Gay Sneetches
I met a lot of hots. It didn't turn out how I thought.
Hola!
Hey All, welcome to the new format. All my “thoughtful” content is now migrated over to my business Substack, so this is the place where I’ll just talk a lot of nonsense.
This month, I’ll be giving updates and then rolling into a new blog post! One person texted me about why I wasn’t publishing on my blog, so I assume everyone else is also frothing in anticipation.
Anywaaaaay, to the life and writing updates!
Updates!
The past month has been what a Boomer may describe as a “real hoot”. There’s been travel (fun!) and business things (challenging!) and lots of social media posting (awful!).
So here’s the quick updates:
Emilio and I got to spend New Year’s with his family in Mexico, which was a blast. One, big takeaway is that I really need to work on my Spanish.
I’ve been working on my entrepreneurial venture.
The highlights: Meeting lots of cool business owners through networking; reconnecting with old pals on LinkedIn; feeling like I have a strategy and direction.
The lowlights: As mentioned, social media. Lots of posting and nobody cares. You know the scene in Chicago where Velma Kelly does her big dance number and Roxy looks disinterested? That’s the vibe. (If you don’t know, shame on you. But, also, enjoy!)
In terms of writing:
I’ve been working on a novel project. It’s the first time I’ve ventured into a horror area. I’m following a very wild and meandering path as the story unfolds.
I’ve also been polishing up some short stories for publication. The goal in the first half of this year is to send out a bunch of stuff and see what happens. I need to prepare for the rejection of querying my novel later this year.
That’s the big stuff.
Oh! It was also my birthday! I’m 41. Emilio shared that the number 41 actually means something unique in Mexico about the LGBTQ community. That was cool to learn!
High five to all my fellow Capricorns!
To round out this post, the promised blog post. You can also check it out on my website.
Don’t Get Snatched to Get Sneetched!
I’m not a rave person. I tried it, but I never really understood the draw. I went to one for the first time in my late 20s and couldn’t figure out what exactly was happening. No one was dancing, but everyone was kind of shuffling. As someone who is VERY into actually dancing, this confused me. After an inquiry into the subject, I found that what my experience was missing was lots of drugs.
But, again, not really my thing.
A while ago, though, my friends and I went to a rave while we were visiting Madrid. It was one of those “when in Rome”/“Yolo!” situations. We wanted to see what it was all about, and since it was Pride weekend, there was plenty of opportunity to see lots of…things.
Before even arriving at the event, I should highlight that I felt old. Literally like someone taking granny out for dinner at 8 pm instead of 5. The party didn’t start until 11, which meant that it was (evidently) social suicide to show up before 12:30. So we waited in our friends’ hotel room, drinking the port that was free in their minibar.
Yes, port—as if the granny vibes couldn’t get more intense.
I expected the event to be a little crazy: it was Pride; the party was in a big warehouse 30 minutes from the city center; people were in town from all over Europe (and the world); etc.
What I did not expect was being in a room with 2000+ of the hottest men on the entire planet.
THIS IS NOT AN EXAGGERATION (I know I’m prone to them…)
The moment we pulled up in our Uber, we were met with a wall of 8-packs. Not even 6-packs. The 6-pack fatties were probably put out back with a trough of lard.
I searched the waiting men for ONE PERSON outside the club who didn’t look like they were beamed directly from a ChatGPT AI prompt of “homosexual adonis”, but everyone looked like they were from an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog circa 1999.
I later would say (and would take a lot of flack) that I rarely enter a space where I’m in the bottom 5% in terms of looks and physical shape.
In this line, I looked like a short, chonky, whale.
These men were botoxed, roided, sculpted, shaped, defined, and pumped: they had manicured beards, toes, and fingers; their chest hairs were trimmed like they were bonsai trees.
There is an odd feeling when you enter a space with so many hot men.
At first, yes, it’s the classic Looney Tunes response: “AROOGAH!”
But after you see your 37th roided-out muscle queen, a follow-up question emerges: “Are these guys okay?”
Like, really. When I’m on Instagram and see a gay doctor who has a 6-pack, I want to reach out. Not from any kind of romantic interest, but to ask if they need to talk and, also, how is their relationship with their father?
By the time we got in the door and had seen muscle gays 38-219, it was kind of…boring. My friend, who has no desire to be a muscle queen, said, “You know, I think I’d clean up here if I were single. Absolutely no one else has any personality.”
It was true. The norm was 6’0+ with 18-inch biceps, 8 abs, and a dump truck booty in tiny shorts. Which…when you see 500 of them, you’re kind of like… “How would you even choose?”
But they had a system! Some guys were running around thrusting their tongues down every other man’s throat. Some were running around with glazed pupils, embracing new substances. Some were looking aloof, swaying to music while a (somehow) even larger, more roided muscle man danced on stage.
I don’t know if it’s because I am old or was somehow jealous or just bored, but I kind of hated it. If you had told 21-year-old Tedd that he’d find himself in a room with 2000 gorgeous men and would prefer being at home watching The Gilded Age, I would have scoffed. SCOFFED!
But, at that moment, I would have much preferred hanging out with Agnes van Rijan.
There was no reason to hate it that much. It was fine. Hot men swaying and making out in an overheated warehouse/shed. I mean, there are worse things.
There were some intolerable guys there. I got a drink and a man with a little neck scarf (which was such a fashion choice since he was shirtless in micro shorts, but, hey, as mentioned, if you want to stick out in a wall of beef, you have to get creative), was yammering on about his study abroad experience. Even the bartender hated him and went to me before him. I was kind, though, and pointed to him so he could go first. Which didn’t get me a “thank you” but rather a “yes, that’s right” as he continued to talk about his classes in “Barthelona”.
We did eventually migrate outside and had a much better time. There was a DJ playing songs instead of just beats, and it was about 25 degrees cooler.
It’s also there that I had my brain melted.
Because outside, I saw two men in a kind of courtship dance. They were gyrating against each other—both perfect 10s: muscular, quaffed, and sculpted.
But then one went in for the kiss and the other firmly rejected him. The kisser then got a little desperate and went in again, to which the other 10 turned away and scampered into the crowd.
And that’s when my brain melted. Because…like what do you do?! If you look perfect and have 8 abs, giant biceps, a 6’4” frame, and manicured chest hair, and still get rejected on a dance floor—what does it mean?
And then I thought of the Sneetches.
If you don’t know, “The Sneetches” is a brilliant Dr. Seuss story about a group of birds. Half the birds have stars on their bellies and discriminate against the half that don’t. Then a grifter comes into town and creates a star-on machine to give the non-starred Sneetches stars, which causes the real-starred Sneetches to get angry, so the same grifter creates a star-off machine that lets them remove their stars. Chaos ensues because of this arbitrary difference between the birds and the discrimination between star v. no-star.
And I realized that no matter how perfect you look, you can always get Sneetched.
“I mean he’s only 6’3”.”
“I don’t like chest hair.”
“He’s fine, but he doesn’t have a tiny neck scarf.”
“He needs to develop his upper back muscles more.”
There can always be an arbitrary, isolated part of you that makes you undesirable, no matter how (stereotypically) perfect you are.
Which was kind of a liberating thing to know, but also completely disorienting. Because in gay world, you’re told to aspire to that. So when you see the peak of the mountain and you just realize that it’s a big dumb rock, you don’t know what to do. Or I didn’t. For days, I mulled over this scene. Not just the 10 being rejected by another 10, but the fact that I didn’t like being surrounded by hots and actually got quite bored of it by the end.
But I think I’m just getting older (maybe wiser?!) and don’t really want to stand in a crowd of sweaty men on PEDs listening to a speaker thump. I’d rather be at home on the couch with Emilio watching The Gilded Age. Or in a dingy club with friends, not swaying, but actually dancing to songs with lyrics.
You, know, bottom 5% stuff.
I leave you with a final PSA, that if you do know a hot gay doctor with too many abs, check in. They may have just been rejected by another 10. Also, maybe give them a copy of The Velvet Rage.
And if that fails to make them feel any better, tell them you know of a great party in Madrid. And maybe encourage them to buy a little neck scarf.
Conclusion
Thanks for reading! I hope your 2026 is starting out amaaaazing! If it’s not, don’t go to a warehouse party, it will only make it worse.
Over the past month, I’ve become a little obsessed with the artist Griff. She’s made a bunch of right bangers, so I leave you with my current fave.
The only inaccuracy here is that you present your flack as if it has passed. ;)
Happy belated birthday, Tedd! Loved your blog post - hilarious. I needed the humor; thank you!