Tuesday, 30 August 2011

The Portrait Of Dorian Gay....

The pressure to remain young, nubile and beautiful on a gay man is just as heavy as it would be on any Hollywood actress (especially as our life as a starlet on the red carpet isn't always as well paid).
Buff hairless bodies, immaculate hair and spray on tans are not just de rigueur for the ambitious Angelina, this is also the uniform you need to don if you want to transport yourself into the higher echelons of fairyland.
The morphing of the gay man from the extreme masculinity and sexuality of the 1970's clone into the Bionic woman of 2011 has been a long journey and it's gone from being a particularly hairy and bumpy ride into a totally smooth and talcum powdered one.
When did it become the law for a man to wax and pluck, shave and sculpt, clip and contour himself into androgynous oblivion? The hair on a male body used to define masculinity but now our epidermis is interchangeable with a dolphins. All sleek, smooth and shiny.
I can think of many gay men I'd like to see dive down to the bottom of the ocean and not return until they've had a mouthful of fish but I wouldn't really want to climb into bed with a porpoise.

The new face of a gay man ( which is used in conjunction with the usual two faces) has two noticeable characteristics. They are both called eyebrows. If they have not been tweezed into a reasonable homage to the M you see at at a McDonald's drive thru then they are most likely to be found laying stunned in the middle of the forehead. Much like I'd imagine a very skinny shoplifter would look after being tasered by a policeman, these furry little creatures have been paralysed into submission by huge quantities of botox and now lay useless. Occasionally they may twitch but mostly they just wait for some feeling to return.
The best way to notice them is to wait until a Sunday afternoon when the owner of said eyebrows is doing the walk of shame home after not sleeping for a day and a half. It's at this time that the rest of the face will have dropped down to his knees but the eyebrows will still be on high alert, much like the belt used to hike Simon Cowell's trousers up to his chin.

The tan of a gay man must never interfere with his social life. In other words, it must not drip off in a sweaty dance club and must be able to withstand the searing heat of a sauna or steam room at 4am on a Sunday morning. It is never a good look to be throwing your best shapes to an audience on a dance floor only to find you're flinging fake tan in their faces. Even worse if you rub up against someone and it looks like you are reenacting a scene from Carrie's prom night.

This leads us to the final frontier of the modern gay man and it's not Selfridges or that fat free yogurt shop in Soho, it's the gym. A gym is no longer just "gay friendly". It's here that the lunatics can really take over the asylum. Nothing gets a gay man worked up quite as much as working out.

The gym is where you will find the gay man at his absolute butchest (unless he's in the cardio section). This is were the testosterone is so heavy in the air you can actually smell it and if you can't smell it then you can easily go into the locker room, buy some and inject it.
Any gym in central London will be just as busy of a weeknight as the clubs will be of a weekend (all the same drug dealers are there too).The only difference between the club and the gym is people will be wearing more clothes for a work out. The cardinal sin on the gym floor is to use it as a dance floor. "Gettin' into the groove" takes on a whole different meaning when you're bouncing on a Swiss ball. It looks ridiculous when the only thing bouncing about are your pec implants.

The cardio section in any gym frequented by a gay man is mostly just used for looking in the mirror and catwalking on the treadmill. You won't really see anyone "going for the burn" as cardio makes you sweat (which is like, totally not nice).
Fat can be removed much more easily by: 
An injection.
Liposuction.
Two fingers forced down the throat.
A really heavy weekend.
Drinking a pint of raw eggs and hoping you'll get lucky.

I am not being judgemental or bitter in this post. I have tried many of the above (except the McDonald's eyebrows, liposuction, pec implants and bouncing on a Swiss ball) and I know it's time to move over for the younger and almost as pretty to have their turn. I've realised I don't actually have to be the starlet anymore. I can now put myself forward for more character parts. I can let my hair grow grey, maybe eat a little more than I used to. I don't have to varnish myself like I've just spent a week in a terracotta oven and I don't have to lift my eyebrows up to the sky unless I'm really, really surprised. 
So to all the young up and comers, I say this . . . . .

 "Let 'em come and may their star shine bright".



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