Bad Gay: Episode 8

A few months ago, I joined a gay swimming club. It’s a “masters” group, which just means you’re too old to be on a college team. It has nothing to do with skill, which I prove weekly.

I’m actually a good swimmer. I prefer open water swimming and can swim miles in lakes—no matter how rocky. But I’m not very fast.

The swim team is made up primarily of young, fit guys who have made me realize the definition of the “swimmer’s body” I often see heralded in gay guy personal ads. I’m neither young nor do I have a swimmer’s body, but I’m good natured and not easily offended. So, I didn’t get into a snit when the coach assigned me to the “slow lane” without even watching me swim a few laps.

The slow lane is located at the far end of the pool—far enough from the coach barking orders at the fast lanes that we can’t understand a damn thing he’s saying. So, we just make up our own drills, which are equal parts swimming and hanging onto the side of the pool, gossiping and planning where we’re going for drinks post practice.

I’m happy to report that I’m not the slowest swimmer on the team—not by a longshot. In fact, most of the swimmers in the slow lane are speedier than some in the faster lanes. Many slow swimmers with self-esteem issues have muscled their way into the faster lanes, which has resulted in considerable drama. There was an ugly confrontation last week when the fasts finally had it with the slows clogging up their lanes. 

They climbed out of the pool and got into loud volley of accusations made all the funnier because everyone was dripping wet and wearing Speedos. It made me think that world leaders should be forced to wear Speedos when fighting over boarder disputes. Imagine Kim Jong Un raving about his nuclear arsenal in a bikini.

We slows who are not riddled with insecurity don’t want these fake fasts in our lane and we don’t want to join the faster lanes because the coach makes the fasts swim butterfly and other taxing strokes that we simply can’t be bothered with. We swim freestyle and sometimes backstroke if we’re feeling sassy.

My spouse has long encouraged me to join this team. But one of the things I enjoy most about swimming is that it’s solitary. It’s just you and the water. The one time I swam in an open-water 2-mile race, swimmers were so eager to win that they swam over other swimmers—including me. It was like being mugged at sea. Also, this was an ocean swim where great white sharks were prowling the race route for seals—and I look a lot like a seal in my wet suit!—so it wasn’t a pleasant experience and turned me off group swims.

But I decided to give it a try. I haven’t done anything gay in quite a while – unless you count having sex with my spouse, which, frankly, should count for something. And after joining the swimming group, I realized how much I’ve missed being with the gays.

When I was younger and single, I belonged to many gay groups. Even though I’m the farthest thing from sports dyke, I joined lesbian sports teams, but only for the social aspects. I happily sat on the sidelines until someone was injured and the coach had no choice but to put me in.

I was much more engaged in gay card clubs where I typically was the only lesbian and didn’t have to pretend that I cared about who was playing in the Super Bowl.

After I got married, gay life receded into my past—like glitter that lost its sparkle. My spouse has kids who I helped raise in the suburbs, which means socializing with straight parents of our kids’ friends. But the last kid left the house this fall, and we didn’t know quite what to do with ourselves. So, we’ve decided to get all gay again.

My spouse, who is intensely competitive, has joined a lesbian rowing team. And I, who prefers the slow lane, is merrily splashing my way back into the community. It’s good to be back.