Saturday, July 30, 2005


I have discovered the ultimate white trash vacation spot – the Inner Harbor in Baltimore (or as the locals pronounce it, Bál∙mer). I have never before seen such a collective gathering of obesity and bad perms in one place. Every man was wearing Bugle Boy denim shorts and Teva sandals. Every woman had on a fanny-pack in which she carried money and cigarettes – I know this because upon observation, these were the only two items ever retrieved. Just about every boy was wearing a gold chain that weighed more than he did. Every so often, you would see a young boy in flip flops and a sleeveless tee shirt and you thought to yourself, “There goes an F.I.T.” (Fag-In-Training). But those respites were few and far between. I swear I even saw some combs sticking out of back pockets. I had regressed to 1979.

Among the shopping at the harbor, there is a large indoor mall housing shop and a food court. On one end of the mall was the airy and pretty City Lights Café, which seemed to be doing not much business. However on the other end of the mall, there was a line to get into Hooters. There was an abundance of people on those motored scooters who couldn't seem to walk the pier, but managed to park their go-ped and climb the steps to Lee's Ice Cream.

And there wasn’t just white trash there, there was black trash too: every black man was wearing his clothes two sizes too big, and every black woman was wearing hers two sizes too small. Noticing this made me wonder if Asians have a trashy side too? Is there such a thing as yellow trash? Do Native Americans have red trash? I’m not being politically incorrect (well, ok actually I am), but are white and black people the only races to parade their socially retarded to the world? And what about the Latino community … do they have brown trash or is it just anyone from Mexico?

I guess this bothers me so much because there, but for the grace of God, go I. I came from this kind of culturally stagnated area. Had I stayed where my parents live, I may actually have been one of those men who reeked of Avon cologne. I am not judging these people who seem to be happy in their lives and at peace with a family vacation to Balmer. But I use them as a litmus for where I have come from and who I could have been. And it is enough to keep me searching and growing for more … the more that is out there that these people seem content to just not worry about.

Thursday, July 28, 2005

Bob Mould is Haunting Me

Lately I have been catching the glimpse of this man at the gym (no, not in the locker room). It’s not an “undressing me with his eyes” kinda glimpse, but I can tell he was looking at me. I smile back politely because he is unobtrusive. We’ve nodded to each other in acknowledgement, but we've never spoken. Not even a quick ‘hey” at the water fountain. He certainly seems nice enough, but I have just never taken the step to say hello.

A few weeks ago, my ADVOCATE came in the mail and I open it to see an article about the guy at the gym. I find out that his name is Bob Mould, which immediately means nothing to me. And then it states that he was a member of the alternative 80’s buzz saw band, and arguably the pioneers of indie-rock, Hüsker Dü. After which, he created the 90’s noise-pop band, SUGAR. And then I think to myself, “holy shit, I am being cruised by a music legend!”

Out to dinner a few nights later, my friend, Kevin (not kb), randomly asks me if I know who Bob Mould is. The very next day, my roommate Ashley mentions Bob Mould’s name. And this week, Metro Weekly – DC’s fag rag and gossip pages – features Bob Mould as the cover story.

Bob Mould is everywhere. He moved to DC two years ago. And now there seems to be Mould growing on everything in the city. He DJ’s at a basement musclebear dance party called Blowoff at the 9:30 Club, DC’s premier band concert venue.

DC is a small, incestuous little town. I seriously think that the gay social scene here is 3 degrees of separation. But when the same person, or at least the same name, keeps popping up in disturbing succession, it makes you wonder what the universe has in store. And I am not talking about this in a “dating” sort of way. It’s like being a kid and seeing your teacher in the mall or supermarket; first, you wonder what they are doing there and, second, you get the epiphanous thought, “ohmigod, they eat and shop too??”

I guess I should finally say hello to Bob Mould. It is a bit surprising that for someone who yelled and screamed through a decade and would perform in front of thousands of people, could actually be a bit reticent and shy. I don’t have that problem, much to my chagrin at times. I plan on striking down this ghost and say hello to the man. One more friend can’t hurt. Especially a friend whom I oddly seem to know already.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005


So I have finally experienced my first real workout injury. It seems last week I tore my left bicep doing upright rows with a straight barbell instead of a curved one (see . . . straight is just NOT the way to go!). So now I can’t lift anything heavier than 10 pounds for the next six weeks, and I have to go to physical therapy 3 times a week for the next 4 weeks. Not only can I not work out during the month of August (when I have a trip to the beach and a weekend in Provincetown scheduled), but this pushes back my move to Chicago by another two weeks.

Am I complaining? You bet’cha!

Lifting weights is my way of relaxing and relieving stress (some may argue that I don’t lift enough). If more than a few days go by, say 4 or 5, and I have not been to the gym, my body is overcome by, well… almost a sense of panic. I actually have an irrational fear of being smaller. It’s hard to explain. But I liken it to what happens to your body if you don’t eat anything for a long time: your body thinks it is starving so it starts to store fat for survival. I think my body, or at least my brain, does the same thing if I don’t work out for a few days – it goes into some kind of survival mode (which I guess would leave me with a fat head?).

Like many gay men, I believe I have a case of undiagnosed psychosomatic muscle dysmorphia: I have no idea how big I really am (the nickname for it is "big-orexia"). At this writing, I am 5’11” and weigh about 235lbs. In my mind, when I think of myself, I think of me weighing about 180lbs. I always picture myself being much smaller. So I am sometimes thrown when people comment on my size or how big my arms are. And I am always stupefied when I see myself in a picture with someone I consider average size and I look to be two times larger than he.

All this aside, I now cannot help my roommate move our belongings 1/3 way across the country. Nor can I help other friends of mine who are moving (I am always sought out – “Hey, let’s call Dop, he can lift it!”), which makes me sad. I like being there for people. And I like working out. Next time I hit a gym will be in Chicago, I guess. So look out, all you muscle-bunnies at Cheetah – I’ll be like a man who hasn’t had sex in weeks (oh wait, that actually is me). I’ll be like a man who hasn’t eaten in days!

Am I done complaining? For now . . .

Monday, July 25, 2005

Onward to the Past

Two years ago I traced Dad’s family tree on his father’s side. We never really knew much about Dad’s side of the family, and truthfully Dad wasn't a great source of information either. His mother died when he was 21, when she was just 35 years old (that’s right, she was 14 when my dad was born). His father died at 57. So both of Dad’s parents were dead before the age of 60. Both had heart attacks.

Dad has one brother and three sisters. One sister died about 15 years ago. Dad is close to his brother, but not as close to his sisters. So in trying to learn more about Dad and where he came from, he was not much help. All he could provide were a few nicknames of people, and a photograph of his grandfather which, on the back, read “William Amos Troutman”. That was all I had to go on. 

I visited my parents this past weekend, and along with my older sister Kim, the four of us set off on a day trip to a small township in Pennsylvania called Deal, to locate Dad’s grandfather’s burial plot at Twin Churches. My dad’s grandfather, William Amos – the man who launched my search – fathered four children: my dad’s father and three daughters. Or so everyone thought. When we finally located the tombstone, we discovered that William Amos was also buried with two other daughters – one born in 1924 who died two years later, and one born in 1933 who died the same year (Dad’s grandmother remarried and is buried with her second husband in another town). Until we visited the cemetery, these two additional “aunts” of my dad were a complete mystery. To everyone.

My dad then drove us to the plot of land that used to be the site of a small red house, where he was born. Now it is just large pasture. He remembered a few things like farms and roads – not bad for a man who had not been in this location in 55 years. We took lots of pictures, and at nightfall, my dad recounted the day as one of the most gratifying of his life.

I’ve started to research his mother’s side of the family now, which is proving far more difficult. But I will keep trekking. The look on my dad’s face at the end of that day is enough to keep me searching for who he is for the rest of my life.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

A Supreme?

Monday morning Bush nominated John Roberts from DC Circuit Court to be appointed the next Supreme Court judge, replacing the fickle Sandra Day O'Connor. By Monday at 9:02 AM, AOL had polls online asking if Roberts was the right man for the job. Now if AOL could only get their program to load as fast as this, life would be better.

But I digress.

I don't know much about John, except for one specific ruling he made in October 2004. Roberts was the presiding judge in a case in DC that is known as "The French Fry Case" -- which some critics point to as a sign of a certain hard-heartedness in Roberts' decision making.

In the unanimous ruling last October in Hedgepeth v. Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority (WMATA), Roberts upheld the arrest, handcuffing and detention of a 12-year-old girl for eating a single french fry inside a D.C. Metrorail station. "No one is very happy about the events that led to this litigation," Roberts acknowledged in the decision, but he ruled that nothing the police did violated the girl's Fourth Amendment or Fifth Amendment rights.

I am not sure how this really plays to the public. All I know is, I don't trust anyone who doesn't show his teeth when he smiles.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

The Norm Complex

I was in Chicago this past week, as evidenced by kb on his blog, sweet tartuffery. And as I walked into Einstein Bros, Caribou Coffee, and Chase Bank, I became aware of something that probably should have been obvious, but for some reason I didn’t realize until later on in the day – no one there knows me.

I wasn’t greeted by name as I am in DC. No one in the bagel or coffee shops knew who I was or asked about my weekend. No one in the bank said hello to me or asked me about my recent visit to New York. And of course they didn’t. Why would they? They don’t know me or anything about me . . . yet. It’s all about starting over.

I think about DC and how much I am ready to leave here and move to Chicago, my expected destination in September. I am so jaded on DC these days that I am trudging through my day and not noticing how nice I actually have it here.

Every afternoon, I walk into Schlotsky’s and Mr. Sing says hello to me and automatically gives me a large cup because he knows I will fill it with Iced Tea from the fountain. Once, when he was advised to replace the tea with something more popular, he told his salesman that he could not do that – he would lose a valuable customer, me. Everyday I see him, and every day he says hello and greets me by name.

Every day, I go to Chevy Chase Bank. Not only do I have my personal checking account there, I moved my agency’s bank accounts to CCB about two years ago. Every teller there greets me by my first name. Even the branch manager says hello and asks me how my moving plans are coming along. And I know them too: Maureen, the head teller, went to North Carolina last week to look for property with her husband – someplace where they can retire; Teller Lino just started working out and asks me every day for tips; Teller Marva is in summer school as well as working to finish her degree faster which sometimes makes her migrains flare up; Teller Valery just bought her first condo in upper NW.

My pharmacist at CVS, Mr. Alejo, greets me by name as well. Not because I have a hundred prescriptions, but because I gave him a yellow liveSTRONG bracelet for his younger sister who could not seem to find one. When he sees me, Mr. Alejo asks about my health, my recent doctor appointments, and even gives me names of new prescriptions to suggest to my physicians.

It’s a nice feeling to know that people know you and remember you, and think to ask you about your weekend, your health, your future. I am sure eventually it will be like that in Chicago as well; the guy at the local coffee shop will get used to seeing me every morning, the front desk people at the gym will become accustomed to seeing me around 9:00 each night, and the clerk at the little grocery store will inquire about how the steaks I bought last week turned out. But it didn’t happen last week and it won’t happen next week. Not in Chicago.

But it did in DC. It happened last week, it happened today and it will happen tomorrow. I count these people among the ones I will miss the most.

Saturday, July 16, 2005


I finally broke down and bought an iPod the other day. It’s been in the plan for a long time, but I just hadn’t gotten around to doing it. I always had this fear that the minute I bought it, a new mp3 device would come out and I would be suddenly passé once again. I never seem to get ahead of the curve. Not only do I resemble Charlie Brown, but I also seem to have acquired his streak of luck as well.

But I digress.

Not understanding how this whole system works, I had been slowly downloading music from, which is a great way of listening to music and finding songs you either forgot about or secretly love and don’t want to be caught buying the CD (I will admit a guilty pleasure for The Partridge Family). Rhapsody basically makes your computer a jukebox of everything you’ve ever wanted. It is worth the $10 I pay per month to listen to anything I want to hear (at least I think that’s what it is. Between Netflix, T∙mobile, the gym, web hosting and God knows what else that is being monthly deducted from my bank account, I can’t remember what I pay for anything anymore).

But I digress again.

I thought all the Rhapsody songs would automatically get transferred into my iTunes, the warehouse program that houses all of the songs that will be on the iPod. And for 5 minutes, it looked like they were all well on the way to being transferred. Until I opened iTunes and found it completely empty. Surprise, all the songs are write-protected. Duh.

So I went through the dubious task of uploading all the CDs I own into iTunes. And basically, I hate all of my music. Loading your CDs onto iTunes is the emotional equivalent to going on a hot date and realizing you have nothing to wear. Everything in your closet is either out of style or makes you look fat; same with my CD collection. All of the music is a few years old with the exception of the new Rob Thomas CD that I bought only because I think he’s a fox (okay, even my vocabulary is out of style – is it any wonder I like the Partridge Family?).

And since I have a laptop whose built-in speakers sound like someone singing through a cardboard tube, I had to buy new speakers. I tried a brand from GE, which upgraded the sound output from paper towel holder to tin can telephone. So I went to Best Buy and bought Bose speakers instead (for which there truly is no match).

So it’s all official now – with the addition of the iPod I have now graduated into being a more groovy guy. If I were straight, I might be considered a full-blown geek. However, since I am gay, I am just considered…well, gayer.

Friday, July 15, 2005

The Bedside Table

Forget the kind of car he drives. Forget the clothes he wears. Forget the type of job he has. Forget what’s on his computer. I have come to realize that there is a device in every man's home that can offer more insight into his personality than 14 Portugese Lesbian Fortunetellers each packing a top-of-the-line crystal ball.

Okay, it goes like this: a friend of mine recently spent the night with a trick at said trick's abode (no, this is not really me!). The next morning the trick left to run errands to free his day for my friend while my friend slept. My friend woke up to find the obligatory note stating the trick's , hisETA, so my friend reckoned that although curiosity killed the cat, his pussy was fairly well protected. So he decided to do what that woman in those old Tidy-Bowl commercials used to do: SNOOP. How could he help himself? The Tidy-Bowl woman couldn't help herself and she even admitted it on national television. What a prime opportunity to pry the depths of one's existence. Everyone's done it. EVERYONE (so don't sit there with a holier than thou look on your face). I'm not condoning it mind you, but it does happen.

When my friend returned from his evening of debauchery the next afternoon, he told me what he discovered during his little exploration. He didn't venture any further than the bedside table to catch an inner glimpse of this man with whom he was no doubt in unadulterated lust. Much to my friend's chagrin, however, Mr. Wonderful turned out to be a pig: aside from the five, count 'em five, tubes of K-Y (why the would anyone need five tubes of K-Y?), there was also a very large assortment of porno magazines, some douching products, an unmarked video tape (which, sorry, I would have had to play), six cock rings, a set of nipple clamps, a letter from an old boyfriend dated several months prior, tissues that had been previously used (for God knows what) and, of yeah, not one dildo, but seven. Seven! And once more for emphasis - SEVEN.

Well, I got to thinking. In the likely chance that I would actually bring someone home with me and absentmindedly allow him the opportunity to sort through the small three-drawer nightstand beside my bed, would he be bothered?

. . . would I still be considered an attractive catch in relation to the articles in the drawers?

. . . would he run in horror from my boudoir, clawing his face and screaming for me not to touch him or he'd call the police?

So that evening, I decided to go home and take a nice long look in my bedside table to see if it would offer any insight whatsoever into my character. What kind of person do these items tell you I am? Put them all together and what do you get? These are the honest-to-God contents of my three-drawer chest beside my bed:


A fingernail clipper, a current copy of "OUT" magazine, a lamp, an alarm clock, a glass of iced tea (recently poured, not one that has been sitting so long the tea is actually dusty and stains have coagulated around the rim), 2 black Papermate pens (I hate blue ink), a black Uniball pen, and a broken prism that had fallen from my window pane (I've been meaning to have that fixed, really I have).


The current Tmoblile bill, a small dictionary for crossword puzzles, negatives and extra pictures for my friends, 8 size "C" batteries, a pack of 12 pens, eyeglass repair kit, a stapler, a pair of scissors, 2 rolls of Scotch tape, a deck of cards, a pack of push pins, 2 breath mints, a small bottle of China Musk I bought from this granola shop in Middleburg, a thesaurus, an unopened block of Baker's semi-sweet baking chocolate squares (I have NO idea…), an offer for a free Disney tree ornament (I meant to send to Matt Gose months ago), a Kodak development envelope, a pack of Camels (and I don't even smoke!), 10 Trojan-Enz XLarge condoms (thank you), and a 2.35 ounce bottle of Astro Glide (yeah, well, you know).


A can of Universal Animal Cuts supplements, 2 leather wristbands, a can of Raid (perhaps for those tricks that just won't leave), a few folded handtowels (okay, we all know what they are!), a pack of gum, 3 protein bars, lip balm, black shoe polish, a watch, old sunglasses, and my blodd pressure monitor.


The April edition of "Esquire", a book of children's classics, a crossword puzzle book, a "DON'T PANIC!" catalog, an unopened letter from CareFirst dated February 2005, my State Farm Auto Insurance Policy, extra pages for my photo album, 2 5x7 frames, 2 more black pens, 1 red pen, 1 rubber band, some poster tack, a glass case with old glasses in it (I was wondering where they were), a Ronald McDonald pencil sharpener I got out of a Happy Meal I ordered one night through the drive-thru (I was drunk, what can I tell you), a gum eraser, a 15-foot extension cord, a box of staples, a yellow highlighter, and 34 colored pencils (rubberbanded).

So . . . would you date me or run screaming?

Monday, July 11, 2005

Personal Triumphs

Learning to walk, learning to talk, coloring within the lines, riding a bike, conquering my speech impediment, learning to swim, milking a cow, writing cursive, getting mail, learning to skate, being invited to a party, obtaining all the required Cub Scout badges, learning to drive, personally seeing Queen Elizabeth II, completely reading a novel that was not required reading, buying my own high school class ring, scoring 790 on my English SATs, winning a baseball trophy, winning a blue ribbon at an art show, knowing at least two verses of every Christmas carol, being elected to student body government, choosing between two dates for the same night, baking a cake, being a blood donor, teaching Sunday School, going to my prom (with a date, even), playing strip poker and skinny dipping with friends.

Putting in my first pair of contact lenses, being an uncle, driving a manual, being Best Man in a wedding, surviving a potentially fatal car accident, renting my first apartment, surviving a mugging at knifepoint, going to my first gay bar, getting a CD player, performing in AIDS benefits, driving to DC alone and not getting lost, having a cab driver tell me the ride was on him, yelling back at a waitress who said I didn't leave her enough of a tip, being the first man promoted to management in an all-female company, falling in love, having a nameplate, and talking a cop out of giving me a speeding ticket.

Getting flowers, throwing my first party and it being a total success, taking my parents out to dinner, having a bartender know what I drink, quitting a job because someone else was treated unfairly, getting a promotion, turning down a raise, answering a personal ad, knowing when to say when, seeing George Carlin in concert, teaching tennis and swimming lessons, falling for someone based on his personality and not his looks, buying a car, going to a bar with no money and getting completely drunk, my biceps, buying a computer, buying my parents a computer, shaving my head not my body, not sleeping with my ex, and having a DJ send someone to the dancefloor to get me so he could meet me.

Making dinner for somebody, doing my own taxes, having a date on New Year's Eve, being a godparent, working for a non-profit, winning "Most Changed" and my 10-year Reunion, going back to college, attending a toga party, growing a full beard, stealing a street sign, not getting a hair weave, playing spin the bottle, learning to drink beer, meeting the cast of a Broadway show, surviving a stroke, renting a limo, paying off my student loans, going to Mardi Gras, knowing at least one man in every branch of the military, standing up for myself, growing up, making friends that will last a lifetime, my web site, and this blog ... among others.

Friday, July 08, 2005

Size Queens

I have figured out how to tell if your child will be gay.

I‘ve come to the conclusion that straight American men are the biggest size queens on the planet. The breeding population in the United States by far requires all of the possessions in their lives to be the biggest available, because some time in their straight, boring lives someone told them that bigger means better and biggest means best. “More”, in str8speak, must symbolize some kind of success.

Gay men, on the other hand, like everything to be minimal. With the exception of one thing – one dear, lovely, phallic thing – gay men like to keep things small and simple. What are the two most popular cars driven by gay men? Mini Coopers and Jeeps (now I love the Jeep, but it’s the most impractical automobile there is). I can’t go into a gay men’s clothing store and find a shirt size above a medium. Our furniture is simple and low to the ground. Our technology (cell phones, mp3 players, digital cameras) are teeny. Hell, my dildo is larger than my stereo (and coincidentally gets better reception).

Straight women are just as bad – just look at the hairdos sported by any Republican woman over the age of 40 … and it’s worse if she’s from Texas. Lesbians are so minimalist they don’t even bother to buy makeup or razors. Ever see the wardrobe of a straight girl? Huge! Ever see a lesbian’s? 5 tee shirts, camouflage pants, and a pair of Doc Martens. Straight girl accessories? So many she needs separate containers for makeup, hair, jewelry, etc. Lesbian accessories? Black eye-liner and a chain wallet.

Now all this is not coming to mind because I saw yet another straight man driving around in a Hummer, or read about yet another 5 million dollar house being sold to a 55 year old man and his wife, or witnessed yet another family of 5 (collectively weighing a ton) at the park eating a bucket of the Colonel’s Extra Crispy. A simple walk in the rain brought all this to fruition. Straight people were walking with umbrellas the size of those found on the beach. Gay men sported those little clear bubble umbrellas from the 70’s that just kind of hug you. Lesbians just got wet.

So pay attention to your child. Does he have the biggest iBox? Future straight man. Swears he wears a size 6 shoe instead of an 8? Future gay man. Needs the most expensive prom dress in the store? Future straight girl. Boycotts her prom altogether? Lesbian.

Monday, July 04, 2005

A Book, A Cover, A Problem

My first night out to a dance club in several months this past Saturday night yielded a scenario of racial confusion – that’s right, this blog is about race. (I figure I have attacked smokers, gays, and Tom Cruise, and politics, religion, and republicans are on my “TO DO” list.)

The first guy, a black man named Carl, approached me with a compliment and we stood and talked for a while. After several minutes of talking he asked me if I was “into black men”. I wondered what that was supposed to mean. I responded by saying that “I am not necessarily into black men, but I am into men.” He then responded with, “So that’s a yes, then?”

Maybe an hour later, I met a Latino man. Nice guy, he was, named Leandro. We talked for about 10 minutes and then he asked me if I “like Latinos”.

Black man #2 (who’s name I did not get) greeted me by grabbing my biceps and making a rude comment, which in his mind should have flattered me. When I brushed him off and told him to not touch me, he came back with “Oh right, turn down the black man!” I could not believe my ears. I responded by saying, “No, it’s because you're an idiot.”

I am wondering why this happens.

If another white guy approaches me, I am never asked if I am attracted to other white men, however it is automatically assumed that I do. Now I know there are some men out there, all from different races, who are strictly into men of other races. I personally have dated a few men who are not white. But do we still have to ask these questions of each other?

I sometimes dislike the gay social scene in DC because it is so segregated. All of the bars on 17th Street pander to mostly gay white men. I personally don’t want all of my friends to be gay white men. But that is all I can meet in DC. I can’t go to clubs like Bachelor’s Mill or Elite because I am made to feel unwelcome, and men won’t talk to me because they can’t be seen talking to me. I know this because I have tried this. And in truth, I don’t want to meet men of other races who are “into” white men. I want to meet men of other races who are interested in expanding their views and sharing their lives and experiences.

I am not trying to solve a problem that seems unsolvable. And I don’t think this is just a DC thing. More than once, a man of another race has tried to lecture me on being ignorant to what it is to be judged on physical appearance immediately. HELLO!?! I am big, bald, and tattooed. People who don’t think I am a Nazi supremacist, guess me being a mechanic, a police officer, or having any job requiring overalls. I am instantly judged by everyone who sees me. They have already sized me up – in their own opinions.

Why else would someone ask me if I was “into” another type of man?

Friday, July 01, 2005

Twink-le, Twink-le

I saw my friend Brian at the gym the other night. He is about 26, cute, tall and on the lanky side. Brian got on the subject of age and he commented on me nearing 40 and looking great; that I was growing into who I am supposed to be while he is growing out of who he was. I am heading towards Muscle Daddy, while Brian is growing out of Twink. So then I asked him, “What happens to a Twink when he grows up?” Brian had no answer. (Well, actually, he said, “Maybe we become Ho-Ho’s.”)

It’s one thing to be a Daddy-In-Waiting, like I have been for the last 20 years or so. I never had the glitz and social acceptance in my early 20’s that a Twink enjoys right out of the shoot. If you are skinny and young looking at 22, it works for you in Gay World. And depending on how you work it, you could hold on to your Twinkdom for a few years (although I have seen a few men in their late 30’s and early 40’s who think they are still pulling it off – trust me fellas, you’re not). I think the average shelf-life of a Twink is up to the age of 25, and then they slowly start aging out of it. But where do they go after that?

A Twink can’t graduate to being a Daddy. They are too ingrained with being cute and flirty and fashionable – too much twinkage. Daddies don’t flit around, or wear faux hawks, or even hang in bunches. Daddies are sort of loners. You might see a few of them together, like a pride of male lions, but by and large they operate solo without help from anyone. Twinks travel in packs like nuns. A Twink never goes anyplace alone, he is always part of a gaggle of Twinks – a Twaggle, if you will. A Twink can’t make a decision without consulting the Twaggle. A Daddy makes his own decisions without consulting anyone. So it’s just impossible for a Twink to become a Daddy.

Twinks can’t become Bears for the obvious reason: a Twink is usually smooth(ish). Now a Twink with a little hair on him could possibly graduate into either an Otter, a Cub, a Pup or even a Wolf, but those also require a certain amount of machismo and muscle that Twinks historically just do not possess.

I guess if a Twink holds on to his star power, he can leave the Twaggle to join the A-listers. The A-listers are men in their late 30’s-early 40’s who have managed to keep their looks and land a nice career, house and boyfriend (that they quiety cheat on). However the A-listers are traditionally not seen in bars or clubs; they have house parties where they invite only other A-listers, and attend galas and receptions. Where a Twink would thrive in club or bar, he would be swallowed whole at a gala.

So where do the Twinks go? Having never been one, I guess I am asking this question: What happens to the little Twink once he grows up and leaves the Twaggle?