October 2013

I randomly stumbled back to this blog. I'd almost forgotten about it, to be honest. But then I logged into Blogger to check on something else, and I saw that I had all these page views. At that point, it only made sense to make an update.

If you've visited this blog before, you'll see that I've deleted a lot of the more personal posts. I've grown a lot since I started here four years ago (no pun intended,) and at this point I'm a bit more selective about what I share on the internet. There are also some posts I wrote as an undergrad that definitely "look" like something a 21 year old would write, and I'm a bit embarrassed by them now (which is why they're hidden.) At some point, I might edit those entries and post them in revised form. We'll see. If you've been here before, you'll know that I'm not very good at updating with any semblance of regularity. So I don't want to make any promises I can't keep.

One thing I *am* thinking about is making this into less of a blog that's exclusively focused on muscle growth/body transformation. I would obviously still post pictures and talk about things I like - but right now, I feel like this blog only represents one part of my personality. There are other things (like music and politics for example,) that I wouldn't mind posting about as well. It wouldn't be a diary though -- mostly random thoughts and discoveries that I've had. Does that sound interesting to anyone?

This is getting long, but in any case: hope you're all doing well, and if there are specific things you would be interested in seeing me blog about, feel free to comment (anonymously, if you wish,) and let me know. Happy Thanksgiving to those of you in Canada!

Picture: A poster I saw at New York City Gay Pride, circa 2013.

Satisfied

Back in New York City for a summer teaching job. In many ways, New York is what I need right now. But it's still a struggle: so many good looking, muscular guys.

I haven't purposely gained in several months, and I don't intend to start anytime soon. It took me a long time to realize it, but purposely putting on weight doesn't make me happy. I love the fantasy and I will always be attracted to muscle and bulk, but it isn't what I need right now. I still lift heavy and it would be nice if some more muscle came with it -- but I'm focusing on strength gains, not size.

I'm currently doing a whole bunch of core work - pilates, crunches, and decline sit-ups to flatten out the belly a bit. I've been drinking a lot less than I was in L.A., and I've been cutting carbs and focusing on my cardio. I can see a difference, based on the way my clothes are fitting. And I'm starting to shed some of the "puffiness" that came with the extra water weight. I will never be a Chelsea Boy anytime soon, but I'm trying to find a balance. It's like that old Alcoholics Anonymous adage: one day at a time. Some days are easier than others.

Flashback: Date Night (2007)

"You're very nice," he says. "But it's just...you're very young. It's not you, it's me..." He pauses for a moment before he slips on his sandals to let me out.

"Well, it's not like we're getting married." I smile as I say the last part - I'm hurt, but I don't want him to think he's upset me. Because if I tell him what I really feel he might not invite me back. Maybe he'll never want to talk to me again.

I almost wish he'd never invited me back to his house, and I don't know why I even bothered wasting my time in the first place. He's obviously not been interested in me, but I've kept trying anyway in the hope that I can change his mind. I hate myself for being so needy, but I hate him even more for doing the 'right' thing and being honest with me.

People tell me I'm a friendly person, and I like to think that's the case. "You're very nice, but..." But what? My waist is too big, my sense of style's not good enough. Too young. Too immature. Always the Betty Cooper, never the Veronica Lodge.

We make small talk for a bit and he tells me about a guy he wants to set me up with who "would be perfect for me - and he likes younger guys. Skinnier guys, like you." I've heard that line before, but I don't say anything. On my way out, he gives me a hug and tells me that I'm cute. Like a doll, I think, frustrated with him for being so patronizing. But mostly, I'm frustrated with myself.

In the meantime, it's 2 AM and I don't want him to pick up on these thoughts. I smile and hold out my hand to him. "Friends?" I ask. He shakes my hand. That's all I am, I guess. Just everyone's friend.

First Date (2006)

I was 18 when I went on a date with a man for the first time. He was 23, a grad student in psychology, with a toothy smile and a wickedly self-deprecating sense of humor. We met at a university-sponsored program on gay rights and marriage equality, and I was one of the panelists. I had just come out of the closet and my relationship with my parents was somewhat tenuous. So when the organizers of the program asked me to talk about my personal experiences (because I'm East Indian and they needed more "minority" queer students on the panel,) I was very much eager to do it. I needed to vent and get all these emotions out somehow, and I didn't have many close friends at the time that I could talk to about them. And besides, isn't sharing your thoughts with strangers the cheapest form of therapy there is?

We were in the foyer of the conference room after the program, eating crackers and stale cheese, when I first saw him (I'll call him J.) He was wearing a pink polo shirt and a tight pair of khaki pants, with a belt around his waist that drew attention to his bulging midsection. He wasn't obese by any means, but he certainly wasn't slim either. If a physician were to classify him for a physical, they would probably say that he was "stocky": he had big, broad shoulders and arms and a moon face, with a solid ball-gut and meaty thighs. He was somewhat bumbling and a bit clutzy, but he had an air of confidence and a way of walking and moving his body that I had admired. He didn't have a "swagger," per say, but he walked with his head up and chest out, showing off his beefy upper body.

He asked me if I wanted to get pizza after the conference, and I said that I would. He was a very "stereotypical" gay guy in a lot of ways in that he loved classical music, opera, and trashy TV (he had the original boxset of Beverly Hills, 90210 in his bedroom,) but I liked that he was his own person. As we ate pizza together that night, he asked me about my parents and about their lives in India, and I was bowled over by the interest he'd taken in me and my life. I had just lost a lot of weight (I was about 134 pounds then,) but I had no muscle or definition. While he wore a form-fitting outfit that showed off his curves, I hid mine behind a baggy t-shirt and jeans. It was quite the contrast.

Later on, J would tell me that I was like a puzzle he'd wanted to figure out; for my part, I was more in awe of him than anything else. I didn't have my parents or any friends to turn to right then, and I couldn't believe that he'd found something in me worth liking. I'd never dated anyone before - never slept with anyone before, either - but I decided then and there that I wanted to make this work. I barely knew him, but I liked who I perceived him to be. We were together nearly six months.

Backstory (II of II)

"Mike took off his shirt and his shorts and caught an eyeful of his hot body in the mirror. He began to rub his pecs with his large callused hands, wishing they would grow into superhuman slabs of beef. He loved the feel of his new body, especially his growing gut. He knew that as it got bigger, then so did he. As he caressed his bulging belly, he knew that he had to have more. More size, more strength, more muscle, more fat. He began fantasizing again about growing to 350 pounds, wondering if it could be reality. He knew he had to try.”

- "Mike Gets Huge," 2002. 

In middle and high school, I was determined to lose weight and to get rid of the excess fat that I had carried with me for so long. Fortunately for me, puberty stepped in and I had a growth spurt.  By the beginning of high school, I weighed in at 5'9 and 130 pounds. But because I hadn't lost weight entirely "on my own," I didn't feel like I "owned" the weight I was carrying. Subconsciously, I felt that I'd balloon up to 200 pounds if I didn't do something.

So I dieted constantly, counting every calorie in the foods that I ate. For lunch, I would have two slices of whole wheat bread (140 calories,) and a slice of cheese (80 calories) and a glass of tasteless sugar-free cola. I would skip breakfast and fast until dinner, and then go for a run on the treadmill at the beginning of each day. And yet, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to lose the last roll of fat around my belly.  Dejected, I'd give up dieting and gain back what little I had lost. 

Statistics show that, aside from heterosexual women, gay men are the biggest group (no pun intended) to be affected by eating disorders - and although I never exhibited disordered behavior per say, I suffered from very poor body image. The irony of all this, of course, was that I had a 31 inch waist and was probably only a couple pounds away from having a six-pack. In hindsight, all I really needed to do was to lift weights and gain some muscle tone and I would've looked amazing, but at the time I remained convinced that I was a lost cause. I vividly remember going home at night and looking at myself in the mirror, flexing and posing and wishing I looked like the ripped men I saw in gay magazines. If only I had a six pack and big arms, I thought.

--

One night, I came home and saw a movie starring Jason Behr of Roswell fame. I don't remember what it was called, but he played a track star and he was ripped, with bulging biceps and a well-defined chest. I started lifting then for the first time, and joined the track team - convinced that rigorous, regimented exercise was all I needed to achieve my ideal body. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but at that time I thought it made sense. I went to tryouts, and I made the team - even though, truth be told, I was (and I'm still not) a good runner. I have an ectomorphic body type, if you want to know the truth - I'm thin but soft, and I'm not genetically predisposed to being wiry.

One day, my track coach pulled me aside and asked me what I weighed. "5'9 and 130 pounds," I told him, proud of all that I had achieved so far. The Coach told me that the weight was "fine," but that I needed to lift weights over the summer to build up strength in my arms and legs. At first I was worried that lifting weights would make me get "bulky." But the other side of me, I must admit, was turned on by the project. 

Up to this point in my life, I had been resigned to the fact that I would never look like them - but now there was a glimmer of hope. Maybe I can gain some muscle and get more cut, I thought. For the first time, I seriously entertained the idea of getting bigger, and the notion of adding a little mass and size appealed to me. And although I was afraid of what these feelings could mean, I proceeded anyway. That night, I stopped by the sporting goods store and picked up some free weights, and headed to the grocery store immediately afterward for some protein powder. It was like a muscle growth story come to life. I didn't know it then, but it was the beginning of a journey.

Backstory (Part I of II)

CONTARY to what most people would expect, this story did not begin in a gym, weight room, or a locker room shower. Instead, it began in a room (my room,) where I would write down the muscle growth and body transformation stories that I had created in my head for amusement. I don’t remember what the first story was that I wrote, but I remember that it involved both food and muscle – which I suppose is only fitting since that is what this blog is about.

For the first five years of my life, I was a very skinny, very sickly child. I obviously didn’t have to restrict portions or worry about what I was eating as I did later on – I was just a very naturally picky eater. My mother worried that I wasn’t getting enough to eat and so she would sometimes force-feed me fattening portions of the things I liked: macaroni and cheese, peanut butter sandwiches, and so forth. However, despite her best efforts, I remained slim. Convinced that playing sports would make me eat more (since I would work up an appetite that way,) my parents sent me to a football camp for preteens – but because I was so thin, I didn’t have any power or momentum. At night, I used to fantasize about bulking up and gaining size and mass and putting everyone else I knew to shame. My parents wouldn’t let me lift weights yet out of fear that it would stunt my growth, and I yearned for the day when I would be old to enough to go to the gym. 

***
I first started putting on fat when I was 11. We had just hired a new part-time housekeeper while my mother went back to work and she would make meals for me when I came home from school. She was quite the cook, and she had a knack for making all kinds of things that I liked to eat: fettucini alfred, ravioli made from scratch, and so forth. She was very generous with portion sizes as well, and if I requested that she make macaroni and cheese, she would make an entire box's worth of Velveeta Shells 'N Cheese and let me eat as much as I wished.

Initially, my parents encouraged my gains, thankful that I was finally "healthy." Eventually, however, my weight became a point of concern. By the time I was 13, I was 5'2 and nearly 140 pounds -- overweight. Most of my clothes no longer fit, and I was bullied and teased at school. Determined to lose the excess poundage, I decided to go on the first (of many) diets. 


TO BE CONTINUED.