Finding out I'm an 'otter' did wonders for my self esteem – Metro.co.uk

As I danced un-self-consciously in the warehouse-like London gay nightclub, I noticed how the luminous green laser lights beamed down onto my shirtless, yet slightly sweat-saturated, torso.
The long chest hair I’ve now let grow was scrunched into tight curls that any period drama heroine would be envious of – yes, my chest hair is, basically, Elizabeth Bennet’s barnet – and every so often its sporadic silver streaks illuminated under the lights, glistening like an old but precious stone.  
Catching a glimpse, a fellow raver then smiled in my direction.
I returned the smile and he then boogied up to me.
Gently, with his handsome hazelnut eyes obtaining unspoken enthusiastic consent from my blue ones, he ran his hand through my Jane Austen-esque chest hair.
‘Mmmmm,’ he whispered as he stroked. ‘Love the fur.’ 
What happened next was too steamy for an Austen romance tale, but it made me feel something more powerful than merely being fetishised. It made me feel giddily validated.
It’s been a long journey to such body confidence and self-acceptance, but I can now confidently say that I too love my body hair.
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I was a very early developer and entered puberty humiliatingly young. I started shaving around the age of 13 and by the time I was 15, I had a full chest of hair.
Back then I didn’t really know how to get rid of it, or even if I should. I just knew I didn’t want anyone to see it. 
I believed I was too young to carry such manly body developments. It felt weirdly premature, like those child beauty queens plastered in adult make-up. Except, without the beauty. 
I felt repulsive. 
At school I’d cover myself up in the changing rooms as if I was a woman caught without her bra on. Even then, that wasn’t enough to stop the taunts.
Boys with appropriately smooth boylike chests would point and laugh and call me things like gorilla or shout things like ‘pubes!’ at me.
It seems so silly now, but at the time I was mortified. I’d go bright red and want the ground to swallow me and my precocious body hair, like a clogged shower plughole.
While I became more comfortable with it as I got older (and my classmates caught up), in my 20s, I grew self-conscious all over again but for a very different reason…
Standards of male beauty, back then, were strangely hairless. It was an era defined by Abercrombie & Fitch and Calvin Klein topless ‘hot’ male models all of whom were like sphynx cats but with belly buttons.
It feels creepily perverted now but the marketing worked and aged 25 I booked in for my first full chest wax.
The thing I remember most about it was the pain!
As my hair was stripped away from me via hot wax, I remember squealing at an emasculating pitch. And in the days afterwards it hurt to even touch my chest.
I also remember feeling a sudden affinity for the impossible, expensive and painful beauty standards women had long been expected to uphold.
But it wasn’t just the pain or even the societal pressure that made me decide the hairless look wasn’t for me. There was just something about it that didn’t feel right.
When I stood nude looking in the mirror at my hairless chest, I felt even more naked than I already was. I felt weirdly infantilised and, ultimately, I decided it just didn’t suit me. 
So, I grew it all back and promised myself I’d never shave or wax it off again.
Of course, that was easier said than done. Especially as I’d still meet some resistance on the gay scene.
One guy I briefly dated took one look at it the first time we saw each other shirtless and said: ‘Bleurgh! Wax that!’ Funnily enough he didn’t last long.
Other lovers were more diplomatic in their distaste, and encouraged me to ‘at least trim it to keep it tidy.’
On the gay scene, ‘bears’ were all hairy and overweight men and I never felt I fitted into that community. And when I started going to the gym more other men would encourage me to go hairless again, to ‘reveal’ my muscles more. 
It was then that I learnt the term ‘otter’ – a metaphor for hairy gays who aren’t plus size – which seemed to fit me, perfectly. 
I realised, if people didn’t like it, that was their problem; plenty of plucked chickens to choose from.
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After that, I finally started to own and embrace myself, chest hair and all. I also realised an equal number of lovers had said they adore it, and I instead focused on their words, rather than the hirsute-haters.
Now, thanks to a combination of age, better self-esteem and the influence of the body positivity movement, I happily let men fetishise it. But I still believe more needs to be done to help men with body confidence in general.
Just as women are successfully redefining and broadening current beauty standards, men should too. We don’t need to alter, groom or prune our bodies to be acceptable or attractive and I think it’s high time we say that the days of those notoriously hairless Abercrombie models are over.
I’m glad I’ve come full circle and into a place of hairy happiness, because to get rid of my body hair now would feel like defacing my body. 
The only dilemma I have now it’s going grey is: do I dye it? I’ll let you know what I decide.
This article was originally published September 28, 2024
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk. 
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