I, object

So I went to a bear meeting. Before your mind snaps from trying to imagine me frolicking in a woodland setting, allow me to explain: it’s not real bears. Rather, it is gay men who are hirsute and not slaves to the body fascism which permeates our culture, especially gay culture: they’re fat. I went because, well, gay, hairy, and not gym rat pretty much forces you to go. Also, I kind of like them. I mean, sure: skinny guys can be cute but I also likes me a man with a little junk in his trunk. In fact… well, let’s not tell that story right now. Let’s leave it at I had to learn the hard way that the expression “more cushion for the pushin’” is more than just a crude rhyme, it’s actually VERY sound advice. I mean, after five hours, you come away with the expectation of crotch bruises.
Anyway, I was easily one of the hottest guys at the bear meeting. Given my prior description of the participants (gay, hairy, fat) this may come as absolutely no surprise to you. It may also sound like an Ed Asner look-a-like convention, but it’s your mental image, not mine. This blazingly obvious hotness was new and exciting to me: never before in my conscious knowledge have so many men obviously objectified me. They kept coming over to touch me, stealing glances, trying to take my clothes off, partially succeeding… I’ll finish there.
I did actually meet some very nice guys, a couple of whom actually weren’t old enough to be my biological father or grandfather. Even more exciting, the absolutely hottest guy (to me) in the room was checking ME out, and furthermore, came over to feel ME up. I KNOW! So, while I am conscious of the fact that it is wrong to objectify people, and while I am sure that I will eventually grow tired of the constant attention to my appearance instead of my dazzling personality and razor-sharp wit, I’M PRETTY! I’M A SEXY BITCH! I HAVE SIZZLE IN MY SAUCEPAN, BABY! I would write more, but I have to go brush my hair a hundred times. My chest hair.