Ever since I was a young kid, she had always been an exceptionally talented athlete - a runner, swimmer, biker and rower. She logged about 50 miles per week, and when her friends ran half-marathons on weekends, she would run along, just to give them "emotional support." My dad, a tall, thin doctor, had competed in triathlons around Western Canada for a large portion of his adult life. For as long as I could remember, my mom had been an obsessive long-distance runner. I had always been my family's black sheep when it came to sports. In my case, that situation involved man-on-man oil wrestling.
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As soon as our parents drive away from our dorms, and leave us alone with our boxes of books and Ikea corkboard, we're free to make an extraordinary number of mistakes and end up in situations that may not teach us much about organic chemistry or Emily Dickinson, but let us figure out who we are and who we want to be. As I felt the liquid drip into my shoes, he leaned over and said, "Get ready to wrestle."Ĭollege is a strange time. A tarp nearby had also been covered in oil, and other members of the team were streaming into the backyard with bottles of beer to watch what was about to happen. "Be prepared to have the worst acne of your lives over the next week," he warned us. Our team captain, a 200-pound hulk of a man, was walking from freshman to freshman with a large vat of vegetable oil, and letting it cascade all over them one by one.
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After two weeks of tryouts, we had finally made the grade, and this was our reward: An afternoon of embarrassing hazing activities, followed by a homoerotic climax that seemed to have come straight out of my 17-year-old gay subconscious. For the last two hours, 10 other young rowers and I had been undergoing "initiation" to my university's varsity crew team. That's what I kept thinking as I stood in the middle of a sun-dappled backyard, dressed in nothing but a spandex unitard and running shoes, preparing to have oil poured over my body. We’re not about keeping it real, but keeping it fake.I had no idea college was going to be so much like a gay porn movie. “Real frat boys aren’t that hot,” concedes McGovern.
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This party is about taking advantage of every fantasy you had but were afraid of.”īut no reason to be too afraid: There aren’t any frat boys at the Boy’s Room to beat you up (Gobel himself de-pledged in college after coming out). “A lot of gay boys were all about hiding in college,” says Marlon Gobel, one of the party’s “pledge masters.” “They weren’t part of fraternities. Whether it’s the result of five years of living under the manly George Bush fratocracy, or just Abercrombie & Fitch, gay “frat” parties have also sprung up in Chicago and L.A. I have a pure, uncut fantasy of frat boys in my head.” Apparently he’s not alone. “It’s not like I had to deal with some mean frat boy who called me a fag.
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“I grew up overseas and went to acting school,” says promoter Johnny McGovern. But this goes beyond being a “straight-acting” sports fan. Guys in baseball caps aren’t exactly new to the gay scene, of course.
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This is “Boys Gone Wild,” a wildly popular “frat party” at the club Boy’s Room in the East Village. This might be a familiar scene at Ole Miss or UVA, but it’s somewhat exotic in a Manhattan gay bar. The funnel holder nails the empty can against the wall and pumps his fist victoriously. A volunteer puts the tube in his mouth, and gulps. “Are you a man?! Do you wanna get fucked up? Well, come up, bitch, and do a beer bong!” He’s holding a can of Pabst and a homemade beer funnel. The muscular guy in a backward baseball cap is red-faced from howling.