He goes to my gym and is always at the weight stacks. Nice arms. Source: Wikipedia
It’s an undeniable fact that Vancouver is a bizarre city. There’s some contention as to whether or not you can use the adjectives ‘International’ and ‘Cosmopolitan’ to describe this fair place we call home, because to some it’s a bustling gateway between Asia and North America and to others it’s a celeb-obsessed, pseudo bohemian hamlet too far West for anyone to give a rip about it. To me it’s just gay. I don’t mean the slanderous “Don’t be so gay,” gay, but the literal, capital ‘G’ kind. It’s GHEY!
I think when I first moved here, the city merely seemed more liberal in comparison to the cities I’d lived in Alberta. The people here appeared more open minded and on more than one occasion I would get introduced to someone and his or her “partner,” which was something that would have never happened in Little Texas. Of course this was six years ago and I think that since then, there has been a steady, rainbow-coloured stream filtering into the city. I may have a slightly inaccurate cross-section from which to judge the population though.
A couple weeks ago I signed up at the new YMCA centre on Burrard Street. Now, I already have a gym membership at the decaying Kits Workout on 4th and Cypress but because it’s summer (well…sort of) and because I vowed to become a better swimmer and because the combined cost of the two memberships was still less expensive than a single trip to Whole Foods, I decided to join the ranks of fanatical, image obsessed Vancouverites with multiple gym passes. If I feel like slumming it and risk contracting a strange bacterial infection, I’ll do a workout in Kits (honestly, the place is drrrty) and if I want to see how the other half lives and witness first hand how a full-grown man is able to work out in a sequined size-zero onesie, then I’ll head to the YMCA. Both have their own unique charm but they share one major similarity: they’re both outrageously homosexual, and not just because I’m there.
Now obviously the YMCA has a solid history with the gays ever since the Village People immortalized the facilities in their iconic anthem, but I think there’s more to it than that. Gays have a tendency to flock en masse to the newest and best and I tell you friend, this place is crazy sauce. The inside of it resembles a spaceship of sorts, with multiple “decks” featuring different amenities. There’s the ozone pool with the floor that mechanically moves up and down to adjust the depth and there’s the locker room with the spinning machines that miraculously whirl your swimsuit dry. Then there’s the weight room with a selection of completely digitized equipment that allows you to have a simulated personal trainer guide you through your fat loss. The male “trainer” is a blonde, rather buff looking mandroid who instructs you to squeeze your glutes as you pedal on the spinning bike. Again, gay. There’s also a “Reflection Room,” but nobody uses it.
The main thing I’ve noticed though is how the gays begin to set up something of a traditional social structure when they’re in such high concentrations. I’m reminded of the movie Land of the Dead where the zombies have more or less taken over the world and only a few outposts of humanity remain. When left alone, the zombies began to adopt behavior reminiscent of the humans: they went on dates, held down jobs, pumped gas, raised their families and watered their gardens. To outsiders they looked like a regular Joes just going about their business. The same goes for the gays at the ‘Y’. I’m sure I’ll be crucified for comparing my people to the living dead but if you happen to take in a workout downtown you’ll see what I’m talking about.
At the YMCA, the gay social hierarchy is obvious and well defined. There are the Muscle Heads (the gays on steroids who stick to the free weights) the Cheer Squad (the gays on steroids who stay on the machines and wear the above mentioned onesies) the Jocks (the gays on steroids who stick to the basketball courts) the Nerds (the gays on steroids who read while on the ellipticals) and the lesbians (the gays on steroids who date women). The groups are well defined and don’t intermingle much except to cruise a bit or to ask if a machine is in use. Looking around you’d swear that we’ve taken over the world.
I was talking to a guy at my gym in Kitsilano one afternoon just after I finished my workout. Between talk about the weather and him trying to interest me in a cycle of steroids (‘Gear’ he called it) I informed him of my new membership at the YMCA where I go with my partner, Matt. He paused for a moment considering the statement and I anticipated a punch to the chin. Instead he smiled, told me he was thinking of getting a membership there himself because “all those guys are good customers,” and if I changed my mind about adding 20 lbs of lean muscle to my frame I knew where to find him, same went for my partner. How nice.
I think it’s the total normalcy of the gayness that makes this city seem so flamboyant. I mean, if a 250 lb drug dealer isn’t fazed by someone’s orientation then I think it’s safe to say that nobody is. We’ve arguably entered the age of the “boring gay,” where we’re no longer screamingly fabulous queens or the outrageous “Betchs” of decades past. Ultimately that’s the whole point I think: for gays to be thought of as typical, ordinary people. I doubt if I’ll ever get to the point where sequins don’t seem out of place or even all together ridiculous in a gym (or anywhere) but I suppose I could stand to be a little less shockable. After all, these guys are just people who, when they’re not working out are just average Joes who go on dates, hold down jobs, pump gas, water lawns and raise families and if they do it with the help of a little “Gear,” it’s only to help them fill out the onesie that they throw on for old time’s sake
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