The year is 2001.
I am in a bar, talking to a gay man. I used to do that. He might be trying to pick me up; I can’t tell. He takes another sip of his almost-drained drink and looks me up and down carefully. Here we go.
“How old are you?” he asks, with a mouthful of beery spittle.
“I’m 25,” I reply.
He surveys me again as if looking at a child’s finger painting. Finally, he speaks.
“If you want a body, you’re going to have to get on with it pretty quickly.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your body,” he sighs. “You don’t have one. You’ve no shape. By the time you get to 30, it’ll be too late. Start going to the gym as soon as you can.” He walks away.
If there’s one thing you’re going to need as a gay man, it’s a body.
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