No fat pots, no femme kettles.

My Ego Blimp lofts that much higher when someone asks me to spot them at the gym. What I hear them saying is: "Due to your obvious ability to also heft things, I have chosen you to save me from a skullcrushing injury of my own doing." As an ENFJ, I'm told that I cannot resist helping people.

It's just an interesting exchange to have with someone in a place where you're otherwise expected to pretend that no one else exists. Everyone may be rocking out to the same Rihanna song through their earbuds, but you're really not supposed to interact. Oh, unless you're werqing out at the Castro gym, in which case I've never met so many people who maintain inappropriate eye contact (see: eye-fucking). And wink. Aren't we all not supposed to start winking until we're in our 40s and want to be sketchtastic?

But to return to the events at hand. The boy who asks me for a spot subsequently plops down next to me after I become a sweaty mess on the treadmill. My gaydar starts sounding klaxons as I stretch and he just sits there smiling at me.

But then he opens with, "I'm not usually into Asians, but you're cute if you want to hang out sometime." And then he winks. 

As the Samantha Jones gay from Hunting Season put it, "My dick might be a little racist, but I'm not." Let's ignore the winking, and focus on the part where I'm supposed to feel special for standing out among my yellow people. "Thanks?" and an incredulous headtilt are all I manage to put together before I gather up my stuff and head for the shower. It just throws my Sunday off a tad to get a bizarro compliment, ya know?

It's not like I don't understand to an extent the racial dynamics that lead to such statements making sense as compliments in someone's head. It's also true that I'm not as sticky as population distributions (2008 peek at racial diversity in Gaylandia or 2010 SF census data) would suggest for true equal opportunity "everything under the rainbow" dating. So yes, I'm contributing to the sense that there are waves of gaysians washing up through the Golden Gate Bridge onto "masc. only" coastlines. I'm a pot and you're a kettle and we're sitting in a glass house neighborhood.

General breakdown of SF

(As a disclaimer, Hunting Season is an atrocious show, and I would recommend you watch The Outs instead if you're in the mood to watch gay New Yorkers having first world problems.)