Here's to the Muscle Gays

Notes from the First Chair of the Self-Pity Orchestra

Miss me? I accidentally took a hiatus because I got left on read by a boy from Hinge which sent me into a fortnight long depression.

After spending much of December devouring whatever my local Sainsbury’s local confectionary aisle has on offer for me, I’ve been left wondering why I feel so naff – surely it’s got nothing to do with the lack of vitamins and exercise in my life – instead I’m going to blame the lack of attention I’ve been receiving on Grindr.

The muscle gays — they always seem to occupy that one corner of the dancefloor at a queer party. Black tank tops, veins pulsing, eyes glazed over from the MKAT. It’s almost like they’ve claimed their space, a corner where the air is thick with an aura of power, an almost untouchable confidence. The music pounds and they two-step, each movement deliberate, as if they're the star of their own private show. Watching them, I can't help but feel like an outsider — scathing, bitter, sure — but mostly, just jealous.

I’ve never been disciplined enough to hit the gym five times a week or follow a protein-heavy diet. For me, a fish finger sandwich and a stroll along the canal is about as structured as it gets. So, how could I complain? I don’t follow their regime, so of course, I’ll never look like that.

But here’s the thing. It’s not just about physical appearance — not entirely, anyway. It’s about the gap between what I am and what they represent. That effortless strength, that sculpted body that seems to carry a built-in confidence — like it’s not just something they’ve worked for, but something they are. And here I am, with my skinny frame, a bit of a beer belly, arms that don’t quite fill out a t-shirt the way I wish they did. I feel like a rough sketch, unfinished, while they’re a polished masterpiece — signed, framed, gallery-ready.

It’s a shared sentiment across the gay community — that quiet nag of you’re not enough. Grindr is a hostile space for self-acceptance. Chiseled, headless torsos as profile pics, showcasing the kind of body you’re expected to aspire to. The headless bit almost feels symbolic: you can work yourself down to bone and muscle, but still, no one sees you as a whole person. And more often than not, the ones you find attractive aren’t interested — that rejection, even when silent, cuts deep. It’s a cycle, really: looking for validation in spaces that only make you feel more invisible.

All I want, honestly, is to get shagged rotten by a big, muscly, hairy man — just once. If that’s you, enquire within.

Of course, much of this fantasy has been shaped by Tom of Finland. His men — all bulging biceps, sculpted chests, impossible thighs — are the archetypes of a masculinity that has always felt foreign to me. They’re not just beautiful, they’re unreal. Hypermasculine, hyperconfident, hypersexual. His models are my dream men: towering gods that I can’t imagine being, and certainly not attracting.

And maybe that’s the real kicker. I look at Tom of Finland’s art and feel both lust and jealousy. Lust for the men he’s drawn, jealousy for the fact that I’ll never measure up to that ideal. The irony, of course, is that those bodies — those perfect bodies — are just as much of a fantasy as the ideal they represent. Hyperreality in ink, fetishised and flawless. Maybe, deep down, I’m not really mourning the gap between my reality and theirs, but between my reality and a fiction I still wish I could touch.

I polished my violin especially for this piece – I’m playing first chair in the Orchestra of self-pity.

But I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels like this within the community. I know for a fact I’ve left a trail of broken hearts, much like I am a broken heart following the sexy, unattainable men. For my straight readers — iya, you’re probably thinking this all sounds increasingly hyperbolic, but stick with me. You lot moan when someone doesn’t text you back; I’m out here spiraling over a headless torso. I’m just trying to shag Hercules.

Must admit, I'm getting a little worked up now just thinking about those big beefy guys. Honestly, can you blame me? It’s hard not to get a bit flustered when the mind starts wandering there — I mean, it's practically impossible not to daydream about them, and suddenly my mind’s halfway down the gutter, waving from the sewer.

The thing is, once you’re in that mindset, it’s a slippery slope. Big muscly men aren’t just a Grindr phenomenon — oh no, they’re everywhere. It’s like they’ve unionised. Case in point: it’s late, you’re in bed, and instead of doing something wholesome like reading, you’ve opened up X — where the algorithm is pretty much your enabler. (Cheers, Elon, for not touching the gay porn.)

One innocent scroll becomes a rabbit hole, and before you know it, two ridiculously ripped men — or three, or four, depending on your search habits — are wrestling in glorious HD before your eyes. By this point, I’ve forgotten what I was even scrolling for.

Suddenly, you realise that this is all very unattainable. – How the fuck are they sculpted like that, and do these big beefy men only want to bone other big beefy men? Where does that leave me? Who actually wants to shag me? And just like that, the cycle begins — now I feel clapped, and my hard-on has vanished quicker than my self-esteem.

But now I’m just as bad — a hater, a cynic, all round nasty: tearing down others because they don’t fit my ideals, much like I’ve convinced myself that I don’t fit theirs.

In the end, maybe we're all just searching - not for the perfect body, but for the courage to love the one we've got. And if that doesn't work? There's always Sainsbury's local and another packet of digestives.