My Gym Playlist Indicates That I Might Be Into Hardcore, Kinky Sex (Which, Am I?)

The other morning I was working out intensely at the gym while listening to Beyoncé’s limousine-blowjob song “Partition” at full-blast on my headphones and envisioning myself as the male lead in my own mental remix music video.

This fact is funny in and of itself, because I’m a lanky white guy from Connecticut with a generally awkward demeanor and a wardrobe from Kohl’s comprised mostly of unassuming sweaters.

gymmemeOther songs that really get my juices flowing (pun totally intended) at the gym include the vulgar whips-and-chains anthem, “S&M” by Rihanna; the strip club hymn, “Pour It Up” by Rihanna; that song about penises called “Rude Boy” by Rihanna; aaand… “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by Simon and Garfunkel.

(Just kidding about that last one. What I really meant to say was “My Neck, My Back” by Khia.)

(Side note: If you’re unfamiliar with “My Neck, My Back,” then I highly suggest you look it up on YouTube right now. Actually, just click this link. Especially if you’re at work. In fact, take your headphones off and let it play aloud. It’s totally not NSFW… it’s SFW, if that’s a thing. Crank up the volume, too – the song’s uplifting lyrical content will motivate you and your coworkers to be your best selves, and then you’ll all be really productive, and then your company’s stock will go up, like, a lot of points, and then your boss will notice that this positive chain reaction all originated from your desk, and then you’ll get a raise. And you won’t even have to give me a cut, because I’m selfless. You’re welcome.)

(Side note again: I’m sorry if I just got you fired. I SWEAR I DIDN’T MEAN TO. I was just being a practical joker. And it’s not my fault your boss is such a douche canoe.)

(Side note again: I know this was like, two paragraphs ago and the moment has passed, but can we talk about how I referred to “Pour It Up” as a strip club hymn up there? What the fuck was I thinking with that choice of words? And am I going to hell?)

Anyway, I’m just writing this post because I think it’s interesting how it took me ten years of being a gym-goer to finally become aware of the fact that I’m essentially a classic example of a “lady in the street but a freak in the bedroom.”

Except replace “lady” with “wholesome gay man.” And also I guess by “bedroom” what I really mean is the in-my-head-while-I-have-motivational-daydreams-at-the-gym-of-myself-and-Nick-Jonas-dry-humping-on-the-elegant-chaise-lounge-that-I’m-sure-he-has-in-the-corner-of-his-real-life-bedroom-bedroom. In the actual bedroom, if I’m being totally honest, I’m more likely to watch the OWN Network, read a book, maybe do a Bioré pore strip if I’m feeling frisky, and go to sleep by eleven. But still.

Okay, I think I’ve revealed enough about myself and my inner demons for one post.

Now, what do YOUR favorite workout songs say about you? Feel free to get vulgar in the comments.

 

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Someone Called Me Fat — and I Survived

If you’ve ever read a blog post of mine, you’ve probably noticed that I sometimes like to write about how I seem to love feeling inadequate — especially when it comes to potential husbands. As a result, I’ve been confronted by a few close friends for being too hard on myself and putting myself down too often in my writing.

I usually respond to this criticism with, “But my low self-esteem is what makes me me! Without it, I’d be totally worthless.”

(Please let that remark simmer for a moment so you can fully appreciate the irony.)

Let me assure you, my low self-esteem is admittedly exaggerated in this blog (I swear I don’t hate me). Still, I do sometimes have to remind myself that the gallon of ice cream I guzzled the other night doesn’t make me entirely unlovable. This is why I have these strategically-placed post-its in front of my desk at work:

                                   Repeat out loud in sets of five for best results.

When not convincing co-workers that I’m weak and emotionally fragile, these affirmations can be a huge help and are highly recommended for anyone else who occasionally guzzles ice cream and feels unlovable.

Speaking of ice cream, let’s discuss the sole source of all my issues — my fatness. (Note: I am referring to gay-fatness, which is its own, effed-up scale. Straight people often tell me I’m thin, which, coming from straight people, unfortunately means nothing.) This fatness (along with my body image issues in general) has been the main focus of my life for the past several days — mainly because this was said to me last week:

“I mean, you’re not that fat. I still wanna have sex with you, or else I wouldn’t be here.”

Seriously, that happened.

It was during a conversation between myself and Lou — a guy I had been spending time with over the past month in spite of the fact that on our first date he openly admitted to only wanting a casual friendship with benefits (something I think we all know I’m incapable of by now; see: any past blog post).

I think I ignored my better judgment with Lou because he’d kiss me affectionately and feign an interest in my feelings every once in a while, so I was at least able to pretend that he cared about my well-being on some distant level.

For the sake of my mental health, I’m going to refrain from recapitulating the entire fat conversation. I’ll just say that it started with Lou helpfully suggesting that I stop drinking beer on a nightly basis, eat healthier, and start going back to the gym. It ended with the above-quoted declaration of my fat-but-not-fat-enough-to-be-rejected-for-sex-by-Lou status.

Because my work post-its clearly weren’t enough to combat the severity of this situation, I went into full self-hatred mode and actually went to the gym with Lou a few days after the incident.

I’m still sore from that workout (both physically and emotionally).

Here’s a tip: If you’re ever craving a traumatic experience, simply go to the gym with your super-in-shape non-boyfriend and allow him to coach you through various weightlifting exercises while you cry on the inside and fantasize about him getting killed in some kind of freak bench pressing accident.

First of all, Lou was lifting about three times as much as I could. This added a horribly quantitative element to how much better than me he is. Secondly, whenever he’d spot me, I had this whole how-many-reps-until-I’m-good-enough-for-you?! thing going on in my mind. (Answer: Infinite.)

Despite the trauma, though, I woke up the next day feeling better about myself than I have in a while — and I couldn’t help but wonder if Lou is some kind of evil genius.

By doing what he did, he has provided me with the following revelations:

  1. I got called fat — something that I’ve lived in complete fear of for all of my gay years — and I survived. The world kept spinning. No puppies died, I didn’t fall out of a window, and Manhattan didn’t burst into flames or sink.
  2. My diet kind of was crap. While I made healthy choices whenever possible, there’s no getting around the daily beer consumption and penchant for buffalo wings that Lou unabashedly called me out on.
  3. At some point in my crazy-busy life, I stopped going to the gym altogether — and I did feel less healthy because of it.

Thanks to Lou, I’m now more motivated than I have ever been. I’m eating healthy and being the most active I’ve been since before I went to grad school and gained twenty pounds. It’s kind of awesome — and I swear the impetus behind it is not to gain the approval of a gym-obsessed gay man; it’s to feel better about myself and maybe decrease my odds of heart disease down the line.

So in the end, despite the fact that I wanted to cry hysterically and stab Lou in the eye at the time of his fat comments, I’ve come to realize that — even though he was being insensitive — he was not being intentionally malicious. He’s just a health fanatic with a hot body who couldn’t help but comment on the fact that I am not living up to my healthy potential.

That or he’s just a judgmental prick — which might be okay, since I love feeling inadequate anyways.

 

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