URBAN HOMO

#pattern repeat

So you’re probably thinking, here we go again, it’s the swimsuit issue, and the neurotic homo on the back page is gonna be bemoaning the fact that summer seems to have come out of nowhere. Snuck up on him again. And he’s too fat to go to the beach. It usually is the case. Every year. And I make a not so silent vow that this will not happen again. As I do when art festivals start, and everybody else already has tickets to all these fab events. That they bought ago. Who can plan February events in November? Oh shit, it’s crept up on me again and I don’t have tickets to anything. And work is really busy. And somehow I’m still broke after Christmas. And I’m still out of condition. And how the fuck am I meant to be hot at the big party if I’ve been out drinking for the entire month in the lead-up? It’s exhausting just thinking about it. It seems that I am the most disorganised faggot on the planet. How is that you all manage to look so good? All. The. Time. And go to everything. And not be broke. Are you organised? Or is it a facade? Are you all crumbling wrecks of neuroses under those cool, composed exteriors? Do you live in dumps with shit all over the floor? Sleeping on blow-up mattresses. With milk crates for bedside tables. If the state of most bathrooms from Scruff and Grindr profiles is anything to go by, apparently many of you do. Despite your pristinely preened public persona exuding an air of one who is in absolute control of his life. Living only for the show. Maybe you are just as disorganised as I am. Or as I used to be. You will be pleased to hear (or more likely, you don’t give a shit, but can still in some way relate) that I have broken this cycle. That demotivating, angst-ridden voice that was on a loop in my head has been switched off. And I am embracing the summer in a way that takes me back to the one summer I had as a teenager where I was actually in shape. Since then I have secretly dreaded summer. Oh no, less clothing. Shorts. T-shirts. Exposed flesh. That’s not nearly as toned as it should be. Always welcoming the cooler months and the concealed layering they permit. And given my addiction to both sunbeds and spray tans, there’s basically no need for me to even go outside. Except to get from one place to another. And even then I’ve always fantasised about being conveyed in a town car, whisked from secret door to secret door. Away from the prying eyes of the common people. Who wonder at the identity of the passenger behind the tinted glass of that passing car. And I turn my shaded eyes from their gaze, gathering my sumptuous fabrics around me as I shudder smugly, so pleased not to be part of the seething masses. But I digress. That’s a whole other level of fucked up aspiration. Back to swimsuits. The success of my newest regime, combined with the added impetus of a recent resort stay, courtesy of @baby_sister, had me in tip top shape by November. A whole new range of summer clothing and resort wear purchased by the middle of spring. Although why I bother with that I am never quite sure. My look does not change from year to year. There are always even sprinklings of ‘Hamptons’ ‘Safari’ and ‘Santorini’ in my summer wardrobe. I avoid prints, especially those currently fashionable that bear an uncanny resemblance to a pyjama fabric, at all costs. They are nobody’s friend, but are especially unkind to the shorter man. I do, however, lash out with checks and stripes. And these of course do extend to swimwear. However, my favourite ever swimmers were a pair of Diesel briefs with a print of a lagoon, harbouring a luxury motor launch. The pointed hull of which extended across the front, doing great things to my package. And that’s the real crux / crutch / crotch of the issue right there. Yep, down there. Putting aside fashion, style and tanning, all we really want from our swimwear is that they make us, and our dicks, look desirable. But is it really permissible for any man over the age of about 35, no matter how fit and how hung, to be parading around in his dickstickers, unless he’s participating in a sporting event? If the sniggering sideways glances I detected being shot my way poolside by fellow tanners at the ‘family’, albeit zhuzzhi, resort I holidayed at recently then the answer is probably no. So next time you’re congratulating yourself on your tanned upper thighs, think about how you look emerging from that cold water in that clingy fabric and pop on a short.

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