My Life as a Gay Man: My Florida Faggotization, Part IV

My Life as a Gay Man: My Florida Faggotization, Part IV

The cosmetic procedures I described Friday at seven hundred dollars a pop were small potatoes when it came to burning a few holes in my Visa credit card compared to the megabucks – like five with three zeros after it – that I spent to rid myself of something that had bugged me since my twenties and haunt a lot of guys, even guys who do the gym beat and keep their weight down – those nasty love handles.

Up to just a few years ago the only way to get rid of them was liposuction about which I had heard and read a lot of horror stories like infection, disfigurement or just a long, painful post-surgical recovery period. No, if that were the only way, I was resigned to taking those ugly globs of fat to my grave.

Ah, then one day I was gleaning through one of our weekly gay rags which, after all the bar ads, ran promos for the local docs, including cosmetic surgeons and dermatologists. “Cool sculpting” was a non-invasive way to rid myself of those love handles forever and my M.D. who administered my testosterone therapy confirmed the procedure was worth pursuing and gave me the name of a Dr. Richardson who maintained a practice near the beach.

Well, if there was a gay dictionary and you looked up the word “twink,” Richardson’s pic would be there.  A multi-millionaire though he be, he was not just a twink but a twink’s twink even if he was balding and north of 40.  Pulling and prodding and squeezing the fat pockets around my hips and lower back, he proclaimed me a perfect candidate for this high tech elixir. Not only was it non-invasive, meaning no cutting, once the fat cells were gone, they were gone FOREVER! Plus there was no post-procedure recovery time. I could go to the gym, fuck like a bunny or go skydiving if I wanted to, straight out of his office.

Dr. Twink identified eight problem spots including my tummy (which stopped that hard earned six pack from showing), each of which would take an hour to treat, but he could block out the entire day if I’d liked which meant getting the whole damn thing done in one swoop.

By the time he got to the price – five thousand dollars – I was too hooked to even hesitate, let alone say no. Sure, vanity don’t come cheap but, after all, why have a twenty thousand dollar credit line if you don’t blow some of it?

That Thursday I showed up early at his office, stripped down to some hospital shorts, and after a “before” picture session with some “cub” photographer who I recognized from bear 411, I was whisked into the room where the cool sculpting machine whose arm resembled some alien extremity out of “War of the Worlds” awaited me. The principle behind cool sculpting was devilishly elemental. The tech, named Jan, a retired nurse who had overseen dozens of these procedures, would target an area by placing this suction-like device the size of a small loaf of bread over the fat pocket which it sucked up like a vacuum cleaner. During the hour I lay awkwardly there, barely breathing so not to disturb things, the machine was pooling all those naughty fat cells into one place and freeze-killing them. About the only truly painful part of the procedure was, when at the end of hour, Jan released the device and, for a minute or so, deep-massaged the pool of fat, resembling a bar of margarine, so that it dissipated and would eventually be excreted by the body.

This went on for eight long hours, uninterrupted except for a half hour lunch break where Jan brought me a sandwich and soda the front desk had ordered from a local deli. During most of the time, I watched some public television station on the big screen TV that faced my treatment cot where I was passively educated in the intricate arts of woodworking, quilting and canning fruits, not exactly material.

In between, when Jan would stop in to check how I was doing – a hospital-like call button was always right at my side just in case – the two of us would commiserate about the messy state of health care in the U.S., she the retired hospital OR nursing supervisor with the neurosurgeon hubby, and me the retired health care executive. But I think the two most exciting words she uttered, at least for me, were when at the end of each hour as she released the device’s hold on me and took a look at the lump of fat it had collected under my skin, she exclaimed with childish glee, “Looks great!”

Now, remember, I was lying there all day shirtless with only those flimsy hospital shorts between me and total nakedness, and here was this still very attractive and in-shape older woman grabbing me in all sorts of private places. But I think the one that created the most sexual innuendos was the last one, my belly, when she had to place the device an inch from my pubes. She kept insisting, jokingly, that she wasn’t getting fresh, but all I was hoping at that moment as I exchanged flirtatious banter with her was that Mr. Peter wouldn’t wake up. Like my femmy Jackie Gleason look-alike department store boss from my Jersey college days once said, “Even a cow can get you aroused if he touches you in the right place.”

We were there til 5:30 that afternoon, Jan, me and the machine. By then just about everybody, including Dr. Twink, was gone. Again I could do anything I liked and I was lucky I had not even suffered some minor bruising which is only natural when your flesh is being held in a vise for an hour. Jan explained numbness in the treated areas was to be expected for a few weeks, and she also cautioned me not to take anything for pain except Tylenol, since inflammation, which was something most other analgesics treated, was a desired side effect of the treatment. It was the inflammation that was the agent that was responsible for the disappearance within two to three months of all those fat pockets. True, no instantaneous results but also no down time and no knife either.

Just six weeks later, I was already seeing some pleasant changes in my body’s contours and finding my tight jeans getting looser, even though I hadn’t lost any significant weight. Interestingly, all that stubborn fat actually adds very little to your overall body mass – and you need to watch your weight from here on in or you might end up with fat sprouting up in the strangest places – like your shoulder!

Meanwhile, a friend of mine is saving his pennies to fly to Costa Rica or Brazil where you can get a complete facelift for a fraction of what it costs here in the states, all while “vacationing” at some resort while you recover.

All I want to know is have they got some Latin hotties on payroll to take care of clients while we’re all bandaged up?

James, the stereotypical South Florida gay boy who had nothing to offer but his beautiful body.


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