By Brent Dorian Carpenter
"Pain is weakness leaving the body."
This philosophy was shared with me by a fellow member of Powerhouse Gym, and it's certainly one I can certify with weary joints and aching muscles. I strongly suspect that those who find daily fulfillment in torturing their bodies are sadomasochists, and the designer of the workout equipment was none other than the Marquis de Sade himself. Nevertheless, as I witness the stunning transformation in my mirror, I can attest to the joy and benefit of a stronger, healthier, more beautiful body.
There is a strange dynamic at work at my gym. I have heard for years that it is a hotbed for undercover overtures, and while it is true that I am finally seeing evidence of the down low phenomenon at work, rare has been the opportunity for me to find such sexual sport. In spite of the accusations I have weathered of being a gym bunny, believe it or not, I actually attend because I desperately desire to conquer the ravages of weight and age before I slip out of my thirties.
Recently, following my televised interview on Fox 2 News related to my involvement in the Homophobia Town Hall, I found myself at the gym one evening as the front desk TV was playing the local evening news. Heavens to Murgatroid! It's one thing to be as publicly out as I am in virtually every aspect of life. It's entirely another matter to be out at the gym, given the locker room scenario and endless testosterone posturing. I was faced with one of those classic gay moments where I had to decide what to do – flee the scene and dive for the safety of the closet, or stand my ground and live up to the virtue of what I was on television speaking about. One way or another, my not-so secret "secret" was out.
Thus far, the only sign of a problem came in the form of one of the managers, a young guy who has always been extremely friendly and helpful in our dealings. The day after that interview ran, his disposition changed. Although he still spoke, he became noticeably aloof and would go out of his way to avoid me. This went on for over a week until finally he called me over to the reception desk. Uh oh, I thought to myself, here it comes.
Sure enough, he began asking questions. Now, understand I am one of those fags who will not hesitate to tell the truth to anyone ballsy enough to ask if I am gay. This young man, however, seemed to genuinely struggle with reconciling the reality that I presented to him. I imagine that in his mind, he saw me as quite the baffling contradiction. Homosexuals are supposed to be afraid to be found out and exposed. Yet here was one who was not only not afraid, but was on TV talking about homophobia and ways to combat it, then had the audacity to show his face in potentially one of the most homophobic environments imaginable. And with a workout partner who was increasingly obviously his "workout partner."
After beating around the bush, the best he could manage was to ask if I thought there were many black gay men. As I surveyed the scene behind him, I mentally counted no less than five down low brothas (plus Mark and myself) out of 20 people in the building. "There's more than a few," I replied with a wide grin on my face.
A couple of weeks have gone by, and he has slowly returned to his usual affable self. I wonder how much of that is attributable to the fact that I never once let him see me sweat with discomfort about the subject, and how much is colored by the fact that Mark and I have become the popular "It" couple that all those behemoth men, straight, gay, bi or whatever they identify as, come running over to greet us, chat, and otherwise get into our mix?
If this young fellow has said anything to anyone else, or if they saw the interview for themselves, I have seen no signs of hostility as a result. Moreover – and this is the real shit and giggles part – the other day when I was working out on a machine to build up my chest and wings, I was surreptitiously watching the gym janitor, this hard, fine textbook example of straight trade, in the mirror as his jaw dropped in astonishment when he saw the amount of weight I was pressing – 170 pounds. No this boy didn't leap off his railing and come around to the front of the machine to confirm the amount stenciled on the front of that mass of metal bars. I can't describe what an erotic feeling it was to know that a fag was capable of inspiring that kind of awe in a straight boy.
I may not enjoy the love of these men, but I seem to have gained their respect. I have said since our town hall that I have a newfound sense of pride and confidence in myself, and that, in light of the astonishing events unfolding daily following the Supreme Court decision decriminalizing homosexuality, we are living witnesses to a glorious gay revolution. Perhaps one more legacy that I can leave behind is helping foster an environment where an openly gay man can walk into his gym and nobody cares what he does in his bedroom, because he admirably shares the common dedication and drive to achieve the goal of body, spirit and serenity. Or perhaps because he's man enough to banish that pain of weakness by just showing his face in the place.
