Gay Fear Factor
Cut by Sunil, waxed by Claude and fitted by Body Body Wear's Stephen Sandler. But does Ryan Bigge survive the "cuddle puddle" at Black & Blue?
Fab, December 19, 2002 to January 1, 2003

fab asked three progressive straight guys to take the ultimate challenge -- an aggressive immersion in gay culture.

They all said no.

We asked again. Two of the three held firm. Ryan Bigge hesitated, a pause that was his ultimate undoing. We him asked a third time, and after a three-hour editorial meeting consisting of no less than five pints of Sleeman, he said "er, OK." This is his story.

* * *

I am a straight man who finds professional sports boring and enjoys attending art openings. I am friends with a half-dozen gay men. I experience zero homophobia, save for a strange unease whenever I chomp into a whole, raw carrot. Still, when fab asks me if I want to attend Black & Blue in Montreal, the creme de la creme of circuit parties, I am reluctant. Yes, I will receive free hotel and a free train ticket, but there is a catch -- a stadium full of gay men.

* * *

Between the circuit party dance floor and my straight boy state are a number of transformational steps. I require a haircut, new clothes and a chest wax.

It takes years for most people to cultivate a suitable gay identity. Me? Two days. Haircut and clothing on Tuesday, chest waxing on Wednesday.

I'm sent first to the Lid Lounge on a sunny day in early October. I'm not that scared. I've had my haircut before -- perhaps unwittingly -- by a non-straight guy.

Owner Sunil Prakash trims my hair to make my face appear squarer, a sharper jawline, more masculine. Sunil observes that hair means different things in different countries. The crude, cropped haircuts that most North Americans consider stereotypically gay are what beer-swilling British football lads generally sport. Sunil wishes breeder boys were braver with their hair. "Straight boys in North America don't have the guts so they're afraid of stepping out of the comfort zone," he says, something I find ironic, given my circumstances. "I call it stepping out of The Gap."

We talk about Circuit parties for awhile. "In the middle of the dance floor you usually find lots of" -- and here Sunil enunciates each word for maximum effect -- "hot, sweaty and half naked men writhing to the music." He is trying to bait me, but I remain implacable. "I call it the 'cuddle puddle.'"

I say nothing. Sunil asks, "What are you going to do if someone comes on to you?" I hesitate. "Haven't thought that far ahead?" he asks, smiling.

"No," I admit. In an attempt to change the subject, I tell Sunil I'm getting my chest waxed the next day.

Scissors clip. And again.

"You shave it, right?" asks Sunil.

I pause to think about what "it" means. "Yeah?" he prods.

"Yeah," I admit.

"Good boy," says Sunil with pride.

* * *

Everything inside Body Body Wear on Church Street is, for lack of a better word, supergay. The clerks, the underwear boxes behind the cash register, even the music. After 30 seconds I have the urge to shout, "I'm only visiting. I'm a sexual identity tourist on a brief vacation. I. Am. Not. Gay." When I have lunch or coffee with my gay friends, I feel fine. But being surrounded by gay, the walls start to close in on me.

I spot designer and owner Stephen Sandler, who has agreed to be my personal fashion consultant. He is immediately concerned about my height (I'm 6' 5"). For the first time ever I feel like a size 16 woman trying to find a dress in a size 9 shop. It takes Stephen ten minutes to find the only pair of pants that fit my stilt-like in-seam. "That's where you'll notice a big difference between us and The Gap," he notes. "They start at a 36 and we end at a 34 or 36."

Again with The Gap. It's the second time the palace of bland has been mentioned. I have purchased three things from The Gap in the past five years. I feel somewhat insulted.

Stephen apologies for not having long pants. "The only people that were coming in for anything bigger than a size 34 were lesbians," he says. According to Stephen, many women now buy his jeans because they fit so well. "The next ad campaign will actually have girls in them, because girls look so hot in a lot of my clothes, which is kind of a cool thing."

I agree. This sort of talk is oxygen to a man asphyxiated by gay.

Next are the tank tops. Stephen doesn't even bother trying to squeeze me into a tight one -- bless him -- since my six-pack is more fanny pack. "Depending on what you feel comfortable with, most guys are going to take their shirts off within 15 seconds of hitting the dance floor," explains Sandler. I'm listening, but not really.

"We have straight-guy underwear," says Stephen, handing me a box that doesn't look very heterosexual. "This is as straight as it gets. It's a boxer. But it's tight."

"Yeah," I reply. "That's all right." I'm doing my best to play it cool. (Later Stephen tries to terrify me with more ridiculous underwear options that remind me of cod-pieces from the middle ages).

I go into the change room. The underwear contains considerably less material than the sort of boxer shorts I wear. It does, however, accentuate and elevate Big Jim and the Twins. These gay guys are onto something.

As I pull on the jeans I quickly realize that without the tight, tiny underwear, I wouldn't be able to wear these pants, which cling well below my hips. To my delight the length is fine. Stephen looks at the pants approvingly. I forego my opportunity to ask, "Does my ass look OK in these pants?"

* * *

My waxing thoughts are not happy ones. The event is to take place in someone's apartment. This sounds creepy to me. Also, I will need to be shirtless to have my chest hair removed.

As it turns out, Claude Edwin Theriault -- aesthetician, masseur, dermal hygienist, hair stylist, colourist and laser technician -- is the most soothing presence in the transformational process. Which is good, since I'm not in the habit of letting strange men have their way with my bare chest.

In Claude's profession, appearance counts for everything, and the tight, precise angles of his fastidiously trimmed beard suitably impress. I look around the room. Tasteful books about art and culture are arranged on top of his stereo. There are smooth black and white stones in piles and containers. Everything smells nice. Calm, soothing music plays. A little like Caban, really.

Claude explains the philosophy and poetry of a sleek chest. "It's a transformation on the sensorial level. Hair is a matte, a covering." Post-wax, he assures me, I will notice things I hadn't before. Air, water, my bedsheets.

I ask how long the process will take. "Waxing is very quick, it takes about 25 minutes. Is there a lot of hair?" Claude asks.

"No," I say.

I remove my shirt. "Ahh!," says Claude with a delighted laugh, "seven point three minutes."

I tilt my chin and survey 29 years of hair farming. I suppose Claude is right to laugh. I have a sparse, scraggly, Y-pattern of chest hair -- imagine a skittish bat, dipped in India-ink, colliding with my bosom before fleeing in fear. Winnie the Pooh exudes more ruggedness when shirtless. Sigh.

I lie on the towel-covered massage table and try to relax. Claude undoes my belt. He does not ask if I wish to remove my own belt. I realize that this is because most of his clients probably don't mind "the personal touch."

By the time I can either protest or register a solid opinion regarding Claude and my jeans, the top button is undone and the zipper is down. I intercede and push my jeans clear of the waxing area in a lame attempt to assert control. Claude then starts messing with my boxers, folding over the waistband.

Seinfeld's George Costanza once suffered an identity crisis when a male masseuse got too close to his special area, causing Costanza to infamously suggest: "I think it moved." For the record, nothing, repeat, nothing migrated.

Claude takes what looks like an oversized stick of antiperspirant from his special machine and applies hot wax onto my chest. I watch with interest. The warm wax is not unpleasant. "Anything I need to know?" I ask.

"No," says Claude with finality in his voice. Smart man, Claude.

The first rip of cotton gauze is displeasurable but tolerable. It is in repeating this "rip-the-band-aid" maneuver 100 times over where the pain develops. Despite my sparse collection of hair, I think of carpet being denuded. I visualize individual fibers torn from their rubber mooring.

Rip. Pull. Rip. Pull. I start to tense before each yank of the cotton strip. I grip the sides of the chair. My legs sweat. The bellybutton is the worst, an unending reservoir of long hair. When it is over, it is not so much relief I experience as the removal of pain.

Afterwards, I am a believer, however. I notice my shirt against my chest for the first time ever. I run my hand up and down my torso repeatedly. It's like discovering a new plaything. Aesthetically it looks clean and -- dare I say -- sexy. As embellishment, Claude leaves a hair triangle below the bellybutton, with the main corner indicating due south.

Unfortunately, my newfound erotic appreciation for skin is short-lived. Less than six hours after waxing, my chest is speckled with little red pin pricks where hair once was, each bump a tiny tombstone marking the death of a follicle.

Also, my tummy hurts.

The next day I am concerned enough to email fab deputy editor Steven "I Wax Everything" Bereznai, who recommended Claude. Bereznai quickly replies with aftercare instructions. He suggests a body scrub pad to help exfoliate and avoid ingrown hairs, and PanOxyl soap for my pimples. His email concludes, "P.S. I can't believe you didn't get your ass waxed. Pussy."

* * *

Black & Blue's main party is held each year on Thanksgiving Sunday. I arrive Friday evening and discover that I will be sharing a hotel room -- separate beds! -- with fab scene reporter Rolyn Chambers. This arrangement ultimately causes me little concern, since he isn't around much. Friday night he returns at 5am. The next evening, 5:45am.

While Rolyn attends the Military Ball and God know what else, I do straight guy stuff. On Saturday I visit the Insectorium, a collection of heterosexual creepy-crawlies, with a heterosexual female acquaintance. Sunday morning I have breakfast at Dusty's, a diner staffed by no less than seven cute waitresses. I take a good long look before leaving.

Sunday evening finds me at a Black & Blue pre-party in the home of Jean-Francois Perrier, Media Relations and Gay Market Manager at Tourism Montreal. I chat with the British editor of Boyz magazine and a Vancouver-based freelance writer. He is also gay. My method acting -- or more likely, my tank top -- seems to be working. None of the ten gay guys in the room spots the mole amongst them.

That is, until Rolyn tells everyone about my ruse. A few guys look surprised, then suspicious. The most common reaction, however, is a sly smile that says, "Don't worry, I know you're only pretending to be straight because you're scared of coming out" when , really, the opposite is true.

Before we leave for Olympic stadium Jean-Francois gives a short speech, warning us that we will be searched upon entry. He concludes by saying "and follow the instructions in the bathroom."

Everyone but me laughs knowingly. This is not helping.

I relax slightly when we arrive because I see women. That's plural. As in, more than one.

I watch people pour into the stadium. Our group walks down a corridor to security. Along the way are many posters that say "GAY EVENT (please respect others)." We get a pat down by a guard with rubber gloves. We must empty our pockets onto the table, airport security style. I spot the table of lost dreams, filled with confiscated contraband like pills and a pink cockring (spiked).

This is it. The final approach. We walk down another corridor. We enter the main stadium and I can see the party in progress. A wide flight of stairs leads down toward the gay throng.

The theme of this, the 12th edition of Black & Blue is "Humanity." It's apropos, given the teaming, shirtless, sweaty mass of hu-man-itity. A huge, pulsing, strobic organism, consisting of thousands of gay men fluttering to club tunes; large cilia waiting to digest or molest me.

We roam the floor. Six huge steel scaffold platforms, resembling miniature oil rigs, are arranged in a loose rectangle throughout the dance floor. There are men on them dancing, four per rig.

Already, I notice Black & Blue has a temperature: humid. It also has an odour: sweaty. As warned, most guys are shirtless. There are puddles. There are cuddles. Thankfully, I am saved from a number of difficult decisions by the pimples on my chest. I can't remove my shirt, even if I wanted to (and I don't). Since Friday my torso has been dotted with the kind of acne you see on dermatology clinic warning posters.

In the VIP area, Rolyn introduces me and my shtick to two nearly identical-looking Pridevision guys, prompting one of them comment, "You'll be gay by the end of the night."

Sorry boys. I'm here, but I'm not queer. Get used to it.

* * *

Black & Blue is a mix of rave and circuit culture, helping to explain why I see so many blinking lights. Glow stick necklaces, glow sticks in water bottles. One fellow has illuminated tubing around the bottom of his shoe, the kind of indicator lights you see on the aisle of an airplane floor.

There are guys on display, standing and vogue-ing on the bleachers that form the circumference of the large dance oval. Guys in leather, guys in drag, guys with "those" mustaches, guys wearing nothing but black underwear (the same kind I'm wearing, in fact). Every kind of "gay" you can think of is here.

I observe two guys perform a mating dance that climaxes when they flash each other their skivvies. I see a few hugs with an intensity of embrace normally reserved for hostage captives being reunited with their family.

I get some glances from men and women. None lingering.

Straight guys call a gathering with no women a sausage party. It's a derogatory term.

Black and Blue is a sausage factory.

Around 1:30am, I have to use the washroom. I somehow hoped this wouldn't happen. The hypothetical inspection shouldn't intimidate (my last name, is after all, pronounced "Big") but I'm, well, a chickenshit in a chickenhawk coop.

Put another way: I don't want a gay guy looking at my dick.

I take a breath and walk toward the light -- literally. I stand in line and lean against the brick wall of an Olympic washroom. Across from me, to my left, is a lineup of women. All attractive. All frustrated to be waiting. My line is so long I can't even see into the male washroom yet. Traditionally, the men's washroom moves faster. This is odd. I read the drug harm-reduction posters as I wait, my favourite being "Crystal is better at Tiffany's." After a few minutes I can see into the washroom. I see the yellow uniform of a security guard inside. I don't think that's standard procedure at most sporting events.

I then realize that no one is waiting to use the urinals. Everyone wants to get into the stalls to excrete and ingest. "One person per stall (Please)," is the typically Canadian poster I see in the boy's room. I pee without incident.

During the half-time show -- featuring a giant glistening gold Buddha, Circ du Soleil-style acrobatics and plenty of lasers -- I'm reminded of the words of Claude, my waxing man, who said that Black & Blue is like "Disneyland on ecstasy." However, Main Street U.S.A., from what I can recollect from my childhood, does not contain a "cuddle puddle."

Still, I decide to try and last until at least 3am, since the notice on my press accreditation agreement says "no photos after 3am." As Jean-Francois put it at the pre-party, "because afterwards it's not beautiful."

At 4 am, I receive an unsolicited ass slap. I wheel and face my slapper. He smiles. I don't.

The incident makes me cranky, even though something untoward was bound to occur. Half an hour later, while dancing with Jean-François and his friends, I feel a hand on my shoulder. "That's it," I think to myself. "Time to leave."

I turn around, primed for some kind of confrontation. "Haven't run scared yet?" says some guy. It takes me a second to recognize him -- it's Tony Fong, the fab photographer who captured my chest waxing on film. The adrenaline drains.

Another hour somehow elapses. It's now 5:30 a.m and the subway is open. It seems like a good time to leave. I try and find Rolyn and the others to say goodbye, but they are no doubt deep inside the beast's belly. I walk up the stairs, toward the exit corridor. The thump-thump-thump of bass dissipates for the first time in many hours.

At the coatcheck, I notice that there are people arriving for the party at 5:40 am. This is an incredible sight to me, even though I know Black & Blue ends around noon.

I return to the hotel and fall upon the re-orientation kit I prepared hours earlier: An ice cold bottle of Labatt 50 (slogan: just one of the boys), a bag of spicy Doritos and poorly shot, overpriced, pay-per-view pornography all call my name. A beer, some chips and $16.09 (including tax) later, I am straightened out.

* * *

I'd walked past at least five "cuddle puddles" over the course of the evening without anything happening. I discovered that the predatory, octopus-like creatures I feared are gay bogeymen. There are no monsters in the closet, so to speak.

So where does the fear come from? For some straight guys, it's almost pure reflex, hardwired into the brain; a homophobic circuitboard etched deeper with each schoolyard taunt of "fag." As if constant vigilance is the only thing keeping straight men straight.

Meanwhile, liberal het guys, if honest, will admit to knowing the evil that lurks in the hearts and the groins of men. The gay male gaze is too penetrating for comfort because it reminds us of our own bad thoughts regarding the opposite sex.

But most importantly we have no clue how to deal with gay overtures. In a New Republic column written in May of 1993, Michael Lewis argues that, "The heterosexual male was raised to pursue; suddenly he's the pursued. Having paid little attention to the sexual implications of his body language, he is justifiably unsure of what he might be saying when he isn't saying anything."

The problem, of course, was that I tried to say something, but nobody listened. I attribute the lack of pestering to the fact that I kept my shirt on all evening. My tank top jammed the gaydar. By not taking it off, I sent mixed signals. Too straight for the gay guys, too gay for the straight women.

But instead of being relieved, maybe I should be insulted. Save for an errant ass slap, nothing happened. Am I flame retardant? To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, the only thing worse than getting mistaken for gay at Black & Blue is not being mistaken for gay. My hope was to attract just enough attention to keep my ego afloat. To be able to calmly say to some guy, "Of course I'm flattered that you want to suck my cock, but unfortunately, I'm straight." Instead, some weird looking dude touched my butt.

I suppose not every fairy tale has to have a happy ending.