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.