Having cleaned up after J. on several occasions (and on even more, cleaning up J. himself after a night of heavy partying), I became used to seeing him sprawled on his couch, snoring away, in an unbecoming spread-eagle punctuated by baggy Hanes Y-fronts. Not a good look. The only thing I could think of was, "I pray to God I don't look like that. EVER."
Women probably don't think about it often, but every guy of every sexual orientation has issues with body image. We judge ourselves by standing in front of the mirror in our skivvies - flexing, smelling our pits, trying different voices and accessories, trying to decide if we're Jake Gyllenhaal, Robert Downey, Jr. or Ricky Martin. We have to find the right persona that matches us, and this comes down to how we look when we take our clothes off, unlike our female counterparts. Women only make these value judgments when they're fully-clothed, expecting men to tell them they look ravishing and hot when guys can't think that way. Guys always picture women naked; doesn't matter if they're wearing a bikini, a wedding gown, or a nun's habit.
I've determined that "Guy Body Image" falls into one of three categories: the Self-Loather; the I-Don't-Give-a-Crap; and I-AM-A-GOD. We don't give a damn what we look like when we're dressed for the same reason we don't use a napkin in a restaurant, try things on in a store, or ask for directions - we know better; it's a waste of time. Better to cry alone in front of the mirror than whine all night about how fat we look in the dress we insisted on buying even though it was two sizes too small.
I fell (and since I am now in my forties, fall) squarely in the first category. I have always been a Self-Loather. My husband (like all good gay husbands) will disagree: when he sees me, he sees Johnny Hazzard, Benjamin Bradley, Chris Rockway, Eric Pryor, Rodiney Santiago and Caleb Strong rolled into one. (I tell myself to be thrilled that I'm being compared to porn actors and international underwear models, and some hot-as-hell porn actors and international underwear models, at that.) Unfortunately, since I am a Self-Loather, I don't see a combination of Johnny Hazzard, Benjamin Bradley, Chris Rockway, Eric Pryor, Rodiney Santiago and Caleb Strong rolled into one - I see Grimace from McDonaldland. In college, I was desperate to get guys out of their undershorts and get laid. As a responsible adult, I just want to get my husband out of his undershorts and get laid. But Grimace doesn't get laid. Grimace steals milkshakes, and (to paraphrase Family Guy Peter Griffin) is "Ronald McDonald's autistic friend."
My husband/significant other squarely falls into the I-Don't-Give-a-Crap category. He's a "been-there-done-that," doesn't like mind games, and pretty much lives for movies, concerts, and keeping busy, activities not defined by a dress code or how one appears in or out of undershorts. Why dress up and worry about how you look when you're sitting in a dark theater, surrounded by three thousand other people enjoying music from an archaic seventies rock group, or working in the backyard doing everything from weeding to picking up dog bombs? His one concession to how he looks is to wear as much black as possible, because it's "slimming." Tom is a big guy - stocky with broad shoulders, a disarming smile, and a Pride Bear build. He's adorable, easy to hug, and cleans up well when he has to, and will be the first to admit he's always been big in size. (He recounts his father referring to him as "You: the fat one.") I admire his I-Don't-Give-a-Crap attitude. This, like so many things, is something I wish I could duplicate in my own life. Unfortunately, I'm too neurotic. J. also fell into this category, since he was definitely a "big and tall" shopper and preferred flannel to collared, button-down shirts.
Can I say how much I really hate the I-AM-A-GODs? Guys born with perfect skin, teeth, zero body fat, and the ability to actually enjoy working out? It's not fair - they roll out of bed with perfect bronzed skin, hair and teeth ready to go; dress in clothes that look like they were tailor-made (and probably were), and spend money from the trust fund their great-grandfather started when he invented the rubber band. These are the guys who can walk into a room and cause conversation to cease. These are the guys I was always performing with - Ken dolls who knew they were pretty, who would walk around in their underwear 24/7 and eat anything they wanted ... because they could. And who's standing next to them? (Me, trying to look skinny.) And, I found, these were the guys who were absolute polar opposites: total douchebags who could get potential partners at the drop of a hat or who were the nicest guys in the world, monogamous and never single.
So, I've learned that women do not have the monopoly on body image. Guys have their own, similar but completely disparate issues: from the guy who won't take off his clothes until the lights are out to the stripper-cum-dental grad student looking for a good time. But keep in mind it doesn't matter if one is Grimace, a burly, s**t-kicker wearing, country-music listening, homophobic, racist slob, or a combination of Johnny Hazzard, Benjamin Bradley, Chris Rockway, Eric Pryor, Rodiney Santiago and Caleb Strong rolled into one. It matters if you walk into your friend's apartment one morning, and find him face-down on the floor in a pair of dirty, ripped Hanes Y-fronts.
Body image issues or not, gay or not ... not a good look.
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