Muscles September 13, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Between you and me, I’m a muscle queen. I don’t mean that I have muscles. Heavens no. I mean I like them. Yet in moderation. I don’t like Arnie-type muscles, all gleaming and veiny. But I do slightly have a majorly squishily soft spot for any strong gentleman’s body.
The gay world, being what it is, obsessed with beauty and hedonism, has its fair share of muscly folk. And more power to its elbow for that. I am getting towards dinosaur age for the gay scene, which is no bad thing, but I do still venture out into our milieu occasionally and sometimes think it would be nice, if only I could bulge out of my shirt in all the right places (and not in the stomach area), to command a few more admiring gazes.
I had a social occasion yesterday. Not actually on the gay scene, but at a party which I knew would have a hefty smattering of queens. I thought I’d just have to go along dressed in something unrevealing – I don’t have a burqa, more’s the pity – and do my trick of not breathing out apart from on bathroom breaks. Beforehand, I moped (past tense of mope – nothing to do with whizzing glamorously round Rome) round this lonely flat. Wailed internally for the Russian’s return. Thought I’d die if I didn’t eat a proper meal soon (and accidentally made one. Fish with every herb in the house and roasted vegetables which, oddly, turned out lovely and even looked pretty). Put a wash on…
But what was that I caught a glimpse of as I fingered the washing powder out from that dingy, depressing cupboard under the sink, full to bursting with dustpans, lighter-fuel and other objects of sheer despair? It was a big, bucket-like container. With a solid plastic lid. I dashed for a closer look. It had silhouettes of muscular gents all over it. The bucket’s innards revealed a pinky powder. Two heaped tablespoons of the stuff in a glass of milk and you’d be drop-your-Calvins muscly in no time, the blurb assured. “So THAT’S how the Russian manages to be quite so delicious,” I said to myself, nastily ruling out all the hours he puts in at the gym and any favours that the gene pool has bestowed upon him. (Russians have been extremely lucky on the body-gene front. But everyone says the genes self-destruct at 30. Eek. The Russian’s age exactly. Hope I recognise him when he’s back from digging up his grandmother’s potatoes.)
Now the bucket was hidden and as I know such products cost a goodly sum, I guessed it was hidden – rightly – so that I wouldn’t think I could scoff the lot, do no exercise whatsoever and yet still hope to be rippling in a matter of days. But I decided I’d dash the Russian’s efforts at keeping his muscle-enhancement products to himself and have a cheeky drink. (Delicious, actually. Just like a strawberry milkshake.)
I made up the procedure as I went along. I thought I’d better do a token bit of frantic sport to help the powder take effect and make me rippling before the evening’s event. Knocked back my milkshake. Went to my gym (the bathroom floor, where there’s a manky old mat that’s the only convenient place to lie down in the whole flat) and did 30 seconds of frantic sit-ups before getting up to check if a six-pack had miraculously appeared. If I breathed in really hard, my ribs were visible and perhaps the anatomically challenged might mistake those for muscles. Flopped down again to do some press-ups. Sprung back up, wheezing, to check for new, improved biceps. Hm. If I tensed them really hard, there was a hint of a bulge preventing the line from elbow to shoulder being as flat as Holland. Out into the hall where the dumbbells lie forlornly. Did about 3 reps with those. (They weigh ten kilos, for fuck’s sake.) My face was purple. I thought my lungs might explode. Dashed back into the bathroom. Now the funny thing is, weights really DO create an initial swelling, which is awfully pleasing, but it only lasts for ten seconds. By rights, I should have taken the dumbbells with me and done a bit of working out on the S-Bahn.
Thinking my sport was done, I abluted and beautified for the evening ahead. A shave. Some New Zealand mud slapped on the face. (Still got it.) A careful selection of clothes least likely to have the party call the emergency Humana vehicle out to redress me. A final check in the mirror to see if I looked like Elizabeth Taylor. Frantic undressing to do some more last-minute press-ups. And out the door.
And, darlings, need I have bothered? Need I ‘eck as like. Once again, I had forgotten where I live. I am in the country of self-loathers. Where foreignness is next to godliness. Once I’d realised the kudos of this conversation, “Ah, so vot is your name, zen?” “BiB.” “Ah, you are Amerikan?” “No, Englander,” I was sidling up to the muscliest of the queens for a sniff of their pheromones without a moment’s hesitation. Good being foreign, innit?