This place of latria is a staple part of any community. It is, of course, the gym. Within these divine halls you can build and tone, do cardio and Tae Bo, and perfect the temple that is your body. exactly for gay men, it is our church, the holy place we got to find absolution from carbohydrates, where our artlessness is baptized in bulimia and steroids, and where we flock to pursue buyback and perfection. It is where we find self validation through comparison, and inadequacy through vision. Where we once sought refuge to break stereotypes has now move around a nexus to perpetuate the myth of our narcissism.
The original supplicant was simple; the gym offered a place to train our bodies, so that one day at our high school reunion, we could come out Billy Weston how we had traded our garish glasses for bulging biceps while he had traded his pigskin for a paunch. It is where we could go to transform ourselves from the oppressed Urkels to envied Adonises. With every lumber of iron we pumped, we were not just increasing muscle mass, but inflating our self-esteem to recover from the damage dad dealt when he make us throw a ball. Much like spigot Benatar and her menacing cadre of prostitutes, we would show the world that we were strong, and that no one could tell us that we were wrong. We were given the chance to change our shape from victimized weaklings to master of our physical domains.
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