Words : James Gannaban

On 3 July, Saturday, a Macau-bound helicopter was forced to ditch in Victoria Harbour due to a massive failure in its tail, seconds after take-off from the Shun Tak Center helipad.

On 4 July, Sunday, my South Bay Beach-bound self was suffering severe convulsions due to a massive failure in my previous commitment to a gym regimen.

It happens every summer – that routine rush of regret and remorse. Alas, swimsuit season has again arrived and my procrastination for physical fitness has materialised via some seriously shocking ab-flab.

“Take your shirt off. You’re only making yourself more conspicuous,” my boyfriend implored.

“No. I would rather die,” I replied petulantly. I’m not blind. I was indeed aware that I was the only fully-dressed chicken amongst a veritable buffet of plucked roosters.

In fact, I was transfixed by the fascinating form of “flight” unique to South Bay Beach – the magical levitation of gay boys. They don’t walk; they float. On spindly legs that never seem to touch the white sand, their over-exercised chests are massive hot air balloons. They are powered by propane of pure attitude, propelled by credit crunch-defying Prada sunglasses. Their tail rotors impressively oscillate underneath the hapless strain of skimpy Arena bathers. And as they hover about, the air thickens with the sweet redolence of coconut and various extracts of exotic plants. After all, these creatures aviate with a fuel tank-full of Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil.

They’re spectacular, these birds.

My flightless self was awash in a deep sense of ennui fueled by warm beer. My mind was howling, “Unfair!” These boys have a carb-laden diet of chow mein and fried rice, plus an insatiable appetite for roast meats dripping with unctuousness. How the hell do they maintain defiantly lean figures that scream 0% body fat? Some of these boys look like whippets! I kept my shirt and grandpa-shorts on. I continued to fake indifference by insolently chomping on my Mexican wrap.

In principle, I should be happy with my body, which allows me to do the things I like to do to enjoy a well-rounded life – tackle my day job like a workhorse, go on challenging walks, party like a heathen, have sex. I feel physically well, so why is muscle envy torturing my emotional wellness? Does it mean I’m shallow? Is it only a myth that most of us don’t have the time to develop bodies portrayed in porn movies, when in truth, 80% of gay Hong Kong cavorted before my eyes in sheer anatomic perfection? Do I have my priorities mixed up?

That afternoon, I felt like I could have been the AgustaWestland AW139 helicopter that was the subject of yesterday’s news. But while the valiant efforts of the pilot and his first officer allowed the aircraft’s 11 passengers to escape unharmed, a portion of my tail had broken off and has yet to be retrieved from the toxic depths of Victoria Harbour.

I’m the subject of a self-imposed emergency airworthiness directive. Can maintenance repair afford any more procrastination? With my jelly belly looking like an emergency flotation device, I can only wonder if I’ll be cleared for take-off when Floatilla comes around in October.

- James Gannaban , the co-founder of Mr . Gay Hong Kong , has always got his head high up in the clouds .