I’ve always been a proud fat, Black gay man. Here’s why I still decided to start Ozempic.

I grew up fat, Black, and flamboyant in the mostly white city of  Sherman, Texas. It was a harsh and isolating experience. In 9th grade, Lynn Parker mocked me for my size, even signing my yearbook with a slur. It always felt like people could handle my being fat or gay, but never both — pick a struggle, right?

In queer spaces that claim to celebrate all bodies, I still get backhanded compliments. “You’re cute for a big boy,” people tell me, or “You carry your weight well,” as if my size needs an apology. 

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“No appointment necessary, just walk in!” the announcement on social media read.

But I’ve never dwelled on this shade. When told I need to change, my inner diva kicks in; it’s the confident, unapologetic part of me that fully embraces who I am and doesn’t give a damn—I’d rather sashay over their narrative than let it faze me. Besides, I’ve always got a snappy comeback ready, usually a sickening read that leaves them gagged.

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At 6’2” with a beefy build, thick thighs, and a big butt, I’m more suited for the NFL than a pie-eating contest. I’ve never had trouble getting dates, and I’m now happily married. This belly has treated me well, and I’m as shallow as any muscle queen half my size. My friends would tell you I’m living proof that fat and vain aren’t an oxymoron. I just don’t have the self-hatred that tortures so many queer men, fat or not, who are often pressured by the unrealistic beauty standards within the community — standards that equate worth with being thin, muscular, and conventionally attractive. These pressures, magnified by social media and dating apps, can create a cycle of self-criticism and insecurity.

I gave up crash diets long before I came out. Health is important, and we queer Black men have more than our fair share of worries—not just HIV/AIDS but also high blood pressure and diabetes. At 40, I’ve managed to avoid these, but after gaining weight during the 2020 quarantine and getting a sleep apnea diagnosis, I knew it was time to take my health seriously.

I reached out to a friend, a fellow queer big guy known for his role in a cult classic about some very mean girls. He suggested I try cutting out sugar, but that was a total failure (I love birthday cake ice cream too much). 

So, I decided to explore Ozempic. I found a provider and forked over $300 for the consultation and first month’s supply. Sure, it’s a bit pricey, but investing in yourself is something you’ve got to do at any cost from time to time. It felt like the right decision for me, a small gesture of self-care. And thank goodness I’m not afraid of needles — getting poked once a week is nothing new for me.

Since starting Ozempic, my cravings have disappeared, and the constant “food noise” in my head has quieted down. It’s nice to finally get other things done without obsessing over my next snack — now I can focus on slaying my goals. I can tell I’ve lost some weight because my clothes fit looser. I even asked the doctor not to tell me my starting weight so I could be surprised later.

The news is already out in my friend circle. I was at a drag brunch the other day, and everyone kept asking how much I’d lost. Some are all in, while others preach that I should just hit the gym. Everyone has an opinion. We laughed, knowing how our community loves to jump on the latest trends with full drama. We said it won’t be long before every gay in Provincetown and Fire Island is starting their day with an Ozempic injection and ending it with a DoxyPep nightcap.

But it’s funny how, once people find out you’re losing weight, it becomes the only topic of conversation. They hit you with lines like, “You’re gonna be so happy when you start REALLY losing!” and “I’m so proud of you.”

But taking Ozempic isn’t about a drastic change or saving me from body anguish. I’m not hoping to find meaning or supreme satisfaction from dropping pounds. Studies show that simply losing weight doesn’t guarantee success or emotional well-being, especially for gay men. In fact, it can sometimes increase depression when driven by external pressures. A study published in the Journal of Homosexuality found that gay men who experienced weight loss often reported increased body dissatisfaction and psychological distress. Once everyone’s snatched and skinny, they might realize it’s not the magic fix they thought it would be.

I’ve found myself in a strange place, feeling like I’m promoting the very ideas about body image I’ve pushed back against for so long. For me, taking Ozempic isn’t about meeting anyone’s expectations; it’s simply a step toward better health. I feel like everyone is watching me. You wanna see my body? Check Grindr or Sniffies.

Fat bodies are always under a microscope. On social media, weight loss is often assumed to be thanks to Ozempic. At the same time, people shame those who actually use it, like it’s cheating.

We see this contradiction with people like Lizzo. As a Black, queer woman, her weight is relentlessly scrutinized despite her success. Whether she’s twerking on stage or wearing something revealing, critics focus more on her size than her music or messages of self-love. The criticism suggests self-love only counts if you never change or seek help. As Lizzo herself said on TikTok, “I’m tired of the conversations around my body… it’s not a political statement. It’s just my body.” That’s why I’m claiming my narrative upfront.

Ozempic has added a whole new layer to the weight loss conversation – everyone has an opinion on who should use it and why. Yes, my weight loss is due to Ozempic, but that doesn’t mean I hated my previous body. It adds a new layer of assumptions about why people use it, with some thinking it’s purely for vanity, others believing it’s about internalized fatphobia, and a few assuming it’s a last resort for health reasons.

People choose Ozempic for various reasons, and they owe no one an explanation. The world would be much better off if people minded their own business when it comes to others’ bodies. I understand that we all make assumptions about other people’s motivations, but sometimes I still don’t care to give an answer about why I am making a choice for myself.

In the queer community, we’re supposed to celebrate every flavor of fabulous, but often that celebration comes with unwritten rules about body size. Whether you’re on Ozempic, cutting sugar, or living your life without worrying about the scale, we need to remember that being queer is about embracing who we are — not fitting into some narrow ideal. Our paths are varied, and they all deserve respect. Keep your eyes on your own body, and let me live in mine. Isn’t that what being queer is all about — living authentically, no matter our size?

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