Fat Bottomed Gays

This post is brought to you by a delightful Sunday morning Americano at Delany’s Coffee House on Denman Street. Finding a neighbourhood coffee shop in Vancouver that is not owned by a global corporation is almost impossible. That is why Delany’s is the ultimate respite for a double espresso soul such as my self. It is warm, cozy and always packed with eligible gay men. Now that I am back on the market, I decided this would be the perfect place to not only gain exposure; but also establish myself as an up and coming slim writer.

Speaking of waistlines, I had a mandatory Fitness Assessment yesterday at Trevor Linden’s Club 16. Facing the water and mountains, the gym is the perfect place to jog on the treadmill and watch the float planes take off and land. Upon registration last week, I was scheduled an appointment with a personal trainer to complete the dreaded body composition. The “body comp,” as those in the know like to call it, is a test which reveals approximately how many glasses of red wine and slices of frozen pizza you have consumed in the last eight to twelve months. It is pretty much a lie detector test for personal trainers.

My appointment was at 11:30am, so after work on Friday night I made a point of coming straight home as to a) avoid trouble and b) wake up the picture of perfect health. Three hours of NetFlix and seventeen glasses of red wine later, I was putting my jacket on and getting ready to go out. The next morning my eyes opened aghast as the clock struck 11:00am. My alarm clock did not go off primarily due to the fact that I forgot to set it. I rolled out of bed and in to my Steve Madden loafers, then jogged down the seawall in the same Ben Sherman shirt I wore out the night before.

With one minute to spare, I sprinted in to the change room and whipped Hunter out from over my shoulder. Now that I have decided to turn over a new leaf in life, Hunter has been moonlighting as a gym bag. I pulled up my gym shorts, threw on my grey shirt and tied up my New Balance shoes. Stumbling to the sink, I splashed water in my face and tried to wipe the bloodshot from my eyes. I reported to the front desk and could barely put together a sentence my mouth was so dry.

“Fat test … Rugged Fox … 11:30am” I gasped.

Fortunately, the handsome receptionist could pick up what I was putting down. So he paged Samantha over the loud speaker and passed me a large white form to fill out and a pen.

“Complete this self-assessment and Samantha will take it from there.” This man was nothing but business.

I looked at the questions and felt my hands started shaking. I had not been this nervous about filling out a form since the last time I got tested for an STI.  

NAME: Rugged Fox, obvs

AGE: 27

SEX: Not in the last six months



DO YOU SMOKE? Only when I drink

A finger tapped on my right shoulder and I turned around to see the lady of the hour. Samantha was nothing like I had expected her to be. I had anticipated a 5 foot 3, ponytailed brunette who had enough energy to fuel a back-up generator for a year. She was tall, had short hair and was surprisingly calm. She took the sheet from my hand and led me her to office.

“So how long have you been a member?” she asked.

“Six days.”

“Have you had a membership to another gym before?”


 “What made you stop going?”


I liked this girl. She was a straight shooter. Sitting behind her desk, she read over all the clever answers to my questions and then proceeded to ask me several more.

“How do you control your stress level working as a Restaurant Manager?”

“Easy,” I said pulling out my iPhone. I then showed her a picture of my favourite bottle of French Grenache.

“What is your relationship with food like?”

Wiping a single tear from my eye, I took a deep breath and then went in to great detail about my recent divorce from chicken parmesan and my ongoing struggle with Dr. Oetker frozen pizza. I felt my performance was dramatic enough that she was going to let me off the hook for the body comp but that was not the case.

Moments after I blew my nose for the third time, Samantha stood and up and pulled a scale out from under the desk.

“Now, just put your two feet on here,” she instructed me, “and don’t worry about taking your shoes off.”

“Meryl Streep help me,” I whispered to my self. I stood up on the machine, turned my head and looked Sam straight in the eyes. Beads of sweat dripped down my forehead.

“Promise me you will subtract two pounds for my runners.”

“You have nothing to worry about.” 

 “PROMISE ME!” I screamed.

 “Alright … I promise.”

 “Thank you.”

The scale beeped and I sat back down. The next part of the test was the heart rate and love handle calculation. I placed my arm through the grip in front of me and rested my palm on the metal sensor. My shoulders grew tense as I felt the brace grow tighter around my arm. It was at that point I flashed back to the very first time I took this test. It was two days after I turned 24 and not even two months since I had moved to Vancouver. I was malnourished, underweight and severely dehyrdated. Those were the days, I sighed.

The grip released and the computer screen suddenly lit up while the printer started to spit out pages. The jury was out folks we have a verdict! To my complete surprise, the test results were not as devastating as I thought. Although, it was true I did gain eighteen pounds since I changed jobs, my heart was beating and my body fat percentage was still under three digits. I am fairly sure the machine was broken though because it also told me I was hydrated, which was preposterous.

When all was said and done, Sam wished me an excellent work-out and I proceeded to hit the showers. I left the gym and walked next door to de Dutch for breakfast. I ordered an Orange Juice and kindly refused the server after she tried to up sell me to a mimosa.

“Baby steps Mr. Fox, baby steps.”