Do gay people walk faster

And the importance of winning the side walk. Like any gay man, I am prone to many unpleasant practices. I drink my iced coffee in arctic winters like a shivering rat, except I am an adult with an adult brain incapable of making temperature-appropriate choices. I go to a workout class where everyone is gay and everyone hates each other.

Who was I if not a passenger princess? Life behind the wheel was desolate, devastating. Suddenly I was a gay man who drove. I gazed out from the windshield and longed for a semi to T-bone me into oblivion. Many people contain multitudes but I am not one of them. With one queeny little wave, I bid adieu to my motorist era.

Among my many unpleasant practices is my pathological need to win the sidewalk. You have already lost. My sight is firmly set on my next victim: any passerby who dares occupy a position ahead of me on the path. I must be the fastest pedestrian on the road.

The Gay Art Of Walking Fast

I must overtake at all costs. It is a time-honored truth that gay men walk fast —propelled by impatience, fear, or general neuroticism. There is, of course, a functional element too, fuelled by my chronic inability to arrive at an event less than 50 minutes late after I have spent the entire evening lying in bed for no discernible reason.

See above: unpleasant. More often than not I am sprinting down the street, legs aflurry; one eye on the clock, the other on the sluggish pacers and dawdling urchins ahead of me. On the sidewalk, everyone is an opponent, especially when 50 minutes is approaching like a semi about to T-bone you into oblivion.

On a recent Tuesday, though, I meet my match. Picture this: I am fresh from a haircut—at one of those evil salons which insist on taking the worst photo of you ever captured and blasting it to their thousands of judgemental followers. I am speeding home, praying to the firmament that no-one will glimpse me in this compromised state.

Out of the motion blur, something appears. Someone appears. The first thing I notice is the bag slung across his shoulder: a baby bag, slippery and silvery, glistening under a sudden sunburst. Then his oversized fleece and joggers: a little too crisp, a little too tailored.

Less like he had rolled out of bed in sweats and more like he was cosplaying the idea of someone rolling out of bed in sweats. Then his terrifying gait: large, brazen strides led from the hip.