I remember being 8 or 9 years old and running around the house without a shirt on when a family friend playfully suggested that I needed a bra. I've always been thin and doughy, and my skinny-fat physique was a strong contrast to those of the naturally athletic and toned men in my family.From that moment on, I felt self-conscious about my body. I would obsessively brood over my lack of abs or undefined pecs in the mirror. Summer days at the pool were a tedious chore, and I would avoid getting in the water so I wouldn't have to take off my shirt.Although many men struggle with body image , it's a topic that is often dismissed as a non-issue for "real” men. And as a gay, cisgender man, my personal journey has been incredibly difficult, because I'm always comparing my body to men I'm attracted to, and even I am guilty of subconsciously shaming overweight queer men. Of course, it has nothing to do with their size; it's an act of self-loathing.Being queer, dark-skinned, and skinny, I have never felt comfortable in my own skin, and until recently, I didn't have the words to express that discomfort. To be a desirable gay man means to be masculine, white, and muscular, a standard that’s reinforced by images shared online This is the age of the “ Instagram thot ,” in which people post scantily clad photos, videos, and GIFs to gain followers and validation. But the pendulum often swings the other way, too. While Instagram is a place where people manipulate body-image expectation with flattering filters, angles, and Photoshop, it’s also become a place where users can promote body positivity and diversity. We often hear about women tackling body image on Instagram to encourage themselves and others to feel more comfortable about how they look. In fact, there are several teens and celebrities (like Kesha and Iskra Lawrence ) whose responses to body-shaming bullies on Instagram have gone viral