Ah France...

A quick update of my travels so far. One item I can now tick off my bucket-list:

1. Sleep on the floor of Dubai airport
   

Holy crap, what an awful airport. Too many people, not enough seats. You have to be careful not to trip over people sleeping in the corridors... which ended up being me after about 6 hours of waiting for my next flight. I never thought that I would be happy to get back into and economy class seat.

On my travels I came into contact with a full size mirror. So here it is... musclician gets brave...my first self portrait. I would say this is a pretty poor image, and I am looking all washed out.

So that's me. White as ever.

My first couple of days here in France have been great. In the spirit of self images, here is another of me enjoying a quiet rural village:

Don't these European towns look awesome?

You will notice that my experience so far has been very touristy... I am starting my trip by soaking up the European culture, before hitting the gay scene.



Tip for the day:
Try fly direct, and if you must have a stop-over, choose one that has enough seating.

The big adventure begins

Today the grand adventure begins! I am departing from this one-eyed town into the world with wide eyes and great excitement! I am leaving this behind:
Looks fun doesn't it? (so neat -- okay okay, I cleaned it up yesterday)

Right, faithful reader (?) ... readers (?) I will try and keep you informed with stories and pictures as my adventure progresses. Who knows, maybe a picture of myself will accidentally weedle its way in (if I can get over my self-conscious feelings regarding my appearance!).

First way-point: Johannesburg

Fantasy for the day:
A muscle hunk just happens to get the seat next to me on the plane... I manage not to say "wkfrst"...

My wild weekend

I had a most excellent weekend. There were no hot guys involved unfortunately, but it just goes to show that there is life beyond hunks.

Ok, so maybe there were a few hot guys involved. The fun all started at gym on Friday evening, where I shot my shoulder muscles to hell, while enjoying friendly banter with hot-muscle-dude. End of hunk-involvement-in-weekend. After that I went out with mates to a great restaurant and had African kudu hot-pot (which was really really good), and after that we went and smoked hookah (apple and grape-fruit flavour). It was really chilled, and most entertaining.

The next day there was no power... at all. And it was freezing. So I decided to go busk at the local farmer's market. Not sure if it was the cold weather or my impeccable music skills (sic), but I made more cash than ever before. A couple of afternoon naps later, went and hung out with same mates as night before, smoked hookah, ate sushi, had fun.

Yep, a pretty boring post. But I leave for my most-excellent-European-adventure on Wednesday, so hopefully I will have tons of exciting adventures to report on soon!

Here's my attempt at artistry:


Thought for the day:
Hookah is fun. But a real mess to clean up.

Homage to Humility

Remember a couple of days ago when I was foaming-at-the-mouth regarding my experience with the hottest guy alive? After a few days my hormones have had a chance to calm down, and I managed to gain some proper perspective on life again.

Last night muscle-guy is in the gym again. As I walk in he gives me a hearty greeting, and all the way through our respective workouts we are spotting for each other. I really felt a great (but straight) rapport between us.

Let me just say that he has an absolutely amazing physique, something that I am definitely striving for. So in that respect I really look up to the guy. But this respect was increased ten-fold when halfway through the workout he comes over and asks me about my workout regime, and advice on how to work triceps.

Considering that his physique is such that he wouldn't need any advice from anyone, I thought that this was pretty awesome. Not only is he not acknowledging his own physical success, but he was indirectly complementing me in a big way. He seemed genuinely interested, and I noticed that he actually borrowed some of my techniques later in his workout.

We got to chatting, turns out he never uses any supplements, lucky bugger - I have to use them otherwise my metabolism destroys my muscle mass.

So this is my homage to humility. A homage to all gym-jocks out there who manage to acknowledge other people's efforts, without flaunting their own.

Hopefully our rapport will continue in future - as James said - good opportunity to make a new friend. The real question is: how difficult is it to have a friend who you can't tear your eyes away from?

Request for the day:
Any big gym jocks out there: complement the struggling guys out there, and make their weekend.

My big adventure

This morning I nearly drove into a kudu on my way to work. Unfortunately I didn't get a photograph because it ran into the bushes too quickly. I love this place!

Back on topic. I will soon be having a Big Adventure. Yep, the musclician is heading to Europe! Yeah, baby! I am being sent to Amsterdam for a conference, and of course it will be a good opportunity for academic networking and intellectual discussi.... snore! I am going to have a PARTY!!!

I keep reading about big-nights-out in various capitals of the world, usually involving hook-ups with hot strangers, back-rooms full of guys having sex and so on. M'self hath never experienced such activities before, and every time I read about it I get a weird feeling in my lower abdomen which I can't really decipher as envy, desire or just plain shock.

My main conundrum is that of course I know that such acts are unsafe, and are probably a bad idea. At the same time I can't help thinking: "everybody else does it, so why not, it will be so hot!?" (quite immature but one can't help the way one's abdomen feels, in spite of what one's brain is thinking).

So here is my plan: I am going to head off to Amsterdam (did I mention I was going through Paris on the way? Excellent!) and be a most respectable and impressive conference delegate by day, and a wild-yet-reserved party animal by night. Agenda of experiences to be gained on this trip:

1. Go to actual gay club where real-life hotties hang out and get my fill of admiring guys who bat for the same team (somehow I find this strangely more exciting than admiring straight guys... perhaps it has something to do with me actually having a chance!)
2. See if I can find one of those much-talked-about back rooms to confirm that they really do exist. Probably will not actually do anything, because with me the brain always seems to overpower the abdomen.

If there are any European reader's out there, or anyone who has "done" Amsterdam and has useful hints on where to go and what to see, I would be happy to hear your suggestions!

Observation for the day:
Kudu's don't give me weird feelings in my abdomen, but they sure do give me weird feelings in my heart.

Straight male friends

A comment posted by James got me thinking yesterday. He said that "The worst that can happen is that you might make a straight friend."

I have a lot of straight friends. In fact, I actually only have one friend who is out, but he lives about 1200km away, so we only really chat on the phone. Often I go out with my friends, most of whom know I am out, and don't have a problem with it. However, as per the usual flow of conversation with university guys, the topic invariably turns to women, how hot they are etc. etc. Or alternatively, someone will elbow me and point to a girl at the bar whilst making some comment about her physique/legs/breasts - even though they know about my preference.

My question is this: is it okay for me to do the same for any male talent that walks into the bar? I suppose this depends on how comfortable I am with my friends, which is clearly not very much.

What is interesting is that I recently was part of a survey that a friend did on the linguistic aspects of "coming out stories". I realized from my own narrative and her findings that I have followed an approach of "minimizing discomfort" in those around me - most often at the cost of really being myself.

So do I take the plunge next time I am hanging out with my straight friends and counter their comments about beautiful women with my own comments about beautiful men (at the risk of severe awkward moments)? Or do I maintain status-quo, and continue to actually be invited out by said friends?

Thought for the day:
One should have gay friends, preferably enough to outnumber the straight guys at the table.

Morning has broken

I woke this morning to the most amazing sunrise, which I thought I would share with the world:


Unfortunately my weekend was not quite as spectacular as this image. On Friday after my very exciting encounter with hotness (which in retrospect, my reaction to seems a little embarrassing) I went to a concert. Had I not been obsessing the whole time over my encounter, I probably would have enjoyed it. I did discover a new masterpiece though, Mendelssohn's Hebrides Overture. Most excellent indeed.

For the rest of the weekend when I was not fantasizing about encounters with hot-gym-jock I was obsessing about my thesis. A pretty sad state of affairs, but there is light at the end of the tunnel. I finally put together the title page which has the line:

A thesis submitted in fulfillment of the
requirements for the degree of
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

After nearly four years of working on this project, I was still hit with the impact of this line. Holy crap.

Thought for the day:
Wake up early enough to see the sunrise. Sometimes its worth it.

Cruised or not cruised?

Boy have I got a story for you. I can barely believe it myself.

Let me begin by reminding you that the town in which I live is tiny. So tiny in fact, that we have only one gym. This means it cannot be referred to as a "gay" gym, as so many gyms appear to be in hip-n-hap'nin towns like London (see Muscler's review of these). Therefore, the jocks that frequent this gym can safely be assumed as straight, rugby playing types.

This I don't mind, and I have perfected the art of muscle-watching without letting my drool get out of control, and I think I do a pretty fine job of appearing 100% focussed on the iron while covertly appreciating the beauty before me.

Last night there was a particularly fine muscle-bound boyo in the gym, so fine in fact, that I really struggled to control that drool. But I did, and I was propelled into what turned into an excellent arm workout.

Tonight, off I toddle to gym, when lo' and behold, fine-boyo appears. Tonight is shoulders for me, there I am perched under the smith-press covertly spying the boyo through about three mirror reflections (no one will spot me staring that way!) Next minute, over he comes and asks me to spot him - doing triceps. I manage to splutter out a garbled "sure" - garbled because I cannot believe this vision actually chose me out of everyone there, but mainly because who has heard of a spot on triceps? Am I missing something?

Off I go, I am the most awesome spotter ever! "Come-on, one two, it's all you! Nice work" etc etc. And I catch myself with a grin as I head back to my bench. I enjoyed that. Back to the feigned-focus-on-iron. Can you believe it, not twice, not three times, but FOUR more times he asks me to spot. On the third he introduces himself, and in the most jock-like voice I could muster without spluttering garble again, I manage to produce what sounded like my name.


The last time I get asked to spot, he informs me that its a really tough workout, and he is going to have to give up soon. Ha-ha I laugh, knowingly and in complete sympathy - not really sure why he telling me this. Of I go.... iron-focus-etc. I finish up with me shoulders, and head off to the showers, because I am going to a concert this evening. I don't usually shower at gym, but there is no time to head back to the farm.

As I exit the shower, who shows up? The vision, wrapped in only a towel. I nearly faint on the spot. Never have I seen a such a sight in real life before (of course, on the internet such visions are prolific).
"Calling it a day" he says to me, as he slides passed me into the SAME shower from which I have just emerged. Holy mother of all things holy! "wkfrst" I reply while my alter ego in another universe is saying "Nice pecs man, how did you do it? Need help lathering up?"

I went to public school, there was no physical education, and so public nudity is not common for me. I have heard that jocks who went to private school have less of an issue with this (post rugby shower-ups etc), so this is probably what is going on here.

He begins to shower, and I get a full view of his huge back and amazing butt, and I am hearing moaning sounds obviously from his enjoyment of the shower. I sit there putting on my socks, wondering crazily if this is for my benefit, or if this is one of the incredibly frustrating straight jocks that mess with poor gay guys' minds. Is this an invitation to join in, flirt a little, get his number perhaps? Who knows.

It takes me an inordinate amount to time to put on my socks, and in the meantime I am gloried with the blurred vision of his frontal nudity through steamed-glass. Pathetically I eventually have nothing left to clothe myself with, and am forced to pretend I am fixing my hair, drink my protein shake while I wait for him to exit the shower so I can get one last glimpse. Which I do, uttering once again "wkfrst" and a garbled, "see you around".

This kind of thing has NEVER happened to me before. So I implore all you experienced comrades out there. Was this a cruise? Or was this just an innocent straight guy, washing up after gym. Either way I enjoyed it immensely. But if this was a cruise, have I completely missed my chance at what would be my first encounter with the sexiest man alive, because of my immensely eloquent "wkfrst"?

The most burning question of all is, is this guy local (in which case, chances are good I will see him again in this small town) or is he only around for the festival (see previous post)?

Moral of the story:
"Wkfrst" is not a pickup line. Remember to practice an alternative. 20 times an hour, for the next 12 hours.

Right, off I go to see if he is out at one of the four bars in the town... here's hoping.

Moth-balls and sweet wrappers

Once a year the one-eyed town in which I live comes alive with festivities in all forms. This just happens to be that week, so last night I decided to get my yearly dose of culture (alone of course, since better half is basking in a first world country ... see previous post).

Invariably I get stuck in a cloud of moth-ball fumes emanating from society's most experienced, that almost have me suffocating throughout the show. Not a problem, nothing like a bit of an involuntary high to help me sit back and relax while listening to the music.

And then it starts, the relentless unwrapping of minty condiments. I am not sure if they had invented plastic wrappers yet, but I am sure composers rue the day the world was graced with these horrors. I am always amazed at how percussive crackling can always be heard right at the most intimate part of the music. So my main questions are:

1. Why are mints always unwrapped at the quietest part of a performance, and not at the part where the trombones are most likely to drown out the sound?
2. Will the universe ever grace me with the fortune of being suffocated by, for example, aftershave fumes emanating from the surrounding hunks? I doubt it, because then I probably would not be focusing too much on the show, and considering they only happen once a year, the universe would never let such a great waste occur (that and gorgeous hunks tend not to go for these kinds of show in the first place).

Lesson for the day:
Start teaching gorgeous-cologne-wearing-hunks-who-don't-like-mints how to appreciate classical music.

The musclician rises

What do you get when you cross a muscle fanatic with a musician? Or a science-geek with a muscle fanatic? Or a musician with a science-geek?

Combine all the above with an appreciation for the male form.

And from the ashes rises the previously unknown phenomenon, the musclician:
the straight guy who is gay
the gay who is a stray ...

... because in this one-eyed town in the middle of a third world-country not too many folk share my passions for crazy musical instruments, science, and cladding myself with awesome muscle.

Ok, there is one person who appreciates all of the above, but he is currently basking in a first world country.

Inspired by fellows like the Muscler, I will regale you with my outrageous thoughts, rants and spewings-resulting-from-intense-procrastination-efforts. Hopefully in amongst all of this, I can come to terms with myself, my world and my thesis.