I grew up fat, black, and flamboyant in a mostly white city called Sherman, Texas. It was a harsh and isolating experience. In 9th grade, Lynn Parker made fun of my height and even signed my yearbook with a slur. I always felt like people would accept me for being fat and for being gay, but both were never accepted and I chose to fight, right?
In queer spaces that claim to celebrate all bodies, I still receive backhanded compliments. People say to me, “He’s cute for a big boy,” or “He’s holding up his weight well.” It is said as if my height is something I need to apologize for.
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But I’ve never lived in this shade. When I am told that I need to change, my inner diva comes into play. It’s the confident, unapologetic part of me that fully accepts who I am and doesn’t care. I would rather say that than be upset by their stories. Plus, I’m always up for a kick-ass comeback, and it’s usually something that makes you feel gagged while reading it.
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At 6-foot-2, with a stocky build, thick thighs, and a big butt, I’m more suited to the NFL than pie-eating contests. I have never had a hard time dating and am now happily married. This belly has served me well, and I’m as shallow as a muscle queen half my size. My friends will tell you that I’m living proof that fat and vanity are not contradictory. I don’t have the self-hatred that plagues many queer men, fat or not. They are often pressured by unrealistic beauty standards within their communities, standards that consider being thin, muscular, and traditionally attractive to be valuable. These pressures can be further amplified by social media and dating apps, creating a cycle of self-criticism and anxiety.
I stopped crash dieting long before I came out. Health is important, but we queer black men have many more issues than we do, including not only HIV/AIDS but also high blood pressure and diabetes. At 40 years old, I’ve managed to avoid these things, but after gaining weight during the quarantine period of 2020 and being diagnosed with sleep apnea, I knew it was time to take my health seriously. I realized.
I contacted a friend. The friend is a fellow queer mogul known for his role in cult films about mean girls. He suggested I try cutting back on sugar, but that was a complete failure (I love birthday cake ice cream too much).
So we decided to explore Ozempic. I found a provider and paid over $300 for the consultation and first month’s fees. Sure, it’s a little expensive, but investing in yourself is something you have to do at all costs sometimes. It felt like the right decision to me and a small act of self-care. And thankfully I’m not afraid of needles. Getting stung once a week is nothing new to me.
Since starting Ozempic, my appetite has disappeared and the constant “food noise” in my head has quieted down. It’s nice to finally be able to complete other things and focus on achieving my goals without obsessing over my next snack. You can see that you have lost some weight because your clothes have become looser. I even asked my doctor not to tell me my initial weight because he might be surprised later.
The news is already known in my friend circle. I went to drag brunch the other day and everyone kept asking me how much I lost. Some people go all in, while others preach that you should go to the gym. Everyone has an opinion. We laughed at how much our community loves jumping on the latest dramatic trends. We said it wouldn’t be long before every gay man in Provincetown and Fire Island started his day with an Ozempic injection and ended it with a Doxypep nightcap.
But it’s funny how once people find out you’re losing weight, that’s the only thing they talk about. They say lines like, “You’re going to be so happy when you really start losing!” and “I’m so proud of you.”
But taking Ozempic is not about drastic changes or saving me from body pain. I don’t want to find meaning or ultimate satisfaction in losing weight. Research shows that simply losing weight doesn’t guarantee success or mental well-being, especially for gay men. In fact, external pressures can make depression worse. Research published in homosexual journal They found that gay men who experienced weight loss more often reported increased body dissatisfaction and psychological distress. If everyone loses weight by snatching it up, you might find that it’s not the magic solution you thought it was.
I find myself in a strange place, feeling like I’m pushing the very ideas about body image that I’ve resisted for so long. For me, winning Ozempic is not about meeting someone’s expectations. It is simply a step towards improving your health. I feel like everyone is looking at me. do you want to see my body? Check out Grindr or Sniffies.
Fat bodies are always under the microscope. On social media, people tend to attribute the weight loss to Ozempic. At the same time, people shame those who actually use it, as if it were cheating.
We see this contradiction in people like Lizzo. As a Black, queer woman, her weight is relentlessly scrutinized despite her success. Whether she’s twerking on stage or wearing skimpy clothing, critics focus more on her size than her music or message of self-love. This criticism suggests that self-love is only important if you don’t change yourself or ask for help. Lizzo herself said on TikTok: It’s just my body. ” That’s why I’m making my case up front.
Ozempic has added a whole new layer to the weight loss conversation. Everyone has an opinion on who should use it and why. Yes, I owe my weight loss to Ozempic, but that doesn’t mean I hated my previous body. It adds a new layer of assumptions about why people use it, with some thinking it’s purely for vanity, some thinking it’s about internalized fatphobia, and Some consider it a last resort for health reasons.
People choose Ozempic for various reasons, and no one is owed an explanation. The world would be a better place if people started caring about other people’s bodies. We understand that we all make assumptions about other people’s motives, but we still sometimes don’t want to answer why we make the choices we make.
In the queer community, we should celebrate all things wonderful, but that celebration often comes with unspoken rules about body size. Whether we’re participating in Ozempic, cutting out carbs, or living off scale, being queer means we don’t fit into narrow ideals. You have to remember that it’s about accepting yourself for who you are. Our paths are diverse and they all deserve respect. Look at your body and let me live in your body. Isn’t the essence of being queer about living authentically, regardless of your physical size?
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