Dearly beloved, we gather here to say our goodbyes... to twinks?
Don't ask me. Lord knows I far prefer the smooth, twenty-something look of the much heralded twink. And last time I checked, there's no shortage of the young, toned, and coiffed variety of gay here in NYC.
However, it gave me pause just now when I stumbled across an article in the Village Voice called: Why Bears Are the New Twinks.
In the article, the author, that snarky gay who's ever-so-awkward in person, Michael Musto, alleges that the twink is dead, and the reign of Bear has begun.
"Are twinks gradually becoming the world's most endangered species since the kangaroo rat? Sure, their trim forms, asymmetrical hairstyles, and piercing squeals whenever a Lady Gaga song comes on are as adorable as ever, but it seems it's bears that are currently rising with a fiercer bullet in the hierarchy of gay body types. Bears are trumping chicken!The chubby, hairy gays are way better organized as a community and, as gym fascism wanes a bit, they've ratcheted up their acceptance as available sexual objects (which is good news for my own trajectory, especially if I gain just five more pounds and a hint of taint stubble). They're more in tune with the earthier, less narcissistic era we're apparently entering..."
I don't know about Michael, but maybe he should go out a bit more. Now, don't get me wrong, I've nothing against bears, besides the fact that everything that defines them I find not at all attractive. But as a subset of the gay community, they have just as much a right to exist as twinks, foot fetishists, club kids, and drag queens.
But really, Michael? Do you need to be so DRAMATIC? The twink is dead? I have about 1,000 Facebook friends that you should chat with. Or maybe you should look around you at all those parties I see you frequenting. Or maybe at the trove of twinks that seem to follow you wherever you go.
Sure, I'd love to hear bears are in season. I could stop eating so little. I could put my bodygroomer aside. I could revel in the masculinity that people tell me is a natural gift of mine.
Maybe, just maybe, what's in vogue is being yourself and not slaying your free time with the help of David Barton and the local bikini waxer. That I can abide by. That's fine. Lord knows I am no specimen of physical perfection. I've got a bit of mass to me. I'm glad to hear that I don't need to walk around with a finger down my throat to get someone's attention.
But really? Suddenly the West Village is the Country Bear Jamboree? Sorry babe, I just don't buy it.