Tank Top Terror .... by Adam (2005)

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The tank-top: symbol of everything wrong with the modern gay male. To me, it represents consumerism, materialism, superficiality, narcissism and frivolousness. I own about 10 of them.

Hypocrite, you say? Actually, I am not opposed to hypocrisy. I think those who aren’t hypocrites can only make that claim because they aren’t even trying to live decently. If you have no values, you can’t be a hypocrite. So while I disdain everything the dreaded tank-top stands for, I continue to wear one to the gym… and, these days, to the mall or out at night.  

Possessing such a superior and admirable value set, how can I justify adopting the tank-top as a key element in my wardrobe?  Well, let’s just say I am reclaiming it, the way we now use the word “queer” or the pink triangle. Or the way black guys bandy around “nigga.” Or maybe I am mocking its use – laughing at the vacuous gym-bunnies while I prance around the club staring at 21-year-olds.  

Plus, I’ve been going to the gym more. And whatever else, tank-tops serve as excellent flirtation devices and can theoretically help me lure people back to my apartment. (…wait… I’m supposed to be against most forms of casual hook-ups. Hmm… I’ll justify that hypocrisy later.)  

Anyway, my reclaiming of (or mocking adornment of – I haven’t decided yet) the tank-top led me down a dark chamber of terror recently.  My favourite shirt store had brought in about 8 new tank-tops of varying colours. In my effort to harness the alluring powers of red (I always notice guys in red), I bought two tops: black-on-red and red-on-black.  

The owner explained how lucky I was, because they had just arrived. She expected them to be popular with the boys who frequent her gayware emporium.  

Several hours later when I arrived home to inspect my purchases, an unthinkable terror gust through my bedroom. The red-on-black top was in the bag, but beside it was a drab grey-thing that I did not intend to buy.  

My heart ripped free of its tendrils and plunged into my colon region, as nightmares of a life with no red tank-top shot through my brain. How would I offset my new shoulder pimple without the black-on-red? Who would fancy a guy plagued with a selection of gayware that didn’t even include a basic red tank-top?  

I thrust the grey-thing into my bag, leapt through my door and lunged an erect finger at the elevator button. The grey-thing seemed to stir in the bag, mocking my anxiety as I eyed the elevator’s slow progress towards floor 15.  

Five minutes of dodging traffic and leaping over shopping carts and I was back in the mall. I slowed as I approached the store. I peered inside. The black-on-red wasn’t hanging on the wall.  

I advanced toward the cashier’s desk and loomed impatiently behind a kid purchasing a flowery blue button-down.  Finally, I was face-to-face with the shop-owner. I explained my situation and she nodded pessimistically.  

We walked around the shop together, but it was not to be seen. A pit of misery dug into my stomach lining.

But suddenly the shop-owner pulled something from a cabinet behind her desk. It was the black-on-red! She handed it to me and I swapped it for the grey-thing. I unleashed an avalanche of praise and appreciation on my favourite store-owner as I held the top open against my chest. She smiled and sent me on my way, with my new black-on-red safely stowed under my arm.  

The long, gruesome ordeal had come to an end.  

Hey…anyone know where I can get a white-on-red tank top? Now, THEY are really sexy.

From my blog on www.downelink.com