Inner Beauty

At the baths, the biggest steroid queen I’ve ever seen: mound upon mound of tanned flesh covered with short dark hair and crowned with the face of a consummate thug. He’s just gross, I agreed along with the boys downstairs. He’s too much.

But when he finds me alone in the upstairs shower, when it turns out he likes me, that’s a whole different story: oh gorilla of my dreams!

His embrace surrounds me on all sides and, overwhelmed, I have no sense of a whole body, only parts. The biceps that cover my sides, the wing-like lats, the chest like a high counter we must lean over to kiss. There is so much of him: he extends on every side as far as I can reach, plush, queen-sized, super-deluxe. A living bed.

He doesn’t break bones or shove me to my knees. He doesn’t make me call him ‘Sir’ or ‘Daddy’. He kisses me and rocks me in his arms. His mouth is fleshy, generous as the rest of him, but his tongue is slender and delicate. The Steroid Queen is a wonderful kisser. I stretch and touch as much as I can reach. His colossal back is covered by small prickly hairs and studded with pimples. He squeezes his arms around me, mashing me between muscle groups. I think of the boa constrictor, the anaconda, his tongue darts into my mouth, I come onto his chest.

I’m not sure what’s acceptable post-coital talk with a Steroid Queen.

“So,” I asked. “Do you pose for calendars?”

He looks away. Obviously the wrong question.

“It sure is a good thing you’re friendly.”

I give up and kiss him some more.

While we’re showering, he tells me I’m handsome and I say, no, I'm not.

This is the Universal Gay Conversation. One man says, “You’re handsome.” The other man says, “It’s the light.”

“I can tell you’re a really good person,” he says. “That’s why you’re handsome.”

This excites me. Unbeknownst to myself, I am radiant with inner goodness!

“The inside is what matters,” the Steroid Queen says. “Even if the outside is, like, totally deformed--if the man is kind, he’s beautiful.”

I’m not sure I’m still flattered.

“But if the guy’s an asshole--” the gorilla queen continues, “then he’s ugly, he’s hideous, no matter how perfect his body is. It’s the inside that matters.”

I launch myself into his arms. Surprised, he staggers a little. Blessed redwood of a man!. I kiss him for a minute or two before I even know why.

I’ve just received a discourse on inner beauty from the man holding the record for the Largest Surface Area in Chicagoland.

We kiss beneath the shower. He holds me tight. It’s the inside that matters.

I believe in inner beauty too, just like he does.

Other people can rely on inner beauty.

We don’t trust it yet.

I want to tell him—and I want him to tell me—that what’s inside will be enough, that it can hold us.