I Want to be a Skinny Bitch

I have never done well with New Year resolutions, particularly not if they involved food or exercise.  New Year’s resolutions have always seemed to me like a wish list that seemed a good idea at the time, after a few glasses of champagne and some misguided optimism.  To date, I have had a 100% failure rate when it came to sticking to or even seeing through these “resolutions”.  But this year I am determined that it will be different.  You see, I firmly believe that my body is on a 5 year cycle.  I have 5 fat years and then 5 thin years and 2013 is the start of my thin cycle.  I know it sounds strange but trust me it’s true.  I am fat and it is time to fight the bulge and get back into shape.

Gaining weight is sneaky.  It happens gradually and sometimes you hardly notice it.  Yes, you start to realize something is happening when you have to hold your breath when putting on those jeans, when your cat falls off the couch while lying next to you because it’s running out of space and when you are growing a second chin.  But denial is a very powerful weapon in my psychological arsenal as is rationalization.  Over the last three years I have noticed that I was gaining weight but I told myself it was healthy, that nobody likes skinny bitches anyway and that I was only five stomach flues away from my goal weight.  Sure I had to go up a size with my shirts and pants but that’s all part of growing older and being big boned, right?  Well, no!

You see the turning point came a few weeks ago when we had the family over for Christmas lunch.  It was a beautiful day and perfect for lounging next to the pool.  Naturally hubby was taking pictures, as he always does, but what I didn’t know was that I was in a few of those pictures.  When I decided to look through those festive photos I got the shock of my life.  I was horrified to see myself sitting on the couch, shirtless looking like an albino whale.  I almost died.  So I deleted it.  But that was not the worst of it.  A few days ago, while in the pool hubby pointed out my belly button.  I will not nauseate you with the graphic details but suffice to say it was an eye opener.  At this point I started resenting the pool as I was convinced that only bad things and terrible revelations are made there.

Having had my go to option of denial shattered into little fat pieces I did the only thing I could at the time.  I sat on the shower floor and cried like a little disturbed child who just survived Chernobyl.  All those crisps, chocolates, cheeses, breads, hotdogs and fries that I ate flashed in front of my eyes and the shower water rained down on me like a calorie hail storm.  I had nobody to blame but myself for the extra of me there was to love.  I had to make peace with the fact that I was fat and I had to decide what I was going to do about it.  Am I going to let myself go, become morbidly obese and possibly develop diabetes and get heart problems?  Or am I going to put my big girl panties on and do something about it.  It may seem like a clear cut decision, but I promise you it wasn’t.

The only things in life I hate more than homophobic religious nut cases are diets and exercise.  Both feel like punishment and both make me cranky as fuck!  You can’t tell me that there are actually people out there that like being hungry and tired all the time and that they do it to themselves on purpose.  I also don’t like to sweat and I despise rice cakes.  But, hey if I want to lose the extra Backstreet Boy that I gained over the last few years I don’t have much of a choice, now do I?  So I decided that I was not going to “let myself go” and that I would hire a personal trainer, go see a dietician and loose the weight.  But that is easier said than done.

You see I am one stubborn bitch and if I am getting a personal trainer that person must have a strong personality and have a high tolerance for whining, bitching, moaning and possibly crying.  I need a person who will be able to push me, motivate me, put me in my place and be able to tell me to suck it up and shut up.  In other words I need a bitch with compassion.  I am sure you are out there somewhere!  I have realistic expectations and I know that I won’t lose all the results of my shameful culinary gluttony in a month or even two months, but the important thing is that I just need to get started.  I also don’t expect to have the body of a Greek God in six months but God knows I will try.

So let’s all agree that this is NOT a New Year’s resolution but rather a lifestyle adjustment, an investment in my health and an attempt to reconcile my negative perception of our pool of shame.  They say nothing looks as good as skinny feels.  I haven’t been skinny in 15 years so I kind of forgot if that is true.  Next week the hunt for a personal trainer starts and my diet commences.  If you eat anything delicious looking near me expect a filthy stare and if you see a cranky sweaty bitch it will probably be me.

Till next time.

Spring & A Fat Ass Diet

Spring has finally arrived in my little speck of the world. The bees are buzzing, the birds are mating and every single last flower in my garden is producing enough pollen falling just short of sending me into anaphylactic shock. I am super allergic to pollen, grass, well pretty much everything related to spring. But allergies and animals having sexy time everywhere you look is not the only thing spring brings. Spring also brings a reality check. I, like most people I know, do tend to pack on some extra pounds during the winter months. And as we start shedding our winter jackets and sweaters revealing our lily white arms and legs which must see the sun in instalments, it also brings another revelation. And unfortunately for me my revelation was the fact that I have become fat!

The greater part of my Internet activity this past weekend was spent researching diets. You see, in just a few short months I need to be able to fit into my Speedo for our island holiday. Yes, you read correctly – my Speedo! I only wear it when I am not in South Africa and at places where there are people that I am sure I in all probability will never see again. During this winter I packed on a few extra unwanted pounds and to my horror discovered that I am starting to grow a second chin, a flabby gut and some god awful cellulite on my ass. It’s all very traumatising! And seeing as I have cancelled my gym subscription the only recourse I have left to my disposal is a diet. Either I go on a damn diet or make peace with the fact that I run the risk of looking like a beached whale in Madagascar in December.

Now, it should be noted that I have never been on a diet a day in my life. I don’t know how it works and prior to this I also didn’t really care either. But as I realized that a diet may be necessary, I consulted with my good old friend Google. There are millions of diets on the Internet ranging from well organized programs you can join with weekly weigh-ins (I don’t even own a scale by the way) to eating programs you can follow, some lasting only a couple of days and others lasting months. The more I read about diets the more it dawned on me that maybe it was not for me. I am far too lazy to measure out my food, pack three small lunches to take to work or having to go stand in my underwear on a scale in front of a bunch fat people only to be told I am fat too. My fragile self-esteem would be devastated.

Sure there are no fat evaporating fairies hiding in my summer closet, but diet – bitch please. I just can’t imagine myself having to stuff my face with shit that taste like cardboard, not eat carbs and having to swop my fizzy drink for bottled water. That’s like being a contestant on Survivor but without the million dollars. Furthermore, if I don’t eat potatoes at least 5 times a week the world will end. Not to mention having to swop my red meat with fish and/or skinless chicken, having to give up my gravies, sauces and other fattening condiments that I love so much. Oh my God, a diet will kill me!

For a brief two days I must admit I did ponder on the idea of bulimia. On the one side you can eat what you want and as much of it as you want. But on the down side you have to vomit and I hate vomiting. So I shut that idea down as it requires too much commitment and too much time spent in the toilet hurling. Anorexia was eliminated from the onset as an option for obvious reasons. So with half a cheesecake taunting me in my fridge, I sat down yesterday further contemplating my dwindling options. Clearly the diet thing was not going to work for me. Diets have too many rules, gets up in your business too much and have the distinct notion of starvation and supervision that is as unappealing to me as is the cellulite on my rear end. So what am I to do?

Having had Plastic Surgery earlier this year and still having my surgeon’s number on my speed dial, just a number higher than that of my Botox dispenser, I considered bypassing the whole starve yourself thing and fast forward to liposuction. Why starve yourself and munch on a salad that does not constitute a dinner (according to me) when you can have all that fat sucked out in less than an hour. The only problem with that is I cannot afford it! Damn you economy! Damn you! As my elation turned into a gluttonous cheesecake feeding frenzy, my extra pounds were weighing down more than just my flab. Rather disconsolate I walked to the mirror and gave myself a good stare down. The edges of my mouth still covered in crumbs of the cheesecake that was delicious I must say, I looked at myself and made a decision.

I have gained a few pounds over winter and the only reason I gained the weight was because of bad eating habits. Crisps is not food and neither is a snicker bar or chocolate milkshake. I made a choice the change my eating habits. And no, it will not be a diet but rather a conscious choice to eat healthier: More fruits and vegetables, less McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken, less frying and more steaming and grilling. Whether my conscious decision to change my eating habits will see me shed those extra pounds, only time will tell. But one thing is for damn sure, I will not be on some fat ass diet.

Till next time.

Beer ~ The Miracle Diet Drink

Queers on Wheels

Exercise is something I view in the same light as tofu, diet coke and rice cakes.  It’s not natural.  It’s not appealing and it makes me want to vomit.  I don’t like to starve and I don’t like to sweat.  But when you have to bring a certain pair of cargo pants out of retirement from the closet and a sense of shame and guilt overwhelms you as you stare at the flab where your abs of steel once were, a certain rude awakening happens.  Yes people, my Chinese Diet Pills are not working and I have not lost some of my circumference.  I am the gay version of obese and I do not intend to celebrate a certain thirty something birthday (which is just over two months away) looking like the Michelin Man.  So, I did what any self-respecting gay man would do, I sobbed and then I went out and I bought myself a bike.

This month is our 14^th anniversary.  On 21 May hubby and I would have outlasted 40% of all straight marriages and what a better way to celebrate this anniversary month than for me to try to lose 8kg and get back into shape before my birthday.  After all it is as much a gift for hubby as it is a gift for me.  Both hubby and I deserve for my body to be close to the shape it was in when we first met.  Albeit that back then I looked semi anorexic.  I mean you could seriously see my hip bone back then. So this time around my aim will be for the healthier looking version of me 14 years ago, not anorexic looking me.

So on Monday hubby and I went shopping.  Initially I decided to buy a treadmill.  Sure, it’s nothing more than a hamster wheel but I do prefer sweating, heaving and being red faced in private while watching Chelsea Lately or listening to music.  The treadmill seemed like a much better option than jogging through the neighborhood or running on a treadmill all lined up like a Nazi concentration camp's fitness experiment in the gym. Then I saw how much treadmills cost.

Treadmills are fucking expensive.  A whole month’s salary expensive!  For a brief moment while standing in the fitness shop, with a dropped jaw, I thought maybe I wasn’t really that fat.  Love handles are just more of me to love, right?  Then I remembered the reflection of my flab in the mirror that morning.  Remembered that cellulite is not my friend.  Remembered that even though chubby people have great personalities, nobody wants to see them naked, people get nervous at the pool if it looks like they are going to dive in and realized that economy class seats (the class that I now have to fly due to the economy) are small and very narrow.  I realized that I am chubby and I needed a Plan B.

On the other side of the fitness shop I spotted my Plan B – mountain bikes!  Interesting, I thought.  The last time I was on a bike was when I was 13.  I have fond memories of my red BMX bike and I knew that a mountain bike was my salvation from my every growing circumference, as my Chinese pills so blatantly calls it.  Mountain bikes are expensive too, but not as expensive as hamster wheels.  Besides, at least with a bike we will save money on the power bill, as I think hamster wheels can be heavy on electricity.  And bikes are greener and it will give hubby and I something to do as a couple, let us get out of the house, get some fresh air and get me into shape.  So we went shopping for the right bikes for us.

In a specialty bike shop I spotted the most amazing tandem bike.  It exited me in my loins and as I was pointing it out to hubby all vivaciously, his expression was one of “Yea right.  As if we are not gay enough as it is.  Why don’t we just hang pink tassels on the handle bars, besides I would have to do all of the peddling anyway"  It may surprise you, but yes, my husband can convey all of this in just one look, it’s a skill.  With a tandem bike clearly not being a realistic option we eventually bought two bikes that we both liked, bought pumps, helmets and all the paraphernalia one would need to get started.

My brother-in-law graciously offered to pick the bikes up for us as the boxes they came in would not fit in either of our cars.  For some odd reason I thought that if you buy a bike it comes fully assembled, but they don’t.  You have to do it yourself and for that you need tools.  Fortunately for us, brother-in-law has tools, lots of them and in no time at all, both our bikes were assembled and ready to go.  For the first time in almost two decades I was about to get on a bike, and I did not know what to expect.

Not being in any kind of shape at all, hubby and I decided to ride around the block.  It’s not a massive distance, but we thought it would be a gentle way to ease us into things.  Little did we know, but our block has hills and no matter which way around you go you will have an uphill and downhill.  To make matters worse is the fact that my bike was squeaking and it sounded a lot like it was saying “you’re fat” when it squeaked.  As these Queers on Wheels made our way around the block, people stared and I was dripping with sweat, out of breath and praying that no one recognizes me from under the helmet and from behind my sunglasses.  But we made it!  Eventually. I survived and it wasn’t really a completely unpleasant experience.  So later in the afternoon, we did it again.

The squeaking was later discovered to be the rear brake pads and our hairstylist, who had to see the bikes for himself, quickly identified the problem and the bike now no longer squeaks and calls me fat.  Hubby and I decided to ride around the block every day, each day venturing a little further as our fitness levels increases.  There are a lot of bike trails in and around our town and when we feel ready and know that we will not risk a heart attack we will start exploring them too.  It’s something constructive to do on a Sunday and much healthier than lying on the couch in front of the television eating crisps.

Exercise is never fun, but in the absence of a miracle pill that burns fat and turns chocolate or Hägan-Dazs ice cream into cellulite burning treats, it is unfortunately something I will have to do.  I know many people buy bikes with the full intention of exercising and that many of these bikes either end up as clothing racks or dust collectors in their garages, and many people think this is exactly what’s going to happen to ours.  But I do like a challenge and I do like proving people wrong.  So take that flab, I will paddle my little gay legs off around my little neighborhood and by the 1^st of July, I will have shed those excess 8kgs and be able to retire those pair of cargo pants back to its spot of shame in the closet!

Till next time

Clench those gluteal muscles!

Fabulous, I survived my first week back at the gym or as I like to call it “the torture place where we punish ourselves for eating too much”. I took exactly one year’s hiatus from meaningful exercise and frankly I can’t recall why I did it. But now I am back trying to get into shape and from what I experienced last week it is going to take some time and it’s going to be hell.

A couple of weeks ago I had the misfortune of stumbling across a photo of me on Facebook. The photo was taken at a party hubby and I attended. There are many photos of me floating around on the intrawebs and normally most of these photos have been taken from my good side (any side that makes me look thin) and those that were not most definitely are photoshopped. But this photo was different, it wasn’t my good side nor was it electronically altered – it horrified me!

You see in the last 12 months the lack of exercise and abundance of all things that’s normally bad for me took its toll. I gained a few pounds and I didn’t notice seeing as weight gain is an evil gradual process and I was convinced my washing machine was faulty and shrinking my clothes. Then I saw that fucking photo! I once use to have one chin, but in that photo I had two and to exacerbate the horror I looked 3 months pregnant!!! After almost passing out from hyperventilating, I went to the bathroom looked at my chubby self in the mirror and decided to go back to gym.

It took a lot of mental preparation for me to walk into the gym last week. Firstly, I was scared that due to my current fitness level being zero I was either going to pass out and split my head open in one of the classes or have a heart attack. Secondly, I was secretly praying that all the people in my group class would be morbidly obese or at least fatter than me, which of course they weren’t. Armed with a prayer, a towel, a water bottle and a cute outfit that hid my blubber I walked into the gym on Tuesday, focused, determined and slightly terrified.

Trying to appear confident I took a strategic position in the back of the class. From the back no one could watch me or point and laugh and if I had enough I could just sneak out. As all the ladies and two gentleman came dripping into the studio and zero hour was vast approaching I fought the urge to take my stuff and flee. Then the instructor arrived and closed the door behind him and with a firm voice becoming of a drill sergeant he said “Welcome to Boxing, I will be working you out for the next 60 minutes” and with that there was no backing out.

I’m no fucking Rocky and floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee clearly wasn’t in my repertoire but I suffered my way through. As I got into my car after the class I was soaking wet, relieved and kind of proud of myself. The next day I was pleasantly surprised that I wasn’t stiff or sore, but the surprise was short-lived. Thursday came and I was in a world of pain. Walking and breathing and even holding a pen was painful and to make matters worse - I was to attend another class that evening and I was petrified!

Shuffling my way into Studio 1 Thursday afternoon I was having a protracted conversation with myself in my head. “Why do you punish yourself like this? Surely there are easier ways to lose weight?” After ten minutes of negotiating and rationalizing with myself I eventually made peace with the fact that I am at the gym and I am there for a reason.

The second Nazi instructor pitched all excited and energetic but his enthusiasm wasn’t contagious. As the class started my muscles warmed up and the excruciating pain subsided. He worked us hard and paid particular attention to our asses. At one point he screamed “Clench those gluteal muscles!” and I wanted to scream back “If I clench any harder I will pop a vein!” Sixty minutes later it was over and I made my way to my car finished! I could barely drive away as my legs were shaking that much, but it felt good.

I survived my first week back at the gym and I am honestly not looking forward to this – my second week. But with all things in life we sometimes have to commit ourselves to things we don’t find appealing. I will go back tomorrow and suffer some more. Hopefully as the weeks pass and my pregnant belly and my second chin melts away I will start enjoying this weekly excursion to the torture palace. Who knows I might even get addicted to exercise, now wouldn’t that be a hoot!

Till next time.

Jackie Beat - Beaver (Not for the easily offended)

Through Thick and Thin

Not everyone likes going to the gym, some people avoid it at all cost as did I. I have heard the gym described as the Gay Church and as the Temple of Torture. Unfortunately there comes a time in one’s life when weight and health issues force you to make a decision. Am I going to let myself go or am I going to get into shape? This happened to me less than three years ago.

One fateful evening in 2006 after getting out of the shower I happened to catch a glimpse of my naked self in the full length bedroom mirror. I paused for a moment, took a second look and froze in horror. Denial could no longer shield me from the toll all the pies, chocolates, crisps and other junk food had taken on my body. There I was on full display and on a closer inspection found a pot belly, love handles, cellulite, a double chin and a face that looked like an over inflated balloon. I was fat! How did this sneak up on me?

In retrospect it didn’t sneak up on me, there were many hints on my lard paved path to podginess. The first hint should have been that my pants no longer fit (I wanted to believe they shrunk). My cats could no longer comfortably lie next to me on the couch as my pot belly was in their way. My face grew rounder and it wasn’t water retention. My weight gain was a gradual process; I didn’t just wake up one morning looking like that. The lack of exercise and the overindulgence on calories gently ushered me into the world of flabbiness.

The very next day my husband and I went on a diet and joined the gym - I didn’t want to suffer alone. After all he did vow to stick with me through thick and thin. I noticed that the gym was divided into three distinct groups: The body builders, the fitness fanatics and the brave fat people (the latter I presume had an epiphany not much unlike mine). My first day at the gym made me feel incredibly insecure: There were so many beautiful bodies in skimpy outfits and there I was in baggy clothes trying to hide my unwelcome additions. I choose to train in the fat sections of the gym, where all our beached whales were desperately trying to return to the ocean. It felt as if everyone was staring at me as I battled and profusely perspired, but in reality nobody actually paid any attention or cared.

The first few months were hell. I despised the Treadmill, Spinning Bike, Rowing Machine and Stairmaster; I pretty much hated everything and every instrument of torment designed for a cardio workout. The first few months I bargained and fought with myself during the middle of each session. Just do 10 more minutes… You know you can do it! Well if you don’t you’ll stay fat! Is that what you want? Well then finish the session fatso!!!

As time passed and the pounds melted away, we became brave enough to participate in the group classes. We were always at the back of the class as neither my husband nor I wanted to embarrass ourselves if we fainted due to over exertion. The first group class was gruelling. I was not as fit as the rest of the regulars and there were a few times I almost passed out, but I proudly persevered. The next day I realized my body underwent an ordeal as every muscle in my body was tender and throbbing, even some muscles I didn’t know I had. Simple tasks like climbing stairs, picking things up and washing my hair were excruciating. Even though it was painful I returned for more like a typical masochist. They say exercise is addictive due to the endorphin fix you get, but I in my case this wasn’t and isn’t true. It was a laborious task that I dreaded but stuck too.

After almost 3 years I lost the weight equivalent of a 4 year old child and I am back to my normal and healthy weight. It has been hard work and exercise has become part of my weekly routine. My husband and I now have joined a new instructor’s class fondly referred to as The Hitler! He works us twice weekly like cheap red light district whores; he has no sympathy and the stamina of a sadistic beast. The fact that he’s damn attractive makes the torture worthwhile and the fact that I transformed my body from marshmallow man to toned and slim makes it even a bigger bonus. That harrowing night in 2006 was a turning point for me. No longer having the metabolism I had in my twenties I now have to pay more attention to what I eat and exercise has become essential in maintaining a healthy body. Luckily this beached whale made it to the ocean with the help of the Temple of Torture, Hitler and lots of sweat, internal battles and tears.

Till next time.

Soccer Practice by Gay Pimp

Crack and Sack

I had a particular rough week. By Wednesday my optimistic mood was shattered, and I was left feeling pissed off, dejected and particularly annoyed with all my colleagues. So I stuffed my face with carbs then attended a high impact cardio kick boxing class at the gym, to burn off the carbs. Thursday morning I decided to take a deep breath, adjusted my attitude and put all my frustrations in a bubble and blow it away. I then did what any gay man would do and attended to my personal grooming - gay therapy!

Gay grooming is a complicated affair. Depending whether you are a Bear, Bear Cup, Butch, Femme, Twink, Muscle Mary, Drag Queen etc, gay grooming have different rules for different groups. But no matter in which group you fall, one rule stands – pubic hair should never be left to grow unattended. If you have an Amazonian jungle in your jockstrap or panty you are sure to get a disgusted stare from any potential sex partner. No one wants to go down on a monkey and very few homosexuals prefer a hairy ass to a smooth bubble butt. Homosexuals prefer genitalia to be neatly kept as we want to see what we have to work with. Correct grooming can make anything look shiny, bigger and better, it’s also is more hygienic. There is no handbook explaining these rules, you learn them through trial and error and if you are really unlucky through a sex partner who will rudely point out your grooming errors. (All homosexual have a bitch gene, in some the gene is more dominant and we all know who we are!)

My waxing routine is painful but simple. All hair from the neck down is removed, apart from that which is covered by a g-string which I attend to myself. I have considered having what they call a “Crack and Sack” (the male equivalent of a “Brazilian Wax”) but the idea of it gives me nightmares. I can’t imagine having to bend over in awkward positions, having to pull my cheeks apart, having to tightly grip the skin of certain parts of my anatomy in order to assist my waxing technician to get to all those nooks and crannies. Besides being embarrassed to do so, I imagine the pain would be horrendous. It will also add an extra 15 minutes to my 45 minute appointments.

After my waxing session I leave the spa free of unwanted hair, I leave feeling happier, lighter and less frustrated. I caught up on all the gossip and realized that my problems are far less significant than those of other clients.

At home I attend to the finishing touches, which do included contorting my body into awkward positions, but at least I have a good understanding of my own anatomy and have no audience (apart from our 3 cats who find the whole routine fascinating to watch). It’s amazing what one can achieve with a pair of clippers, shaving cream and a razor. You can transform your body from that of a cave man to a porn ready super stud. Maybe it was the change that happened in the gay porn industry during the 90’s that inspired the big change in gay male genital grooming. But what ever the instigating factor was, I am grateful for it. The days of bushy pubes, hairy balls and hairy asses are over. Gay genital grooming has claimed its rightful place in the Top 5 spots of gay therapy: Hair cuts, Gym, Clubbing, Sex and Genital Grooming (Not in order of preference or importance). Till next time



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