Fridae

Many heterosexuals who assume that gay men throw like limp-wristed girls have obviously never meant a sporty gay.

A sporty gay, as the term implies, refers to a select group of gay men who are athletic and pursue their passion for sports with a fervent usually associated with Jehovah Witnesses. Unlike tanning saloon-visiting muscle marys from the gym who would rather die than break a nail serving a beach volleyball, sporty gays are the real thing.

In general, sporty gays spot an undeniable hearty and robust look that makes their more sedentary counterparts such as myself want to lie down. Moreover, sporty gays usually come complete with a tan that lasts longer than water-proof mascara and wear their hair cut GI short.

Sporty gays can usually be found at the beach engaged in beach volleyball, at water marinas participating in sea sports, at blister-causing marathons and at sports shops going ga-ga over the latest lightweight sporting equipment.

A fashionable wardrobe (and I am using the term very loosely here) for the sporty gay consists mainly of tank tops, T-shirts, sweatpants and shorts. For that formal occasion, they might even consider donning a brand new mylar tracksuit and a new pair of sneakers. As a general rule of thumb, sporty gays almost never use cologne and their skin care routine consists mainly of applying and then removing insect repellent.

If you are not a sporty gay yourself - and have no intentions of becoming one - it is important to remember never to consider dating or going out with one. This is especially important if you, like myself, resemble a distressed "fashion don't" more than a bona fide sports ace after putting on the most butch of sports attire and carrying the most fearsome looking sports equipment.

Believe me, I should know. I once had the misfortune of dating a sporty gay. And that, given my languid disposition and inability to tolerate even my own sweat, is a sure recipe for disaster.

The sporty gay in question was a high-school Physical Education teacher (aren't they all?). Even if he didn't have an actual whistle hanging around his neck or a large clipboard permanently attached to his arm, he was so prime a sporty specimen that I half-expected him, at our first meeting, to switch to a drill-sergeant persona and bark out commands of the "You're such a weak lily liver pansy!" variety.

Despite my warning bells, I was, to my eternal regret, utterly besotted with him. And all because he had thighs the size of tree trunks, biceps the size of small boulders and looked absolutely delightful in his white ensemble of polo-tee and tennis shorts.

Thus when he asked me out for a picnic, I found myself agreeing without giving the matter further thought. Assuming that he meant a picnic of the sit-under-a-shady-tree-at-the-Botanic-Gardens-and-watch-the-world-go-by sort, I volunteered to prepare some refreshments for our picnic. Nothing too extravagant - just the usual three-course meal involving my Waterford Fine China (and their matching Barons Court napkins) and a simple Ikebana arrangement as centerpiece.

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When the sporty gay picked me up in his spacious big black jeep, I was beside myself with a heady sense of adventure. Sitting in his jeep, my first indication that something wasn't right came when the city slicker in me noticed that concrete pavements and gleaming towers were soon replaced by wilderness on both sides of the road. Still, I felt safe and secure because I am a trusting person and my date had thighs engorged with muscles that flexed enticingly each time he stepped on the accelerator (ok, ok, I have a thigh fetish - so what?).

After driving for what seemed like forever, the sporty gay parks in the center of what looks like an uninhabited section of the Amazon jungle. He then alighted and pulled out a pair of extra hiking boots from the boot of his car and insisted that I put them on even after I protested that they clashed with my outfit.

Feigning cheerfulness to hide my rising horror, I casually asked where the picnic site was. "It's just around the corner. A short trek along this path and then up the slope. Nothing to it!" I looked around in wild panic - there was no well-treaded path, at least not of the tar-paved sort and the slope was so steep that it was practically a landslide waiting to happen. At this point, my eye started to twitch uncontrollably, my well-moisturized lips started to quiver unashamedly and my armpits started to sweat unbecomingly.

To cut a long story short, I was led on a most tiring trek through the woods - all the while carrying my Ralph Lauren picnic basket like tragic Little Red Riding Hood after a nasty run-in with the Big Bad Wolf. Despite my obvious distress, he ordered me to push on like a gym teacher on crack.

I finally lost it when the sporty gay refused to stop even when my newly blistered ankles (no thanks to his hiking boots!) began to bleed profusely. I then realized that the only way I would ever escape my jungle ordeal would be to feign injury.

In sheer desperation, I threw myself to the ground (note: I insist that I am so NOT a drama queen) and in the process, managed to hurt myself more than I had planned. With furrowed eyebrows, the sporty gay gingerly examined my twisted ankle, then lifted me up with his strong arms and carried me the whole way back to his jeep like a powerful packhorse.

Although by then I was delirious with fatigue and pain, the irony of the situation was not lost on me: my sporty date who was responsible for placing my life in jeopardy in the first place had also turned out to be my savior.

Still I was too happy about finally being able to return to civilization to truly care and in a weak moment of gratitude, I told him he was my hero (much to his delight). In his jeep, I resolved never to date another sporty gay again - until I caught sight of his sweat-covered thighs bulging after the downhill workout and my resolve started to crumble...