THE HOMEOWNER

Thursday, October 23, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Homeowner: Groove is in the heart

By Mike Prevatt

I'm 27 years old and I have a cardiologist. You have no idea what a frustrating concept that is.

If there was one thing I could always rely on, with regard to my health, it was my ticker. My stomach turned on me in college, but I could deal with such nuisances knowing my circulatory system was in tip-top shape. That changed earlier this year, when, after experiencing dizzy spells and head rushes, my new cardiologist ascertained that I likely had a blockage in one of my main arteries, which doesn't make me a candidate for angioplasty surgery just yet, but actually increases my risk for a heart attack. So, I was put on "medicinal therapy," and I was told to "do cardio" exercise three or four times a week.

I've long wanted to put some muscle on my slight frame, but I'm such a bad homeowner. Not only am I lazy, but I flagrantly break the rule all gay men must abide by: Participation in homosexual mating rituals requires physical evidence of acceptable fitness, like an abdominal grid and shirt-stretching pecs. I have been in serious denial about this--I just figured we buffed up so homophobes would be less inclined to front--but, y'know, anything involving gay men is tweaked to increase the efficiency of sexual gratification.

After an unsuccessful search for a local workout partner on the Net--I missed the memo explaining that "workout buddy" really means "fuck buddy"--I realized I would have to aim for momentum and go to the gym every day if this was going to work. Here's the day-by-day account of my first week:

Tuesday: I belong to a chain gym, so I find the gayest one within 25 miles. It's quieter than I imagined--everyone must be home for "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy." As I walk to the locker room, I notice towels are not encouraged. One exhibitionist who clearly needs to hit the Stairmaster is standing in the corridor, tuggin' away. I'm so unnerved by this, I look down at the ground all the way to the changing area, until I'm forced to look at some other guy, standing naked in front of the whirring hand dryer on the wall [cue blow job joke]. I limit my cardio exercise to 20 minutes and, without changing, scram shortly thereafter.

Wednesday: I hit another gym closer to me. This branch is decidedly more heterosexual, the guys shooting looks that seem to say, "Whaddya lookin' at, pal?" rather than "Will you look at my cock already?" So, I rush through some upper-body work, actually break a sweat and successfully develop those post-lifting shakes. Just as I head to my car, glad no one I know sees me walking around all damp and jittery, two longtime friends emerge in my path. I don't recall speaking coherently.

Thursday: I've got to be somewhere in the evening, so I go back to the closer gym for cardio. The two groups of elliptical machines are seemingly divided by gender. Of course I'm trying to find the gay participants, but none of them trips my gaydar. A lesbian picks the machine on my left, spoiling our section's continuity. I look over, but now worry that she thinks I'm checking her out. I spot a fellow 'mo near the dumbbells--his shorts are shorter than anyone else's and his skin glistens with not sweat but moisturizer. Another fag candidate keeps looking my way. Now I'm all self-conscious.

Friday: I hurt my hamstring a week ago while doing yoga, so I can't do weights using my legs. I feel guilty, so I take an hour-long walk instead. The only thing gay about walking in your parents' neighborhood is the walking-in-your-parents'-neighborhood part. No latent cruising tonight.

Saturday: After attending my alma mater's football game, I gleefully head down to the gayer gym and hit the weight machines. The guys there are mostly older--duh! It's a Saturday night!--but the younger guys look like they're on the prowl, too. I see someone checkin' me out--yes! Naturally, I do nothing about this.

Sunday: My day is scheduled around my gym visit, which I accomplish before dinnertime. I do 25 minutes of cardio this time, but there are no sexy guys in the treadmill or stationary bike room--just girls reading Vogue. I get my heart rate up to 165, get changed and find a nearby Baja Fresh.

Monday: I have rushed through my column just to make time for the gym, and yet, my whole body is sore. I can't disrupt my groove--I'll never get it back! Okay, I'll do cardio again, or do 10 sets of stomach crunches or, I don't know, something! After all, this is my heart and my sex life we're talking about!

The Homeowner appears biweekly. Send your comments and nude pics (especially if you look like Wes from "Boy Meets Boy") to oughtabeinporn@yahoo.com.
I spot a fellow 'mo near the dumbbells--his shorts are shorter than anyone else's and his skin glistens with not sweat but moisturizer.