It’s the third day of Queerty correspondent Jimmy Im’s week-long adventure at Whistler’s annual WinterPride: the gay ski event of the year – although, how many gay ski events are there, really?

Regardless, in today’s entry Jimmy gets down on the slopes. Like all beginners he had to start of slow and get into the groove. Being the filthy minded scamp that he is, he noticed more than a few similarities between the great white ride and riding dirty.

Of course, that’s hardly the end of it: poor Jimmy later found himself at a spa and sex toy party. Don’t worry, he may not be able to ski, but the bitch can certainly roll with the best of them.

And when we say “best”, we mean sleaziest.

Waking up this morning proved Canadian beer has an ingredient that makes hang-overs worse than popper overdose. Nevertheless, we wolfed down our breakfast, slid into our rented suits, picked up our skis and met our guide, Helena. An implant from France, she was like Danielle Rousseau from the TV show Lost: wacky, otherworldly and intense with ridiculously piercing eyes. This was going to be good.
Our first lesson in ski class included adorable, shy Herb from Miami (who “didn’t know it was gay ski week” and vacationed at an all-too-precise coincidence–good one, Herb) and a pack of other newbies. Through various group lessons, I learned that the most important thing about skiing was balance. Just like pilates, you focus on your cores. Helena, on the other hand, stressed her idea of the most important thing: (with a heavy French accent) “Ski instructors have to urge you… it’s something you have to listen to…it is extremely important…your tendon may stick out sideways… this is the most important thing… we struggle to tell you this… ” She never quote got around to telling us exactly what might happen or what we could do to prevent it. Couldn’t have been that important.

We eventually got the knack of skiing on the beginner’s bunny slope, and realized how similar it was to our every day lives. First, while you’re going down, you must concentrate and try not to break a rhythm. Second, you want to start slow and, once you get the hang of it, accelerate. Finally – and most importantly – the poles should be gripped with love; after all, they’re part of the package and rentals can be quite expensive if mistreated.
For our last ski, Sam said, “Helena told me that skiing was in my blood. I’m a natural born skier. A natural. Olympic quality. She told me not to tell anyone.” Of course, I know bullshit when I smell it, so I challenged him to a race. In the end, I fell off my skis and onto my ass for the fifth time, and Sam proved that he was king of the slopes (pictured, looking kingly).

Later that night, we decided to check out Men’s Spa & Toy Party featuring the latest and greatest sex toys for men. The Love Nest provided the fun, bringing in a variety of dildos, silicon lubricant, a sex swing and a vibrating butt machine. Guests were encouraged to volunteer for demonstrations, but I thought I could find more action at the Brokeback Party at Buffalo Bill’s.

Sam declined gay party times tonight as he was feeling ill (repercussions of a fast ski, my friend) so I trucked on over to find a club packed with gays sporting cowboy hats and western shirts. My crush of the night–Whistler denizen Robin–revealed the unjuicy details about Whistler’s (unriveting) gay scene, and I decided to fight my urge of showing him what New Yorkers can bring to the table.

I had a Corona night cap, instead, realizing 7 hours of sleep is better than none.

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