THEGAYUK

Category: Body Talking

  • COMMENT | Why Gay Loneliness and Body Dysmorphia may be epidemics we may never find a cure for

    COMMENT | Why Gay Loneliness and Body Dysmorphia may be epidemics we may never find a cure for

    I’m not sure what I’m trying to achieve by writing this column tonight, but I opened up my MacBook to try to get some feelings that I’ve had for a while on paper whilst they’re swirling around my head. From the start of my writing this column to you guys, I said from the start I wanted to be honest with you. This may be seen by some as being too honest, and to be fair if your reading this – you are very lucky. I’ll probably toy with the decision to post this about a dozen times.

    I’m going to start by linking this to an article from the Huffington Post that I recently re-read about Gay Loneliness. When I read it back in 2017, it had a really profound effect on me. It was like looking into a mirror. The fear of rejection constantly rules my life; I’ve become a people pleaser, and everything that I do is to please other people. I crave acceptance from people, and I think it’s made me incredibly needy. Gay men are primed to expect rejection – it’s almost as if we are constantly analysing social situations for ways that we might not fit into them. Does the rejection we faced in our younger selves intensify and grow even more as we grow up and develop into adulthood?

    Let’s be completely honest, it’s difficult being a gay man, but we make it even harder for ourselves! Will that ever change?

    This was a Sunday night when I reread that article for the first time in 2017, and I started to think and analyse in my head why I had such a strong emotional response to it. I came to the conclusion that I actually hate myself.

    I know the word hate is a very strong word, but at this time, I lack the use of any other word to describe how I feel right now.

    I’ve never really felt happy with the way I’ve looked. I know that being the size I am is putting me at a disadvantage within the gay community. As gay men, we are obsessed with the way we look, and how we present ourselves to the wider community. Most young gay men’s introduction to sex and relationships is from gay porn. All the models and stars of gay porn are toned, with a great six-pack, we see them going at it like rabbits – for young impressionable people, that is what they see as the norm, so they then feel like they have to have that. They have to have the perfect body, and the perfect sex lives.

    I do work out as much as a can. The lockdown has been really hard for me. Within the first week of lockdown, my diet just went completely out the window and I was eating so much shitty food that I piled about half a stone straight back on. I enjoy going to the gym, it gives me a motivation to go and put some effort in. I got myself a personal trainer to help me, and he worked wonders for me for the first couple of months, losing 4 stone in 3 months, which I was really proud of, and it showed in my confidence levels and I could finally start to buy clothes that I knew I’d look good in. Now, it’s the case that I buy clothes that I would like to wear, for the sole purpose that I hope that something will click in my head and it will encourage me to go further to look a certain way so I don’t look like a complete twat whilst wearing them. That’s a pretty bad way to go.

    At the age of twenty-seven, I am yet to experience a long-term relationship. I began at this point to ask the question of what exactly it is. What does that mean? A short-term relationship can be about exploring yourself or trying something new, but a long-term relationship is really about growing closer and closer. That, for me, includes not just daily communication via text, email or in person, but also intimacy.

    I then started to think; well – there must be something wrong with me, right? It’s not normal not to have that in your life – halfway to middle age and you’ve yet to experience that – there’s definitely something wrong with me. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with me to be quite honest. I thought I was perfectly normal, if not incredible, an independent millennial and that I didn’t need another man to satisfy me – or let alone define who I was a person.

    I guess I would say I’m picky when it comes to me. I have a type, many people do, however it seems to me that I don’t fit into those people’s type. It feels that I am sometimes I am constantly chasing a dream I might never reach. I’ve always wanted the drop-dead gorgeous husband, the two kids, the house in Suburbia with a white-picket fence. I’ve always had a thing for older men, a bit of stubble, a cheeky smile, a bit of dad bod, but in good shape with a killer sense of humour and someone that I can spar and have banter with.

    I’ve always hated the term “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”. I guess on some levels I don’t feel beautiful. I don’t feel worthy compared to other people. I know you shouldn’t compare yourself to others but in this community, there really isn’t any choice. We’re always being force-fed information on how we can improve our lives and become better people. How to look better. How to dress better. I guess there is a wall in my head, and I can’t see over that wall. We put walls up to protect ourselves, to block out the pain of rejection, of confusion. It’s easy to build these walls – but even harder to pull down the bricks one by one. Sometimes we don’t want to take down the brick, because for god-knows how long it’s helped and protected us – taking down that brick is like holding a mirror to ourselves and sometimes it’s not nice to look at.

    I think it’s safe to say that the queer community is one of the highest risks group for depression, anxiety and substance abuse. Many members of the gay community have learnt that our little community can be very harsh with each other and with ourselves for trying to fit into one of those boxes. 100 per cent I have had to deal with it myself.

    My size has also had a serious impact on my sex life. I don’t feel comfortable naked, everything just hangs and that makes things difficult in the bedroom for me. I think I developed a fear of sex when I came out of the closet. I didn’t really have anybody teach me what to do. I literally learned how to have sex from watching Gay Porn, which is a really unhealthy thing to do. My first time was a really horrendous experience, and it’s something I don’t want to relive. It’s rare that you come across a guy who is comfortable or attracted to bigger guys – the years of constant rejection really did fuck me up.

    As the lockdown restrictions start to ease and life beings to get back to new normal. I need to get my head into the game. I need to make some positive choices in my life and work out a way of sticking to them. I’ve said every weekend for the last god knows how long that I’m going to quit smoking, and yet every Monday morning, after having my morning coffee is the next thing, I reach for is a packet of cigarettes and my lighter. Is it will power, or a lack of? Is it an addiction? I thought I had a bit of a drinking problem until lockdown happened, and I managed to go 88 days without having a drink, which for me is a huge amount of time. Lockdown should’ve been the time where I made those conscious decisions to change my life and do something about it, and yet all I did was sit around on my arse and eat through copious amounts of Dairy Milk.

    I know I’m not alone in all of this. I know there is a large per cent of the community who struggle from various disorders, such as anorexia, bulimia. Shit, there’s that word I didn’t want to use. Disorder. It’s such a dirty word. Maybe I have an eating disorder myself? I can’t stop eating sometimes. I try to hide it around other people. I’m really self-conscious at BBQ’s or at running buffets about what I put on my plate – because I want to portray something other than the truth to the outside world. I’m a secret eater. I don’t let people see what I shovel down my throat sometimes. We all eat our feelings sometimes, but it becomes so dark you can’t always see the woods from the trees.

    When I set out to write this column today, I didn’t know what I wanted to achieve. I wanted to open up about my struggles and hope that maybe something would click inside me to allow me to want that change; and actually, I think it might have done. I think it’s because I’ve admitted, for the first time, that I have a problem with addiction and food. I am addicted to food. I’ve now got to look to putting this into practice and make the conscious effort to change. Where I go from here, I don’t know; but they do say that acknowledging the issue is the first step to dealing with it.

    As a community how do we fix it? I’m not sure I’ve got an answer for that, but if you are struggling with any mental health issues, be it anxiety, depression, food issues, there is help out there for you. They are there for you to talk to – find a close friend and confide in them, it might seem like a massive step to make, but trust me, you will find things become easier when you do it.

    So here I am. The first step, to the first day of the rest of my life. I’m sure I’m going to fall off the wagon at some point in the future, but let’s just see what happens, shall we? I know that if I want to experience happiness, I need to make that change. It’s all about the journey, right?

  • Why I undressed for Elska Magazine

    Why I undressed for Elska Magazine

    Multiple factors can contribute to the development of the body image, but the biggest influence seems to come from the advertising industry, which unapologetically creates the need on the consumer to look like the ideal men or women portrayed in the media. Smoothing skin, erasing wrinkles, enlarging muscles, slimming waists… All this has become the norm in advertising. These images don’t reflect reality. This is just a convenient strategy designed to sell a product. Yet, from a younger and younger age, people are aspiring to these biologically impossible ideals. And I was no exception! Looking at these distortions of reality, I felt ugly and had the same desire as everybody else to look just as perfect as these models. But I eventually realized that this way of thinking can lead to serious body image problems. People who are unhappy about their bodies can develop eating disorders, turn to diet pills or steroids, or try cosmetic surgery and Botox injections. And I fear that, until the public responds more favourably to images of real people with real bodies, very little is going to change. This is why I decided to stand up and share my belief that everyone has the right, whatever their size or shape, to feel happy about their looks. I defend that a diversity of body shapes and sizes needs to be included in magazines, advertising and on the catwalk URGENTLY!

    A while ago, I discovered Elska Magazine. Created by Liam Campbell, Elska is a bi-monthly male photography publication, whose first edition was released in September 2015.

    Its name means “love” in Icelandic.

    One of the main aspects which differentiate Elska from other (gay) photography-related publications is that it does not feature perfect models, but instead focuses on real people with their “imperfections,” presenting real-life people and their stories, and providing a glimpse at queer men and community around the globe. Each issue is shot in a different city. When I saw an ad looking for real people to model for the Amsterdam issue, I knew immediately that this was an initiative I needed to support. And this why, with no shame or fears, I undressed and posed for Elska. I might not have the perfect body (at least according to the advertising industry), but this is me, I am real, and I learned to love myself and to feel comfortable in my own body. And now I am sharing it with you!

    Elska Amsterdam, the latest issue of Elska magazine, is out now and includes a nice selection of ordinary gay locals and their stories. Sadly, my photos didn’t make the cut for the main magazine, but they are featured in Elska Ekstra, Elska’s companion magazine with behind the scenes tales, outtakes, extra stories, and extra boys. Enjoy it!

    As a famous drag queen would say: “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell are you going to love somebody else?”

    SEE THE PICTURES

    Pages: 1 2

  • This is what it’s like to go on a nudist beach, when you’re a nevernude!

    This is what it’s like to go on a nudist beach, when you’re a nevernude!

    It has to be said. I’m a never-nude.

    CREDIT: Jake Hook / THEGAYUK

    While my boyfriend takes almost every possible moment to whip his clothes off, I’m happy to keep it AbFab Saffy. He says I’m the only person he knows who dresses up to go to bed.

    So the idea of a nudist beach outing isn’t a natural fit for me, my Irish Roman Catholic never-naked family upbringing means that nudity to me is best kept in the dark. But as I’ve always said, “don’t say no, till you give it go”. So on a trip to Australia, I relented to my nagging boyfriend, who had heard there was a gay nude beach somewhere on the shores of Sydney.

    We were 9,445 miles away. No one I know would be there, and at 26 years old I was in my prime.

    Early one morning, we took a ferry to the Taronga Zoo and walked for what seemed like hours. With every step, my protestations got louder and more pronounced. “Did we really need to do this”, “There’s a perfectly nice, findable beach in Manly”, “What’s so special about getting naked anyway?”

    Finally, we found it. Opening up in front of us was a naked haven. It was less of a beach and more of a cove of smooth rocks, facing towards the sea. A bit like a penguin exhibit at a zoo. Numerous, well-placed, seemingly naturally occurring outcroppings of smoothish rocks, perfect for spreading out a towel and basking beneath the Aussie sun. It looked perfect. It looked secluded. At each end, there was a high wall of rocks and thick bush add to the seclusion. Perfect.

    My boyfriend’s little eyes lit up like it was Christmas, Easter, Valentines, New Year’s and Wirral Appreciation Day (he’s from Wirral) all in one. He started removing items of clothes as we picked our way across the rocks to find somewhere to settle.

    I started casually glancing around, more to make sure I had a good footing on the rocks, rather than goggling the naked men on show. There were penises everywhere.

    Some were casually flopping over the owner’s knees, some were neatly nestled in a well-groomed nest of pubic hair. All attached to perfectly bronzed and toned bodies.

    We had found a spot to make camp, my boyfriend literally ran off towards the ocean.

    I was left to undress and sink lower into my own self-loathing.

    I could feel expectant eyes around me. I was, still dressed, very much so. So I began to peel off an item of clothing one item at a time. It was like a very slow, very bizarre Victorian striptease. First flip-flop, second flip-flop and so on until it was just my underwear and nakedness. I was eking out every moment of clothed protection.

    I rooted around in my rucksack for my book. It was chunky. In what can only be described as pure magic, I whipped off my undies and firmly placed the book in front of the crown jewels in one swift, deft move. I was naked save for the book.

    Finally, with my undies still on, I rooted around in my rucksack for my book. It was chunky. In what can only be described as pure magic, I whipped off my undies and firmly placed the book in front of the crown jewels in one swift, deft move. I was naked save for the book. I looked around to see if there had been any signs of approval from the expectant eyes, but they had long bored of my antics and were distracting themselves in other ways.

    I pretended to thumb through my book. My boyfriend called for me to come down to the ocean.

    Could I?

    Could I walk to the ocean… exposed? Between where I was sitting and the shore there must have been about ten meters of rocks.

    Sod it. Do it. What’s the worst that could happen?

    Beneath my book, I gave my little Mr a tug. It’s the tugging that all men give themselves when you need a little something more. You know, in the right circumstances, you add a couple of inches to a flaccid knob.

    Finally, appeased by the length, I remove my book, stand up. I blind everyone. My pale never-nude body is so bright I’m sure it can be seen from space.

    I feel eyes on me. “Turn it around Jake, turn it around”, I coo to myself. In my mind, Sade’s “Smooth Operator” is playing, as I slink towards the shoreline. Not wanting to rush, I make sure each step is sure and solid. My boyfriend is seven meters away from me. He’s waving at me, encouraging me to come to the water’s edge. He’s waist-deep in the water and he’s been playing catch with some others that are in the sea. It looks fun. I want to join them.

    I continue to walk towards the sea. Why did we settle so far back from the shore? I’m five metres away now.

    Four meters… and then, I hear voices. These aren’t the subdued mumbles of the cove’s current inhabitants. No, I can hear children’s laughter and a general hubbub. I can hear a tannoy announcement. I can hear the churning of water from a propeller. From the left side of the cove, a tourist boat’s bow begins to appear.

    I’m three meters from the water now. More and more of the boat begins to show. It’s big. Actually, it’s massive. And there are lots of people on it. All of them with cameras pointed in the direction of the beach. The boat seems so close I’m sure I can hear the individual shutters of a hundred cameras firing.

    Forgetting ‘Smooth Operator’ and my careful footing, I make a dash for the water. Gazelle like, I spring over the last few rocks and dive.

    Into 3 inches of water.

    My pasty ass isn’t even covered with water.

    The tourist boat continues its slow-paced chugging, its slow speed is mocking me. The cameras are still clicking. Eventually, it disappears around the cove.

    My boyfriend is almost drowning with laughter.

    The expectant eyes, attached to waspy mouths are saying something… I think I can hear “oh look, a floating pomme”.

    I die.

  • COMMENT | Why I’m going to be naked at this year’s Amsterdam Pride

    COMMENT | Why I’m going to be naked at this year’s Amsterdam Pride

    The Netherlands. July 25th. Over 40 degrees. This is the hottest day in the history of the Netherlands.

    And this is happening just a couple of days before the start of Amsterdam’s Pride Week, the largest gay event in the Netherlands and one of the largest in the world.

    The world-famous “Canal Parade”, which occurs every year along the Amsterdam canals, with 80 boats and over half a million spectators, is the highlight of Amsterdam’s Pride week, which will take place between July 27th and August 4th. The theme chosen for this year was “Remember the Past, Create the Future,” an obvious reference to the Stonewall’s riots, happened exactly 50 years ago and which mark a turning point in the history of the LGBTQ + movement.

    Different events will take place throughout the week, such as the Pride Walk, the Drag Olympics, exhibitions, films, concerts, STI tests and many, many parties throughout the city.

    In addition to the official events, many companies are also supporting this cause and will be fighting side by side with us. A good example of this is Polette, a well-known eyewear brand, which I agreed to collaborate with. The brand invited 6 people, me included, to share our experiences while members of the LGBTQ + community.

    The other five people and I agreed to undress emotionally so that we could share our experiences, but also literally. The six of us together, without any shame, will undress, be body painted in different colours and form a human rainbow flag. This human rainbow flag will walk on August 2, from 6 pm, from Amsterdam Central Station to the iconic Dam Square in the historic centre of Amsterdam. Allow me to invite you to join us in case you are planning a visit to Amsterdam on these dates.

    If not, you will be able to watch the documentary which will be released shortly after.

    The question remains: Are Gay Pride celebrations still necessary? According to the latest annual report from the International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transsexual and Intersex Association (ILGA), 70 states around the world continue to criminalize same-sex consensual relations. LGBTQ + community members continue to be fired for the simple reason that they are different, people still have to think twice before going hand in hand with their partners in public, as well as plan their vacations taking into consideration which countries should be avoided for safety reasons, not forgetting the unpleasant experience of having to “get out of the closet” to their families and friends. Based on these facts, the answer – at least for me – is obvious: Yes, this is still necessary!

    Miguel Martins
    (Mister Senior Netherlands 2018 3rd Runner-Up / Winner Public Choice / Winner Best Talent)

  • COMMENT | It’s so easy in today’s gay culture to idolise “traditional” beauty, but most of us don’t look like that

    COMMENT | It’s so easy in today’s gay culture to idolise “traditional” beauty, but most of us don’t look like that

    The Path to Body Positivity can take a long time, columnist Joe Guy writes about his experience.

    jarmoluk / Pixabay

    I’ve always had a tough relationship with my body. Being disabled meant that I have always looked different to everyone else.

    For example, we are born with 7 muscles in our necks. I was born with 3 which are all fused together in a ball. This means my head is slightly wonky. Other than neck pain, this doesn’t directly affect my life (with the exception of the canvases in my flat looking wonky). That knowing of being different, not looking ‘normal’, immediately creates an imbalance with you, like you’re never quite on a level playing field with everyone else.

    For me, this manifested into thinking I was ugly. I remember from being a young kid and every time I would throw a penny in a fountain, blow out my birthday candles or have a loose eyelash; my wish would be the same. I would wish I looked like everyone else.

    Now, don’t get me wrong, I have amazing parents and family who would always tell me how beautiful I am. I never felt like I wasn’t loved. I was loved by everyone… just not myself.

    I then took these feelings and ate them. I would buy multiple packets of cookies and scoff them all at night when everyone was asleep. They would be hidden under my bed, behind my wardrobe, in my school bag. And so, naturally, I gained more and more weight. This was never a problem for me until I had to move school aged 13. On my first day, I walked into a classroom and saw the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. I remember he had these big blue eyes and I still recall feeling like I was going to throw up. I quickly became obsessed and made it my mission to be his friend. 

    It worked. We became close friends and eventually lovers. Privately, he was always really sweet. We’d have sex, kiss, cuddle and he’d tell me how much he liked me. Publicly, he’d point out if I got sweaty, mock me loudly if I was eating chocolate and I was always the butt of his jokes.

    I took it all with a smile because I loved him.

    I went on my first diet aged 14. I told my parents I would be cooking for myself and would make small meals full of vegetables.

    I began following workout DVDs. I’d do everything I could to lose weight, fast.

    My relationship with him lasted 3 years and I spent the entire time willing to do anything for him to love me.

    It was never going to happen, he was confused about his sexuality and didn’t know what he wanted. This made him both physically and mentally abusive towards me. He would text me if I posted a photograph online saying I looked huge or, if I changed my profile picture on MSN, he’d tell me how ugly I looked in it.

    I allowed this because I felt grateful he even paid any attention to me. He and I were always off and on and, in-between our off times, I got attention from other people in my year group. I had lots of sex in High School (sorry, Mum!) but this never boosted my body confidence because I believed everything my boyfriend was telling me, that I was ugly and fat and that nobody really wanted me. I was only good for sex.

    We broke up at 16 when I decided to stay in Sixth Form and he went to a different college. Free from his clutches, I started to feel good about myself again. I also ate like crazy and gained my weight back.

    Then I fell in love for a second time.

    He was a nerdy guy that I struck up a friendship with when I noticed he sat alone. He was funny, sarcastic and he had a beautiful smile. I was smitten but it was somewhat unrequited. I decided the only way to make him like me was if I lost weight. Yet again, I went on a diet. This guy was always very kind to me. He never commented on my body or my weight. He never made me feel ugly. Yet, I still took it upon myself to assume I was. 

    This pattern has carried on throughout my life. My confidence in myself and my body has always been based on men. If men paid me attention, that meant I was attractive.

    At University, I found myself in a long distance relationship with someone I’d spoken with online since I was young. He was funny and interesting. Unfortunately, he was also a heavy drinker. When he’d drink, he’d become abusive to me. He’d go on a drunken Skype rages about how fat I’d gotten since I started University. He wasn’t wrong, I had gained the typical Freshers 15 and then some. This time, I didn’t diet. I just carried on eating. And eating. I would binge on takeaways and booze and cakes. Once he and I broke up, I poured my affection into food instead. I would go on websites like FitLads but it’d break my heart when people didn’t message me first. I always felt I knew why: I’m too fat and ugly to be loved.

    This feeling, like I wasn’t enough like I didn’t even deserve to be loved carried on right through my 20s. Until last year. I met someone. It wasn’t a love affair, we only kissed once, but I never felt self-conscious the entire time I was in his presence. He was more interested in me, as a person. We’d talk about our favourite TV shows, we’d laugh at stupid jokes and I never once felt I should be grateful he paid attention to me (even though he was SO gorgeous). I felt on top of the world that maybe, just maybe, someone would like me for me. Could it be possible? Am I actually deserving of being loved? I came to the realisation that I was locked up in a jail cell whilst holding the key the entire time. This boy hadn’t done anything special to make me feel this way. It was how I thought about myself. At the same time, I also realised that I had become extremely unhealthy. I was tipping the scales at 20 stone, I was eating 3 takeaways a week. I was struggling to breathe, I was sweating constantly. I wasn’t just overweight but morbidly obese.

    I have since lost over 5 stone and what has been interesting is how much of my lack of confidence is still to be shifted too. I feel more confident in how I look on the whole but I still carry those same fears. I may be thinner but am I actually pretty? Is my hair too thin? I’ve got stretch marks from losing weight, will anybody want to look at me? I now realise that I still have a long way to go truly loving myself and my body. But it’s happening bit by bit. With every selfie, I post where I actually smile because who cares if my teeth look a bit weird? With every crazy outfit, I wear because I’m still working out my style. I do things for me, I dress how I want to dress because I like it. And when I look in the mirror, I feel pride. I have moments of weakness, sure. And there are definitely still issues I have to face in that I still attach some of my self worth to the approval of men. But I’m working on it. Self-confidence is a matter of both mind and body. All I need is time.

    So, here’s my advice. Tell the guy you like, you like him. Compliment someone on their outfit. And compliment yourself. It’s so easy in today’s gay culture to idolise “traditional” beauty but most of us don’t have the six pack and the thick hair and the flawless skin.

    The first step to accepting yourself is accepting we’re all different. And damn it, being different isn’t a flaw… it’s a beautiful gift.

  • COMMENT | Why does Instagram keep deleting naked (not really naked) men?

    COMMENT | Why does Instagram keep deleting naked (not really naked) men?

    Once again Instagram deletes another account which depicts the nude male body.

    Yesterday it was reported that the world’s biggest picture sharing site, Instagram, had banned Meat‘s latest account – which at the last count had garnered 5000 fans, the previous one, (yes they’ve had two banned) had 15,000 fans. What was their crime? Allegedly falling foul to that cardinal sin… displaying naked men. Okay, you say, it’s right there in the community guidelines, “no nudity” however these pictures had a whopping great modesty circle in front of anything that might be even slightly racy.

    Kim Kardashian, however, can post naked pictures to her heart’s content – gaining millions of likes – these pictures can’t be going unnoticed at IG headquarters.

    This isn’t the first time that the Facebook-owned company has deleted pictures of the male form. In the past, it has deleted the Warwick Rowers and in August it deleted Greeks Come True. There was not one penis on show. These are beautifully crafted pictures of men, who yes, are naked, but where you cannot see anything that would give you tingles downstairs. Pornographic? No. Homoerotics, hell yes, but there’s a huge difference between porn and eroticism.

    Meat is different though. It’s a breath of fresh air – the guys portrayed are unphotoshopped, average bodies. It shows that even when you don’t have a six-pack you can still appear on the front of a magazine or calendar.

    Recently THEGAYUK.com polled over 300 of its Twitter readers about whether they were comfortable being naked in the presence of other people. Over half of us answered in the negative. Over a half of us are awkward about our natural state why is that?

    And I’m not hating on you six-packers. Hey, the true is I’m jealous. Aren’t we all a bit envious of those who can obtain and maintain a single digit body fat percentage? But I will just never be that guy.

    “The thought that I was fat kept me in a perpetual state of eat, feel guilty, purge and workout”

    I have always struggled with my own perception of my weight. The thought that I was fat kept me in a perpetual state of eat, feel guilty, purge and workout. At one point, in my attempt to have what I thought was a “good body” I would throw up everything I ate and go to the gym twice a day. Needless to say, despite being, what I now see as thin I could only see body rolls. Even now, over a decade on, I still find myself with fingers down my throat with “WTF are you doing” going round and round in my head.

    What was / is the cause of my insecurity and clearly a huge majority of us?

    I’m not going to sit here and solely blame the media because I’m part of it (there’s my disclosure). I’m very aware of the pressures upon us in the media to get clicks, to shift copies, to adhere to the old adage that sex sell, or at the very least the notion of what sexy is – sells. We’ve been accused in the past of posting only certain types of male images – but let me tell you, I see the analytics and despite the protestations from some audience members, pictures of different bodies just don’t fly. Why is that?

    For the record, I’m not audience blaming either.

    Have we all been programmed so hard to only see slim, white, blonde boys as sexy? Perhaps it’s time for all of us to shift the view of what is sexy.

    That’s why I love the idea behind Meat and the Naked Rugby Players and even Channel 4’s controversial dating show, Naked Attraction. They are showing that the typical body is beautiful. Bellies, love handles and hair here and there is normal and wonderful.

    The likes of Meat and Naked Rugby Players (above) are changing the game.

    “We’re bombarded with images that prod at the subconscious saying “you’re not thin enough” and we’ve got to change the narrative.”

    Body positivity is a hot topic right now and it should be. If over half of us aren’t happy with our naked bodies there’s something not right. There is a strong link between our bodies and our mental health. Many of us are on endless diets and we aren’t just yo-yoing on weight. We’re playing games with our mental health each and everytime we step on those scales.

    We’re bombarded with images that prod at the subconscious saying “you’re not thin enough” and we’ve got to change the narrative. We’ve got to expose ourselves to different standards of beauty. We’ve got to relearn that our normal, unretouched, imperfect bodies are actually perfect – and platforms like Instagram have to start playing their part.

  • So what’s it like going on a nude beach for the first time?

    It has to be said. I’m a never nude.

    CREDIT: Jake Hook / THEGAYUK

    While my boyfriend takes almost every possible moment to whip his clothes off, I’m happy to keep it AbFab Saffy. He says I’m the only person he knows who dresses up to go to bed.

    So the idea of a nudist beach outing isn’t a natural fit for me, my Irish Roman Catholic never-naked family upbringing means that nudity to me is best kept in the dark. But as I’ve always said, “don’t say no, till you give it go”. So on a trip to Australia, I relented to my nagging boyfriend, who had heard there was a gay nude beach somewhere on the shores of Sydney.

    We were 9,445 miles away. No one I know would be there, and at 26 years-old I was in my prime.

    Early one morning, we took a ferry to the Toronga Zoo and walked for what seemed like hours. With every step, my protestations got louder and more pronounced. “Did we really need to do this”, “There’s a perfectly nice, findable beach in Manly”, “What’s so special about getting naked anyway?”

    Finally, we found it. Opening up in front of us was a naked haven. It was less of a beach and more of a cove of smooth rocks, facing towards the sea. A bit like a penguin exhibit at a zoo. Numerous, well-placed, seemingly naturally occurring outcroppings of smoothish rocks, perfect for spreading out a towel and basking beneath the Aussie sun. It looked perfect. It looked secluded. At each end, there was a high wall of rocks and thick bush add to the seclusion. Perfect.

    My boyfriend’s little eyes lit up like it was Christmas, Easter, Valentines, New Year’s and Wirral Appreciation Day (he’s from Wirral) all in one. He started removing items of clothes as we picked our way across the rocks to find somewhere to settle.

    I started casually glancing around, more to make sure I had a good footing on the rocks, rather than goggling the naked men on show. There were penises everywhere.

    Some were casually flopping over the owner’s knees, some were neatly nestled in a well-groomed nest of pubic hair. All attached to perfectly bronzed and toned bodies.

    We had found a spot to make camp, my boyfriend literally ran off towards the ocean.

    I was left to undress and sink lower into my own self-loathing.

    I could feel expectant eyes around me. I was, still dressed, very much so. So I began to peel off an item of clothing one item at a time. It was like a very slow, very bizarre Victorian striptease. First flip-flop, second flip-flop and so on until it was just my underwear and nakedness. I was eking out every moment of clothed protection.

    Finally, with my undies still on, I rooted around in my rucksack for my book. It was chunky. In what can only be described as pure magic, I whipped off my undies and firmly placed the book in front of the crown jewels in one swift, deft move. I was naked save for the book. I looked around to see if there had been any signs of approval from the expectant eyes, but they had long bored of my antics and were distracting themselves in other ways.

    I pretended to thumb through my book. My boyfriend called for me to come down to the ocean.

    Could I?

    Could I walk to the ocean… exposed? Between where I was sitting and the shore there must have been about ten meters of rocks.

    Sod it. Do it. What’s the worst that could happen?

    Beneath my book, I gave my little Mr a tug. It’s the tugging that all men give themselves when you need a little something more. You know, in the right circumstances, you add a couple of inches to a flaccid knob.

    Finally, appeased by the length, I remove my book stand up. I blind everyone. My pale never nude body is so bright I’m sure it can be seen from space.

    I feel eyes on me. “Turn it around Jake, turn it around”, I coo to myself. In my mind, Sade’s “Smooth Operator” is playing, as I slink towards the shoreline. Not wanting to rush, I make sure each step is sure and solid. My boyfriend is seven meters away from me. He’s waving at me, encouraging me to come to the water’s edge. He’s waist deep in the water and he’s been playing catch with some others that are in the sea. It looks fun. I want to join them.

    I continue to walk towards the sea. Why did we settle so far back from the shore? I’m five metres away now.

    Four meters… and then, I hear voices. These aren’t the subdued mumbles of the cove’s current inhabitants. No, I can hear children’s laughter and a general hubbub. I can hear a tannoy announcement. I can hear the churning of water from a propeller. From the left side of the cove, a tourist boat’s bow begins to appear.

    I’m three meters from the water now. More and more of the boat begins to show. It’s big. Actually, it’s massive. And there are lots of people on it. All of them with cameras pointed in the direction of the beach. The boat seems so close I’m sure I can hear the individual shutters of a hundred cameras firing.

    Forgetting Sade and my careful footing, I make a dash for the water. Gazzele like, I spring over the last few rocks and dive.

    Into 3 inches of water.

    My pasty ass isn’t even covered with water.

    The tourist boat continues its slow-paced chugging, its slow speed is mocking me. The cameras are still clicking. Eventually, it disappears around the cove. My boyfriend is almost drowning with laughter. The expectant eyes, attached to waspy mouths are saying something… I think I can hear “oh look, a floating pomme”.

    I die.

  • Body shaming: Do you even know what it is?

    Recently you may have seen me talking more and more about the culture of body shaming in the media and the wider gay community.

    Are a hairless body and a six pack the route to happiness?

    I started talking about it because I have suffered from body confidence issues and these have started to affect my personality. We all get our confidence (large or small amounts) from somewhere and mine have definitely been harder to muster since I started comparing my own body shape to that of the ‘picture perfect’ man. Some of the engagement I have had with people has been quite useful and has led me to some conclusions.

    Firstly, there is a lot of confusion out there as to what exactly ‘body shaming’ is and what harm it can bring. And secondly a surprisingly high number people I’ve seen will state one moment they are against it, but the next moment share content they have just said they were against. Both seem to stem from that lack of understanding as to what exactly body shaming is and how it can fuel negative thoughts in people, like those associated with body dysmorphia. I, therefore, wanted to share some of my own personal thoughts and experiences on this and encourage you to find out exactly what body shaming is and how it could be negatively influencing you without you even realising it.

    I’ll start by saying that if you are perfectly happy in your body shape, regardless of what this might be, then most of this will pass you by. And this is by no means saying what you are doing and how you live your life is wrong, far from it. If you have found body confidence regardless of your body shape then treasure it. I for one will never try to take that from you as I know how precious that can be.

    However, put simply, body shaming is the promotion (usually in the media but not always) of one particular body shape over another by saying that you can only really be happy, content and ‘a good gay’ if you are toned, slim, hairless and what is otherwise referred to as ‘body perfect’. If you speak to most experienced health professionals they will tell you there is no ‘perfect’ body shape but there are ideals based on your health, exact body makeup and metabolism. Everyone is different, with different capabilities, biologies, restrictions and environments to say a six pack is the best thing for every living soul is ludicrous.

    Can we ever be truly comfortable in our own skin?

    Therefore, if you are someone (a young teenager for example) that often gets their ‘injection’ of gay life from the media and all you are told is how wonderful the body beautiful people are you are going to naturally compare yourself to them and automatically feel bad that you are not one of them. That is basic human psychology that we all do in one form or another. If someone has something that I believe I want, I will compare it to what I have and judge the gap.

    Many of us spot this and have taught ourselves to either not accept that this is what we want or we have come to believe that a six pack is not the ideal body shape. Therefore, when we see these articles we just dismiss them. But if you are someone with strong body confidence issues to the point of body dysmorphia, these messages just add fuel to the fire.

    One gay magazine which I can’t really name, did a survey this year on body confidence and of those who responded 84% said that they felt under intense pressure to have a ‘perfect body’. There was a really good article by Nick Arnold from BBC3 on “How being a gay man can make your body issues worse”. I recommend reading!

    But is the ‘gay media’ solely to blame for it, or are we as a community also responsible? We’ve all done it, I will be one of the first people to go and buy a magazine if it has a half-naked Harry Judd on it. But that is just me adding fuel to the flame as that purchase adds to the value of what is traditionally called “sex sells”. Fact is we, currently, just don’t rush out to buy magazines that have articles on things that remind us of ourselves. Instead, we buy and promote these ‘dream boys’ and dribble over them.

    I’m not saying we need fewer images of Harry Judd (good heavens no) but what I am saying is that in order for people to find their body confidence we do need to expose ourselves to a wider range of body shapes and change our language from ‘happiness = six pack’ to ‘happiness = comfortable in your own skin’. I recently put a picture of my own body out on my twitter (against the wishes of my body confidence inner voice) in order to educate myself and others about this issue. I am not an ‘ideal body shape’ as mentioned above, I carry extra weight, things wobble that probably shouldn’t and the chest hair is currently in need of local council attention. But I did it, and I received some amazing feedback both positive, and indeed some negative.

    My advice to you if you are suffering from any form of body dysmorphia or lack of body confidence is to speak to someone about it and remember that the voice in your head is not the leading authority on everything. You can be wrong, so maybe the voice is wrong about this too.

    Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.

  • What’s it like to have a doctor check your balls for lumps?

    Oh no; not a third bollock! I had found a lump!

    Nothing significant but it was a lump on my right testicle. I had woken one morning stretching, raking, scratching, checking and there it was. I did nothing, well not precisely nothing I kept checking every day to see if it would just go. It didn’t. After about a week I knew I should see a doctor just to be safe.

    Having recently moved into a new area I had yet to register with a surgery. I lived in an apartment in a large converted Victorian house, halfway up a hill. At the foot of the hill was the nearest clinic. Registering as a new patient seemed to be a good idea, so I filled in the form when I went to ask to see a doctor. There were no appointments, but I could sit and wait to see the duty doctor. I was told the duty doctor for today was the GP I had just registered for and I would be his first patient on his first day.

    It was the summer of 1992, a hot August day. I sat in the waiting room, worried about sweating in the heat and wondering if this was the best time to be here. How long would I have to wait? Long enough to be considered of dubious personal hygiene? I hoped not. I wanted to be cool and calm, but I just felt hot and sweaty.

    Surrounded by seniors, some with quiet dignity, an old lady with her head to one side. “Earache,” the old man accompanying her said sharply as he looked across at me. Oops had I been staring? Small children, some running around, others looking very sorry for themselves and clinging to their parents.

    “Tom Driver to Doctor F……..”, the loudspeaker announced. I followed the instructions the receptionist had given me and went up the stairs to the door on the left. I knocked and almost immediately heard back “Come in.”

    Deep breath and in through the door and shocked, absolutely stunned! Sitting in the chair, formally attired, smiling back at me was a young man who was the spitting image of England Rugby Union Captain Will Carling. “Tom isn’t it? Do take a seat.”

    Take a seat? I wanted to run out of the door. This man was wank fantasy material incarnate, and I was going to tell him I had a lump on my right bollock!

    Pleasantries over and I had made my disclosure, while mumbling, looking away and staring at the floor. “Well, we better have a look then. Stand up and drop your trousers and underwear.”

    Mentally I was in agony dreading what would happen if my cock reacted during the examination. In my head, I was watching the Salvation Army marching band and old ladies knitting while reciting “Bromide in the NAAFI tea keeps the cock at half-mast or lower.”

    In the time I had been having these thoughts and thinking of what excuse to offer should he excite me, the doctor had got on his knees in front of me. Oh My God, focus on the matter in hand, IN HAND, he has my balls in his hand fondling squeezing and checking. He reached to his desk and took from it with his right hand the instrument they use to look into mouths and ears (Otoscope). With his torch in his right hand and the lump exposed by his positioning of my testis with his left, he shone the light. I thought; ‘he really wants a good look’. Then he got up, and I heard him say “All done, pull them up.”

    I had to ask, “What were you doing?” He explained to me that he shone the light because cellular tissue is denser than fatty tissue. Having this knowledge and the fact the light shone into and through the lump indicated it was not cellular (potentially cancerous) and was most likely a polyp, a lump of fatty tissue the body would probably reabsorb over time. I was told to keep an eye on it and if it changed, itched or grew to come back. I thanked him and left.

    On the stairs, on the way down I stood back to let an elderly couple pass on their up. It was the old lady with the earache who was his next patient. I smiled, knowing where the instrument he would use to examine her had just been.

     

    If you are concerned about lumps on your testicles, you should make an appointment with your GP as soon as possible.

    THEGAYUK.com has teamed up with The Naked Rugby Players to help raise money and awareness for testicular cancer with the Balls To Cancer charity, through their Naked Rugby Calendar 2018. To buy a copy click here.

    Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.