Somewhere along the way I developed a deep appreciation for Speedos.  And I don’t just mean tingling excitement from seeing a hunky guy parade down Fire Island letting it (almost) all show.  No, I mean that I, myself, much prefer to don a bikini than baggy board shorts.

It’s not like I can chalk it up to a European upbringing.  In Texas, I was raised to wear much more modest pool attire.  And it’s not like I have a toned torso that I love to show off.  I have battled weight my entire life.

Maybe it started when I was 14, and just coming to terms with my body and sexuality.  I used flip through GQ magazine pulling out pictures of models in revealing swimwear, creating a collage on poster board of my ideal man that I hung in my room.  Remind me again how my Mom was surprised when I came out officially several years later?

In my "couture" bikini going snorkeling in Tahiti...so butch

At the time, the only place in town I knew sold actual men’s bikinis was Neiman Marcus—they catered to men with more of a “special” fashion sense.  I saved up my pennies and steeled my courage to purchase one for myself.  When my father and stepmother were away, I’d put it on and lay poolside.  I also doused my hair with special Sun-In to bring out the highlights.  Oh I was a vision.  And felt so sexy and like such a rebel.

My fetish flourished when I took up residence on Alphabet City.  There was no shortage of places catering to men wanting to display their package.  Over the years, I’ve acquired quite the menagerie of swim attire.  Flashy red floral for Puerto Vallarta’s gay beach.  Cheeky green plaid for Provincetown.  Understated deep purple for more family oriented resorts in the Caribbean.

Last year for my 40^th birthday, I even had a “couture” suit designed by swimwear designer Keiko—something to show off my Green Lantern tattoo placed high on my thigh.  I needed something with just the right colors, and cut so as not to ride up my butt—I was going to be entertaining friends on a boat in Sydney, after all.  A little modesty was required, after all.

As I’ve aged, it’s taken more work to look “presentable” in a bikini.  I’ve lost weight, pumped up my legs and trimmed the unruly hair on my thighs.  When I started noticing some odd patches of hair growing on my back, I immediately booked my first waxing treatment at men’s spa Nickel.

After disrobing and laying prostate on what looked like a sacrificial alter, Latin American aesthetician Monica gave me a once over.

“Ay papi, it’s not just your back.  That hair on your butt needs to go, too.”

“Why?  It’s mostly covered up.”

“No, no baby.  From looking at your tan line, some of that hair is poking out.  Monica gonna take good care of you.  Just relax.  You want inside as well?”

“Um, I don’t know what that means.”

“Sweetie, you watch porn?  How you think those boys have no hair there?”

Holy Christmas!  Just the thought of it made me writhe in pain.  Turns out, there’s a male equivalent of the female Brazilan wax.  I’ve named it after Monica’s home country—Ecuadorian Torture.

“Well, okay, I’ll try anything once.”

Famous last words.

Yesterday, as I dropped my towel in front of my gym locker, I noticed my tan line fading, along with memories of the warmth of Mexico.  But the cute guy next to me winked, and told me he liked my tattoo—and my tan line.  Nice.  Just the reaction, and boost of self-esteem, I’d been looking for.

Time to book my next trip to a sunny locale.  But what Speedo will I take?

Last week I did it again with a female artist named Friday Jones.  The first time I did it with her was in New Orleans a few years ago.  Truthfully, I had been planning it for a long time, preparing by looking at special sites on the Internet.  My friend Susan encouraged me by explaining the process, and so I decided to do it during her birthday weekend getaway to the Big Easy.

On that first meeting in November 2007, Friday welcomed me into the small room she was using temporarily while in town.

“I like to move around.  I’ll probably go to Marrakech, next,” she volunteered.

Friday Jones after de-flowering virgin Jon Paul

I breathed a sigh of relief at the cleanliness of the tiny cubicle—much cleaner than many gay bathhouses I’d visited. (Alphabet City’s Episode 13: Babylon has a particularly funny story of a visit to a Bangkok sex palace)

My partner Juan Pablo accompanied me on that first visit.  I hoped he’d find it sexy.  But in the end, he couldn’t bear to look.

“It’s your body, do what you want,” he said.

Before I did the deed, he escaped to the bar next door calming his concerns with live jazz and strong beer.

I asked Friday what to expect.  She grinned.

“It feels like a sunburn or a cat scratch.  No pain, no gain.”

And with that, she fired up the needle.

Electric Ladyland Tattoo on Frenchman Street was my introduction to inking.

For my first tattoo, my overriding concern was how would I would respond to the inevitable question, “Why did you choose that?”

Tribal markings that appear sexy on other gay boys seemed impersonal on me.  A picture of my beloved Bichon Frise dog Frida struck me as super faggy.  Lucky for me, my initials are the same as my partner—so that could have been a quirky option, and useful in case of a break-up.  But ultimately I decided it was too self-indulgent.  Icons from my upbringing—cowboy boots, Lone Stars, Longhorns—were briefly considered and discarded for their irrelevance to my current life.

Embarrassingly, my inspiration came from reality TV.  My friend Becca tipped me off that an episode of Miami INK featured a compass tattoo.  Bingo!  A perfect reference to my love of travel and with just a touch of pirate sexiness.

I quickly discovered that telling people you’re getting a tattoo is akin to telling them you’re pregnant—whether you want it or not, everyone has a piece of advice or a story or a question.  Some frequent comments:

“Don’t end up with a shamrock like my drunk uncle!”

“Do you want to see my naughty tat?”

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy to have a tattoo!”

I’m never quite sure how to respond to that last comment.  Is that supposed to be a compliment?

Much to Juan Pablo’s chagrin, the tattoo experts were absolutely correct in telling me that I would get addicted.  In the course of one year, I added two more tattoos, including a symbol of the Green Lantern (in a naughty area, no less) and the vintage plane from Casablanca (on my chest practically screaming “I’m a guy with a tattoo!”).

Why did I become a tattoo exhibitionist at 40 rather than getting inked in my 20s?  Probably because for the first time in my life I am proud of my body.  I actually look in the mirror and think “that guy looks good.”  Most of my life I’ve struggled with weight issues and occasional eating disorders.  But in the last few years with the support and encouragement of Juan Pablo and the rest of my NY friends family, I’ve been able to lose weight and feel sexy.  And the tattoos are a symbol of that empowerment.

After my last visit to Friday Jones who set up shop in New York at Senses Salon, I’m well on my way to a sleeve—custom created artwork fanning out from my compass that includes symbols from my favorite cities: Sydney Opera House & Bridge, the Eiffel Tower, and a Lady Liberty-Chrysler Building combo.

Clearly, my taste in tattoos is not exactly the scary and aggressive dragons-and-demons.  And that’s why I’m glad I did it with a woman for the first time—Friday was gentle and non-judgmental and encouraging.  And she left me begging for more.

Friday and me after my first de-flowering

Friday and JP Oct 2009

Part of my sleeve with Sydney Opera House on view

Another angle with Eiffel Tower