Apr 2, 2015
Spring 2008: Carlos and His Two Secrets
For many gay men, the ideal is on the left: thick biceps, shoulders like epaulets, xylophone-abs, minimal or no chest hair, with the icy perfection of a Greek god.
For others, he is on the right: soft and warm, with liberal body hair, and a belly so big it feels like a pillow beneath your head.
I like them both. As long as he has some mass, I don't care if the guy is a marble statue or a plush teddy bear.
Everyone on the internet misrepresents themselves, so he probably had 20-30 extra pounds. A cute bear! Great.
I didn't even mind when he wanted to meet at the Iron Chef, the worst Chinese buffet in Dayton, housed in a transient hotel next to a pool room.
Carlos was waiting for me on a bench outside the restaurant.
Guess what "a few extra pounds" meant:
You got it. He was a superchub.
Easily 400 pounds, as wide as he was tall, with hanging breasts, sagging arms, and multiple bellies.
A lot of guys like their men massive, the heftier, the better. They even practice forced-feeding to increase the heft of their objects d'amour to room-size.
But I do not. Aside from the lack of masculine body contours, superchubs probably don't share my interest in physical fitness, and they're beset-upon by major health issues.
Besides, their penises get lost in the folds of flesh.
But I couldn't just walk away from this poor guy grinning sheepishly at me.
And I couldn't call him on his "a few extra pounds" misrepresentation -- who hasn't dropped pounds or years, or added inches in personal ads?
The least I could do was have lunch with him.
As Carlos ate a remarkably petite plate consisting of a dab of kung pao chicken, a single fried chicken wing, one egg roll, and a lot of cucumber slices, grapes, and pineapple chunks, we talked about his attempts to lose weight, Weight Watchers and fad diets and liposuction. He was down to a svelte 250 at one point, but it all came back.
We talked about his weight-related health problems, from hypertension to diabetes to a broken ankle that still wasn't healed (he walked with a cane).
We talked about the everyday hassles of being a superchub -- having to buy two seats on an airplane, the look of horror when he sat down next to someone at the movies, the stares and whispers.
I was feeling more and more guilty about my plans to dump him after lunch.
And especially in gay communities: Carlos was refused entry to bath houses and back-rooms. He was ignored in twink bars and even in bear bars. Guys he met online usually rejected him outright, without taking the time to get to know him.
I couldn't dump him -- I would feel guilty forever.
"Gay men can be so shallow. There's a lot more to me than being big! I speak two languages, I write poetry, I go to church, I have a niece and nephew who love me."
Ok, enough is enough. I was going through with this date to its logical conclusion -- Carlos's apartment!
The bedroom activities were actually quite nice. Carlos was very passionate, and so creative that I hardly missed the lack of access to his frontside and backside.
Afterwards we watched a movie, he read me some of his poetry, he invited me to a pro-gay Methodist church where he worked as a deacon, and I found myself asking him for a second date.
"That sounds great," he said, "Do you mind if I share you with my partner?"
"Partner?" I repeated in shock. What happened to the constant rejections? I had been congratulating myself for taking pity on this guy, and he had a partner?
"Jerry -- we've been together for 8 years now. He has his own place in Columbus, but he drives out to Dayton on the weekends. And during the week, we can hook up or date other guys -- but only once. The second time, we have to share."
"Does that happen a lot?" I asked weakly.
"Not often -- once is usually plenty," Carlos said. "I get tons of action -- you'd be surprised how many guys are hot for superchubs, and the rest get guilted into it. But most of them are just plain lousy in bed. They don't know how to handle a real man."
"Well...um...I'm flattered that I meet your standards."
He laughed. "What can I say? I'm picky."
So much for a waif who can't get a date.