Promiscuous Gay Nerd: What Happens to Twinks When They Grow Up?
June 18, 2014
I never message guys online whose profiles say they aren't into older guys. This seemingly ubiquitous statement began to lose any meaning when I turned 25 and started receiving messages from 19-year-old guys whose profiles unironically declared they were looking for a daddy.
I started going to gay bars when I was 15. Tired of being the punchline of my hetero peers' jokes, I desperately searched for a community to call my own. I was rebellious, angsty, but also damned crafty: I forged a fake membership card to the local disco by scanning my provisional driver's license, editing the birth date, and laminating the edited print-out opposite a downloaded JPEG of the club's logo from the their website. Nerds, FTW.
Having begun my training so young, by the time I was actually legally able to drink I had cultivated quite the twink aesthetic. Tight 29-inch-waist jeans. Platform heels. Blonde highlighted spiky hair to the heavens. I was basically a gay anime character a-la-Dragonball-Z, and I fucking loved it. My friends and I would roll up to the local dance hall three or four nights a week, polyester and glitter trailing behind us, dropping it like it was hot and cage-dancing the night away.
Going out dancing until 4 a.m. four nights a week, it turns out, is the cardio equivalent of running a marathon every week. After graduating college and growing up a smidge, those 29-inch jeans stopped fitting. Pile on a two-and-a-half year abusive relationship, and somehow I found myself an almost-30-something who avoided mirrors to not have to look at what I had become.
What happens to twinks when they grow up? I found myself wondering this out loud to my boyfriend this past weekend after we ran into an old friend of his, Jason, at the bar. Jason was probably 30 or so, white, with bleached blonde hair that was receding, a collared shirt that was strewn open to reveal his shaved, orange chest, and lines on his face that betrayed his love of tanning beds. My boyfriend -- a lover of hair and bears -- couldn't help but express his frustration. "Why do you still shave? Chest hair is so sexy!" His friend's cheery smile turned into something of a frown. "You know, it just makes my dick limp," he lamented. With a swish and a smile, he sashayed away.
If Jason's anything like me, he spent years honing his look and affect. Handsome and funny as he is, I'm sure it worked for him at some point. But now, his tight-fitting clothes and orange and blonde aesthetic read anachronistic and decidedly unsexy.
This excerpt was cross-posted with the permission of BETAblog.org. Read the full article.
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