I suppose that would make it easier for me to take regular pics of me doing bicep curls and whatnot in hopes of three or so “likes” on Instagram but, even with no one else present, I’d feel selfie-self-conscious, three-quarters of that sweaty sheen on my body coming from embarrassment rather than exertion. Besides, my whatnots are performed with weights more the mass of a minibus of the Matchbox sort.)

 

The first relay pass was a clear failure. I dropped the baton. I’d said hello and he said nothing. A total shunning. It may have had to do with his earbuds, but I took it as attitude, the kind I got so much of at those cruisy gyms. Why are you even here? He was very fit for his age and it felt like I was being dismissed by one of those older gay men I used to see gathered around little round bar tables, sipping martinis and holding on to superiority so that irrelevance didn’t slip in. No room for me at a regular gym and a misfit at this boutique training room. I wiped down the exercise bike, took my water bottle and left. 

 

For weeks, we’d encounter one another, a silent shift change. He’d stride straight for the StairMaster and I wouldn’t look his way. Ha! Now who’s shunning who? As I sprayed down gym equipment, I’d glance at the TV screen in front of him and be glad not to have to make small talk with a guy who always changed the channel to “Gunsmoke.” Or “Ponderosa.” Or “Bonanza.” Or one of those old Western series where the colors seem to have faded and be a hue or two off what their supposed to be, rust instead of red, skies an unrealistic robin’s egg blue. Really, who the hell books their gym time to coincide with “Bonanza” reruns? This was not someone I needed to know.

 

Then one time as I surrendered the gym to him, he introduced himself and said something innocuous like, “I guess we both like our afternoon gym times.” That made for an awkward pause where I was supposed to say something even though he didn’t give me much to go on. I suppose I could have said, “My endorphins love a post-lunch release” or “This is the one time of day when I’m not Zooming with incredibly important people.” Instead, I’m sure I said, “I like it when no one’s here.” And, due to that patented awkwardness of mine, it would have come off with the tone of, I’m no good at sharing. I basically hate people. I’d really settled into our not-talking thing. 

 

As I left, I managed to recover and say, “Nice to meet you” and “Have a good workout,” but Damien had his earbuds in, not listening to BTS or Chance the Rapper, but some ominous dialogue between Lorne Greene and James Arness about how the cattle needed more hay (or whatever they eat). Riveting stuff, you know.

 

Over time, we got into a groove of sticking to script with our baton-passing exchange. Sometimes he’d get my name right, sometimes he’d have the nerve to shorten it, sometimes he’d be completely off. Perhaps Gordon is the name of a cowboy on “Gunsmoke.” Hard to stick to real-life conversation when a chance to view some jaw-dropping lasso maneuvering awaits. My lines were always, “Hi Damien” (with an occasional “Hey” subbed in to prove I could ad-lib a bit). Then, after he’d acknowledge me with some sort of name, I’d say, “See ya. Enjoy your workout.” It got so I didn’t even feel awkward. Like everything, practice makes perfect.

 

But then one day, Damien said, “If it weren’t for COVID, I’d have you over for coffee.” Um, well. Welcome back, awkwardness. Coffee at a stranger’s home? No, no, no. That would require a whole lot more conversation. Out of desperation, I might ask something stupid like., “Don’t you ever get bored on that StairMaster?”  I wouldn’t mean to be rude. I’d just blurt it to fill a fraction of a second of dead air in order to quell a rush of panic and self-loathing. Man, I’m pathetic. Why can’t I have a simple chat? Why is it that, knowing basically nothing about this person and knowing, therefore, that there is a completely wide-open slate of topics to choose from, I can’t think of anything? 

 

“I guess you like ‘Gunsmoke,’ huh?” Dear God, no. There could be no coffee. Saved by COVID!

 

Over time, there was more to talk about at the gym. It was nice to have time parameters on it. I noticed that if he arrived a couple of minutes early, it was an opportunity to comment on that chitchat go-to, the weather, or that newer addition to Chitchat 101, the coronavirus. These masks make me sweatier. I wonder when we’ll ever go back to letting more than two people on the elevator. Have you gotten your shot yet? If Damien didn’t enter until three or a minute after, our exchange was pared down to a simple “Hi” and maybe a wave with his back to me as he went straight for the StairMaster. “Gunsmoke” was calling and how does anyone compete with that?

 

At some point, a couple signed up for the two o’clock spot and that had me fretting so

I signed up for Damien’s three o’clock time, guessing—correctly—that he wouldn’t be doing weights after the StairMaster. He did lots of stretching instead. He was chattier while getting into stretchy, yoga-ish positions…hang dogs or camels or frozen chickens. (Apologies to yoga devotees. I know nothing about it. I respect your choice of activity even though I’m certain I will never try a session since of have the flexibility of a cement pillar. I might stay for the warmup if the instructor played “Vogue,” but I’m guessing they don’t take requests. Please continue striking your animal poses.) Damien and I exchanged basic information: where we’re from, the importance of keeping in shape, what our wives do. 

 

Wait. What? You’re married? To a woman?! Please, mask, cover my shock. Please, eyes, focus on blankness…like Keanu Reeves in every movie role. 

 

Seriously, a wife? Shock. And relief. 

 

I’d gotten some vibes that maybe Damien was into me. There was never anything vague about me being gay. Generally, I figure, Just look at me, people. What could possibly make you unsure whether I’m queer? At the gym, my face mask highlights the statement, in bold and underlined, all caps, 24-point font. I wear the same face mask every time because it’s the most breathable. I bought it at what used to be Vancouver’s gay bookstore and now, sadly, is where you browse for sex toys. My mask has rainbow hearts all over it and the message, LOVE IS LOVE. Yep, I’m gay. Despite this whole wife revelation, I still couldn’t shake a suspicion Damien was gay and I couldn’t dismiss a sense he might kinda sorta maybe like me in that most implausible of ways. He’d mentioned my fitness and my toned body a few times. Nice to hear for a deeply insecure guy like me, but I’m not used to people noticing things like that. My exes certainly didn’t. 

 

I did my best to accept this husband-wife thing as totally legitimate and not some immigration scheme. I talked more freely after convincing myself Damien couldn’t possibly be interested in me. Turns out our backgrounds are in teaching, both of us becoming principals. When teaching is the topic, I don’t even have to think about what I say. It comes naturally. He talked about his children and grandchildren. I made sure

to always ask about his wife. It seemed like she really and truly existed…from South America. Hmm. Nope, not a scheme; all perfectly legitimate, right?

 

My little COVID-approved life was intact, safely single, completely unencumbered. How nice to begin getting to know a clearly attached straight man.