Rob Osler's Blog

Recently I helped a friend at a major gay Pride event. Did you know that if you identify as a gay or bisexual male in the good ol’ US of A, you must have had no sex for the preceding three months in order to donate blood? And did you know that the same rule does not apply to straight men? It’s true. So at the aforementioned Pride event, I was handing out flyers to recruit guys to enroll in a study whose aim is to change the policy for blood donation for “men who have sex with men” (yes, that’s the way health science researchers refer to us :).

Anyway, it took me about half an hour, or about ten encounters, until I refined my approach to successfully get a guy or group of guys to stop—or at least slow down—so I could sputter my twenty-second spiel before shoving a flyer in their hands. However, there remained one particular type of guy who remained curiously aloof.

The more a guy was super fit and handsome, the more likely he would dismiss me with a raised hand, tight smile, and “no thanks.” This emerging revelation was one that I was not eager to accept. So rather than avoid the prettiest boys, I redoubled my effort. I hoped some of them would prove me wrong.

As the tally of rejections mounted, I wondered: are these guys so relentlessly pursued that they develop a reflexive dismissal of any strangers’ approach? Mind you, I can appreciate getting annoyed by another guy who won’t take a hint at a bar, but the Pride event was hardly that.

Just when I was about to give up hope, along came “Green Shorts.” As I didn’t get a name (I wish), I am referring to the shirtless Adonis by the retro green nylon running shorts he wore with the same effect as Stephanos Tsitsipas (tennis pro—if you haven’t seen him from behind, Google it; thank me, later.) Anyway, Green Shorts not only stopped and listened, but he took a stack of flyers and for the next hour helped me pass them out. And yes, the equally hot guys had become suddenly interested in hearing about the study.

So, where does this all lead? What’s my point? It’s this: our little, loving LGBTQ+ community is already small enough, challenged enough without some of us—for whatever reason—thinking they deserve a pass at paying attention to issues that impact our equal treatment and our pursuit of healthy, safe, and happy lives. We’re in this together, guys! So thank you, Green Shorts, whoever you are for stopping, listening, and stepping up! You are a role model among models. And if you haven’t read my blog before, I’m single … just saying

Guys, if you’re between 18 and 39 and are interested in joining the study, get all the details here: https://advancestudy.org/

Till next time, I’m Hayden

And remember, if you can’t be good, be safe!

There’s no two ways about it, I am a ginger. Actually, I’m more like a super ginger. My hair is closer to orange than red, and it’s riotous as a crazy Halloween wig. I share this because it helps explain the scant bit of fair hair I have on my chest. What got me thinking about body hair was a recent guy-on-guy encounter. I’ll call the other guy Glenn, though that’s not his real name. In retrospect, his thick, bushy eyebrows and heavy five o’clock shadow should have taken some of the surprise out of the moment he removed his clothing. From curly wisps of black hair clinging to the tops of Glenn’s toes, up a pair of woolly legs to a furry rump, and further north to his hirsute back, chest, and shoulders, Glenn was epically hairy. He must have noticed the expression on my face because he immediately changed moods, indicated with a deflation as immediate as a balloon’s popping. His embarrassement caused mine; I felt terrible that my reaction had made him feel awkward. The moment was lost.

Hours later, at home and standing naked in front of the mirror, I appraised my own white, freckled body, with particular attention paid to outcrops of hair in places other than on my head. Whereas Glenn is exceedingly furry, I am exceptionally smooth—and where I do have hair, it is light in color. That assessment got me thinking about judgments on how much hair we should have and where it ought to be.

I see guys in the gym’s locker room who have shaved or trimmed various parts of their bodies, from chest to pubes to legs. Aside from, say, swimmers who do so to achieve a streamlined physique—not accounting for those who buzz what lies beneath the Speedo—guys shave their body hair to increase their appeal. I suppose it also works in reverse: bald guys who get plugs, for example. 

By now, you might be thinking, “So? What’s your point, Hayden? Guys do things—work out, diet, dye their hair, grow a beard, shave a beard, gain weight, lose weight, and on and on—to appear more attractive to mates.” Fair enough. But my point is: There is a problem when we allow shallow preferences to make us feel bad about ourselves. Back to Glenn: I was surprised, not turned off. But sadly, Glenn was embarrassed. I wish I could have a do-over with him. And yet, although my look of surprise triggered his anxiety, I didn’t cause it. What Glenn thought shameful, I found alluring—I just needed a moment to realize it. If Glenn could see himself as I do, he’d not only get more action but, I suspect, he’d also be happier. I wish that for him. He’s a good guy! A good and gloriously hairy guy!

And so, in closing, I encourage you to strip off your clothes, stand in front of the mirror and pinch that extra inch (or more ) at your waist, run your hand over your hairless head or through your thicket of fur wherever it may reside, and realize how right RuPaul is when she closes each show with the words: If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell you going to love someone else? Amen, Ru! Amen.

Till next time, I’m Hayden

And remember, if you can’t be good, be safe!

There’s no two ways about it, I am a ginger. Actually, I’m more like a super ginger. My hair is closer to orange than red, and it’s riotous as a crazy Halloween wig. I share this because it helps explain the scant bit of fair hair I have on my chest. What got me thinking about body hair was a recent guy-on-guy encounter. I’ll call the other guy Glenn, though that’s not his real name. In retrospect, his thick, bushy eyebrows and heavy five o’clock shadow should have taken some of the surprise out of the moment he removed his clothing. From curly wisps of black hair clinging to the tops of Glenn’s toes, up a pair of woolly legs to a furry rump, and further north to his hirsute back, chest, and shoulders, Glenn was epically hairy. He must have noticed the expression on my face because he immediately changed moods, indicated with a deflation as immediate as a balloon’s popping. His embarrassement caused mine; I felt terrible that my reaction had made him feel awkward. The moment was lost.

Hours later, at home and standing naked in front of the mirror, I appraised my own white, freckled body, with particular attention paid to outcrops of hair in places other than on my head. Whereas Glenn is exceedingly furry, I am exceptionally smooth—and where I do have hair, it is light in color. That assessment got me thinking about judgments on how much hair we should have and where it ought to be.

I see guys in the gym’s locker room who have shaved or trimmed various parts of their bodies, from chest to pubes to legs. Aside from, say, swimmers who do so to achieve a streamlined physique—not accounting for those who buzz what lies beneath the Speedo—guys shave their body hair to increase their appeal. I suppose it also works in reverse: bald guys who get plugs, for example. 

By now, you might be thinking, “So? What’s your point, Hayden? Guys do things—work out, diet, dye their hair, grow a beard, shave a beard, gain weight, lose weight, and on and on—to appear more attractive to mates.” Fair enough. But my point is: There is a problem when we allow shallow preferences to make us feel bad about ourselves. Back to Glenn: I was surprised, not turned off. But sadly, Glenn was embarrassed. I wish I could have a do-over with him. And yet, although my look of surprise triggered his anxiety, I didn’t cause it. What Glenn thought shameful, I found alluring—I just needed a moment to realize it. If Glenn could see himself as I do, he’d not only get more action but, I suspect, he’d also be happier. I wish that for him. He’s a good guy! A good and gloriously hairy guy!

And so, in closing, I encourage you to strip off your clothes, stand in front of the mirror and pinch that extra inch (or more ) at your waist, run your hand over your hairless head or through your thicket of fur wherever it may reside, and realize how right RuPaul is when she closes each show with the words: If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell you going to love someone else? Amen, Ru! Amen.

Till next time, I’m Hayden

And remember, if you can’t be good, be safe!

Hello guys. Hayden, here. Welcome to my new blog! Mates on Dates is a safe, no-holes-barred online space where I’ll take on issues related to the sometimes thrilling, often perplexing, and uncommonly crapshooty world of gay dating. Said another way, if a subject touches on a dude trying to woo another dude, it’s fair game. Speaking of which, let’s begin!

For this inaugural installment, I’ve chosen a provocative title. It’s actually autobiographical, which will soon become apparent. 

It all started a week ago when I’d finally got up the courage to cross the dance floor at Hunter’s and talk to this cute guy. (I’m instituting a practice of keeping real names out of this). I’ll call him Chester. I’d noticed Chester for several weeks. He ticked all my boxes. Chiefly among them: dreamy. Corny? One thousand percent! But that’s the first word that pops to mind whenever I see him or think of him or imagine him strolling the beach in board shorts, his golden hair wet and tousled from the surf. 

It turns out Chester is super cool, easy to talk to, and we have lots in common. For example, we both love tennis and Sci-fi. And—wait for it—we’re both teachers! For those of you who don’t know me, I teach junior high; Chester teaches elementary special ed—that’s a knee-wobbler, right there! 

The next day, we texted and agreed to meet at a local coffee shop. As I sat there waiting for Chester to arrive, my stomach began to churn. I mean, seriously churn. My mind jumped to a complete recounting of all food and drink I’d consumed earlier that day, including the ingredients of my dinner the night before. Determination: nothing that would explain my somersaulting intestines. 

Then suddenly it hit me: butterflies! But not your garden-variety fluttering, this was a butterfly stampede! 

Chester arrived right on time, further invigorating my internal frenzy (I find punctuality a turn-on). The next ninety minutes flew by—pun intended—and we agreed to meet up again soon. I left the café as happy as a teacher on the first day of summer break. But what most stuck in my mind was the lingering discombobulation in my belly: butterflies.

And now to the moral of my story. Although not every date will let loose a stampede of butterflies, isn’t that the sensation we desire? Isn’t that why we keep putting ourselves out there? Aren’t we all looking for that ONE special guy who gives us all the signs of indigestion? I am. If that sounds like you, I hope you’ll keep reading. 

Till next time, I’m Hayden

And remember, if you can’t be good, be safe!

Hello guys. Hayden, here. Welcome to my new blog! Mates on Dates is a safe, no-holes-barred online space where I’ll take on issues related to the sometimes thrilling, often perplexing, and uncommonly crapshooty world of gay dating. Said another way, if a subject touches on a dude trying to woo another dude, it’s fair game. Speaking of which, let’s begin!

For this inaugural installment, I’ve chosen a provocative title. It’s actually autobiographical, which will soon become apparent. 

It all started a week ago when I’d finally got up the courage to cross the dance floor at Hunter’s and talk to this cute guy. (I’m instituting a practice of keeping real names out of this). I’ll call him Chester. I’d noticed Chester for several weeks. He ticked all my boxes. Chiefly among them: dreamy. Corny? One thousand percent! But that’s the first word that pops to mind whenever I see him or think of him or imagine him strolling the beach in board shorts, his golden hair wet and tousled from the surf. 

It turns out Chester is super cool, easy to talk to, and we have lots in common. For example, we both love tennis and Sci-fi. And—wait for it—we’re both teachers! For those of you who don’t know me, I teach junior high; Chester teaches elementary special ed—that’s a knee-wobbler, right there! 

The next day, we texted and agreed to meet at a local coffee shop. As I sat waiting for Chester to arrive, my stomach began churning. I mean, seriously churn. My mind jumped to a complete recounting of all food and drink I’d consumed earlier that day, including the ingredients of my dinner the night before. Determination: nothing that would explain my somersaulting intestines. 

Then suddenly it hit me: butterflies! But not your garden-variety fluttering; this was a butterfly stampede! 

Chester arrived right on time, further invigorating my internal frenzy (I find punctuality a turn-on). The next ninety minutes flew by—pun intended—and we agreed to meet up again soon. I left the café as happy as a teacher on the first day of summer break. But what most stuck in my mind was the lingering discombobulation in my belly: butterflies.

And now to the moral of my story. Although not every date will let loose a stampede of butterflies, isn’t that the sensation we desire? Isn’t that why we keep putting ourselves out there? Aren’t we all looking for that ONE special guy who gives us all the signs of indigestion? I am. If that sounds like you, I hope you’ll keep reading. 

Till next time, I’m Hayden

And remember, if you can’t be good, be safe!