The Advocate's latest cover model has a secret.

No, it's not that his "abs" have seen the business end of an airbrush, because, frankly, that's pretty damn obvious.

Triple threat.

The secret, you see, is that he used to weigh 300 pounds! And so it's true what they say: Inside every super-sized oaf is a devastatingly hot Rico Suave struggling to break free.

In his interview, Hector Torres says he was "overweight for most of [his] life" until the age of 20, when he shed 100 pounds. For whatever reason, the article glosses over this stunning admission and instead blabs on about his participation in this year's Gay Games as a triathlete.

I want before-and-afters, people! This is why the gay magazine industry is in the state it's in: Not enough coverage of those who've actually transformed their fat, ugly, undesirable, unvalued, former selves to meet the extortionate body image standards established by the gay magazine industry to begin with!

P.S. What's funny about the Gay Games? Even if you lose, you're still gay! (Ergo, we are all winners! Yay!)

Posted by Toby at 10:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

What do you get when you combine a boyfriend of three years, a love for family and friends, and a managerial position at a local construction company? A really boring Metro Weekly Coverboy, that's what.

Freaky Fredy.

Once again, Metro Weekly has chosen to profile one of D.C.'s Golden Boys, i.e. an individual under the age of 25 who hasn't yet saddled up to the crystal meth buffet at Nation, exposed himself for a free mixed drink at the Green Lantern, and otherwise fallen through the cracks of humanity. Fredy - a 22-year-old immigrant (ergo, the peculiar spelling of his name) whose first English utterance was "Can I kiss you?" - is about as vanilla as it gets.

His favorite website is Myspace.com, he's always wanted to try skydiving, and his dream guy "became [a] reality three years ago." Oh, and he claims to play both pitcher and catcher in the "big baseball game of life," adding, "It doesn't get better than that." Yeah, you almost got away with that one, Fredy, but you're lying through your chest hair. You bottom you.

Anyway, to kick off a weekly feature borrowed from Gawker's Looking at the Look Book, let's turn to Jamie, Rocco and Bradford for further insight on this week's underwhelming Coverboy.

Jamie, Trick A Kiss In Time

"In my country [of Guatemala], they don't believe in double d's," Fredy said, explaining his name's unusual spelling. Where is Guatemala, and what else don't her people believe in?

Yes, I see what you mean, Fredy. Having two d's in your name does take a lof of mental effort, and the spelling could get ridiculously strenuous. Such complications. F-R- ...now is it an I or an E that follows...hmmm...I think there a few Ds in there too. Do I close it up with a Y or maybe an IE? Ugh! If only I had been named something easy to spell--something like G-U-A-T-E-M-A-L-A.

Fredy's "greatest fear" is that "[his] parents won't be proud" of him. How do his parents feel about his Metro Weekly Coverboy spread?

I can almost hear the pride swell up in their hearts, and see the tears well up in their eyes. How could you not be proud of someone who, at the sexually-charged age of 14, approaches a stranger in the midst of browsing ABBA CDs, and politely utters those magical words, "Can I kiss you."

The shocked look from the total stranger, and the almost scripted, "Are you kidding me?! Where the hell are you from?!" This of course prompts our hero, Fredy, to stand stong and proudly reply, "G-U-A-T-E-M-A-L-A."

If Fredy could be any kind of animal, he'd be an ant because "they're tiny but they're really hard workers." How big is Fredy's dick?

Oh you're packing heat, aren't you. Admit it. You've got that "Guatamallonous" that was so acutely described in the Bird Cage. I bet it's as loudly pronounced as that cleft that's dug deep in your chin. Ever consider making a few extra bucks at Fuego or Chaos? Everyone loves a well-hung little latin boy.

Rocco, I Probably Hate You

"In my country [of Guatemala], they don't believe in double d's," Fredy said, explaining his name's unusual spelling. Where is Guatemala, and what else don't her people believe in?

I am sure Guatemala is one of those really cheap vacay getaways in some state in Mexico. It's def below Texas and California which means it's 100 percent Mexican. I mean it totally sounds like it's Mexican for douching or something.

Fredy's "greatest fear" is that "[his] parents won't be proud" of him. How do his parents feel about his Metro Weekly Coverboy spread?

They probably threw him a Fiesta or something, thinking he is like the Next Ricky Martin.

(TOBY SAYS: This answer was edited slightly. Feel free to read it in its glorious, racist entirety here.)

If Fredy could be any kind of animal, he'd be an ant because "they're tiny but they're really hard workers." How big is Fredy's dick?

I'm going out on a limb and guessing he's uncut and he probably meant that his dick looks like an ant eater.

Bradford Shellhammer, Queerty

"In my country [of Guatemala], they don't believe in double d's," Fredy said, explaining his name's unusual spelling. Where is Guatemala, and what else don't her people believe in?

I know nothing about Guatemala. Then again why would I? There isn't a Four Seasons there. Though I bet I know what they do believe in: drugs. I hear the coke is good there, so maybe I could make an exception to my "no third world" rule.

Fredy's "greatest fear" is that "[his] parents won't be proud" of
him. How do his parents feel about his Metro Weekly Coverboy spread?

Well, I doubt they get MW weekly in Guatelmala so I think he is safe from them finding out. But then again his coverboy status could make him a small village hero!

If Fredy could be any kind of animal, he'd be an ant because "they're tiny but they're really hard workers." How big is Fredy's dick?

From personal experience with the Latin menz it could be 12 inches or 2 inches. Who knows. One thing I do know is that he is uncut. Which is pretty hot methinks.

Posted by Toby at 11:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (16)

You know, there's a reason why I love Logo's "Noah's Arc."

Not just because it dares to portray the lives of gay black men...

...but because it dares to cast a POWER BOTTOM as a TOTAL TOP!

I nearly had twins when Ricky (Christian Vincent, left) pointed to his (amazing) ass and said flatly, "This is exit only."

Pssh - gurl!

Posted by Toby at 07:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

"Blah blah... Brokeback Mountain... Blah..."

It's Wednesday, people! So what better day to play a little game that I like to call WHAT DO THE FOLLOWING ITEMIZED AFFAIRS HAVE IN COMMON?

1. Pausing a Tivo'd episode of "CBS News on Logo" to stare deeply - nay, longingly - into the void created by Itay Hod's partially unbuttoned Oxford shirt.

2. Openly weeping during a 3 a.m. broadcast of "The Oprah Winfrey Show."

3. Openly weeping during a 3:07 a.m. commercial for the following day's broadcast of "The Oprah Winfrey Show."

4. Openly weeping (tears of hilarity!) at the sight - and sound - of a cat shitting in a toilet during "Date Movie", of which the best part was the six-pack I smuggled into the theater.

5. Deciding to wear a denim shirt to work.

Give up?

I did all of those things while under the influence of gin, whiskey, boxed wine and/or beer!

(Okay, to be honest, I was legally sober during No. 5, so I really don't have an excuse for looking like a gay cowboy. Sorry.)

Needless to say, alcohol brings out the emotions (and penchant for toilet humor) in me, which will come as no surprise to anyone who has encountered me during one of my many "very special" moments at such exotic locales as the Gentleman Friend's apartment, the pancake syrup aisle of Safeway, or, let's say, the Cock in New York City at 4 a.m.

Okay, so what if I cry at the drop of "These Dreams" by Heart, the hugely successful female-fronted hard rock band of the 1970s? The important thing is that the next day, I always remember who came to me in my time of need. This allows me to call and thank him or her for the perfunctory kindness bestowed unto me, and then avoid that person for as long as humanly possible.

Of course, every now and then, I don't remember a drunken liver-to-liver with a close friend - which brings me (finally!) to the point (if you dare to call it that) of today's entry.

Just last week, I met a few people for drinks at Larry's Lounge on 18th Street; this I recall. (Comments written expressly to mock me for going to Larry's Lounge will not be approved!) After desperately imbibing a number of beers (approximately 18 to 49 - a value set eerily identical to the age range in which "American Idol" consistantly ranks No. 1), I began chatting it up with my friend. I didn't realize just how intimate our conversation had become until the next day, when we exchanged the following instant messages:

My friend: Hey, so, I'm still trying to figure out that Caroline Rhea thing.
Me: What Caroline Rhea thing?
My friend: Don't you remember?
Me (nervously): Maybe.
My friend: Last night, you said I was a lot like Caroline Rhea...
Me: Why would I do that?!
My friend: I don't know. You said you'd explain it to me tomorrow.
Me: What the fuck!

I have no idea why I would compare my friend to Caroline Rhea. First of all, my friend looks nothing like Caroline Rhea. Second of all, my friend is male.

Like my friend, Caroline Rhea does not look good in a sweater set stolen from a 7-year-old girl. Unlike my friend, Caroline Rhea needs to die.

This brings me to...

POSSIBLE EXPLANATIONS FOR THE OTHERWISE UNWARRANTED COMPARISON OF MY FRIEND TO CAROLINE RHEA

1. My friend is a stand-up comedian, actress, and the former host of talk show "The Caroline Rhea Show."

Hmm, no, that's not it.

2. My friend is Canadian.

No...

3. My friend has a talking cat.

Ah, that's right! My friend totally has a talking cat. Phew, I'm glad we cleared that up. The end!

"Dogs guard; cats watch... and judge." Truer words have never been spoken by an anthropomorphized cat on a children's television series!

Posted by Toby at 01:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

Wondering why my website was down all weekend?

I forgot to renew my domain name!

Hmm. Sounds familiar.

Posted by Toby at 05:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Allow me the following two points:

1. I formally apologize for "cheating" at Scrabble last weekend. As it turns out, sneaking onto the Scrabble website mid-match to look up a dubious but potentially existent word is not only looked down upon but also illegal, per Scrabble rules of play. I also apologize for falsely pleading innocence when confronted with evidence of my misdeed: the very word stored in Internet Explorer, courtesy of the damning AutoComplete feature. So, yeah, sorry about that.

2. thorp thorps \ n pl. -S a small village.

"Nice try, grandma, but 'FUPA' is not a word!"

Posted by Toby at 01:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

So, I ran into an "old friend" from high school the other day. Supremely awkward conversations are my forte, so needless to say, I had a really great time catching up on our separate lives during the torturous 45-second exchange.

The encounter began innocently enough: I had been walking down Q Street to 17th, vaguely looking forward to drinks at JRs with Boi From Troy. As I jaywalked my way across the intersection, my eyes fell upon a young male specimen of small stature and flaming mannerisms.

Could it be...? Is that...?

Oh dear lord.

It could. And it is.

Thus began my dismayingly impromptu reunion with Sam, my best friend/ archenemy, depending upon how far back you turn the hands of time.

Things began promisingly, and by promisingly, I mean disastrously. "After all these years," I said, "I knew I'd have to run into you some day." Brrr! Did anyone else feel a chill in the air? No? Well, what I said was the honest truth: He and I both went to college in D.C. - at separate schools - yet managed to avoid crossing paths until that blissful coinkydink at 17th and Q. In fact, I pretty much assumed he had left D.C. altogether since graduating. Who knew my long-time nemesis had been roaming these streets - my streets - the entire time! Seriously, who knew - because I asked all of my friends and no one knows who the fuck this kid is. Intrigue!

Anyway, for fear of putting all of my cards on the table, I said to Sam quite simply, "I'm on my way to meeting my friend for a drink." I neglected to go into details, mostly in the interest of keeping some aspects of my lifestyle shrouded in mystery. He stated in return that he was heading home from work. Interesting - he lives on 17th Street (bastard!), so is he gay? Is he closeted? Do I care? No, no I do not.

Having come to the conclusion that I don't really give a damn about this person anymore, I told him to have a great day and then walked away. Part of me wanted to embrace him and sit down for a little chat, catch up, learn to be honest with each other. There's always the chance that we could become good friends, forget about how awful we were to each other in high school. But deep down I just wanted him to go the fuck away. Leave this city and leave me alone - I have my own life now and I don't want to be reminded of the person I once was.

Moments later, I arrived at JRs, had a beer, chatted with Boi From Troy, and instantly forgot about the entire incident. Sure, maybe Sam reads this blog (stranger things have happened) and will think I'm still a petty psycho bitch, but honestly, I don't really give a shit about that either.

Posted by Toby at 04:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

I'd never thought I'd say this...

But binge eating...

Is a lot harder...

Than binge drinking.

Seven pounds and counting...

Posted by Toby at 11:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (30)

Oh, sure, some people choose to give their landlords the monthly rent check in a plain envelope. Like shaking hands with your emotionally distant father, it's practical, it's traditional, and it's safe - no chance of inadvertantly crossing wires or forging an awkward, gratuitous relationship.

But what do you do when your landlord... is more than a landlord?

When she's a friend?

A confidant?

A soul mate?

Or dare I say... A lover?

You give her the rent check in an oversized Valentine's Day greeting card from CVS, that's what you do.

Ms. D, I love you this much: $X,XXX*, to be exact.

*Okay, if you're going to get all catty and start comparing your monthly rent to mine, then forget it. Yes, living in a city is expensive, get over it.

Posted by Toby at 10:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (30)

Okay, sorry for not updating in a while, things have been busy, blah blah blah, let's move on, yes?

I felt sick all day yesterday (tummy ache - the doctor may have said Mylanta, but that shit doesn't work, besides I'm pretty sure he said Vicodin), so instead of going to the K Street gym after work as I "normally" (as in, conforming with a pattern established only within the past three weeks) do, I went home, made dinner, and then left for the Chevy Chase gym at around 8:30.

My fitness goal: To have the ass of a gazelle.

Let me just say that there really is nothing better than a late-night workout. First of all, no one is there - and since I had set myself up for a blind date with the squat rack, it was absolutely crucial that no one who takes himself as a serious body builder be anywhere within a mile radius of the gym.

Second, a late-night workout prevents me from doing the things I "normally" (as in, conforming with a pattern established during the first semester of college in 2001) do at night, which includes and is pretty much limited to watching "Cops" marathons and binge drinking. Of course, without racist criminal justice and intoxication, I'm left with very little to blog about, ergo my absense as of late. Shirley, you understand.

Does your mom get royalties from this?

In the interest of wrapping up this entry in a tidy bow, let me just say that this Missed Connection is not directed at me. In fact, I don't even know where the sauna is or what people do in there. (Is my faux-naivete charming or annoying?) However, I'm about as sure as a condom's ability to prevent pregnancy that I know who the two star-crossed sauna pals are. (I don't know them personally, I just saw them flitting about the gym.)

My question is, do guys always fool around in the sauna? What about the straight guys who just want to, um, I dunno, steam themselves? (Is that the purpose of the sauna?) Ah, so many questions, SO MANY PERKS OF MY GYM MEMBERSHIP WASTED!

Me: 30, white, nice chest. You: four years old. Coffee sometime?

Posted by Toby at 05:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)