“Would the twink in the corner demanding an umbrella in his flirtini have grown out of his conceptually feminine behaviours by the age of ten if he’d been taught the words to Gloria Gaynor’s I Am What I Am instead of Jack and Jill when he was four? Does it matter? Am I in my own way being homophobic by thinking that? Surely true equality comes when nobody is judged for being different”.
I know a lot of gay men who do this on a daily basis. Some enter rooms with a flourish, some jeté their way into a conversation while others squeal with delight to signify their approval.
I for one won’t get out of bed unless Barbara is being piped through the house in surround sound whilst a group of specially trained toy dogs bring me my underwear neatly laid out on velvet cushions.
My father wasn’t surprised that I was gay. Maybe it was because I used to watch Dallas and sing I Want To Be Bobbies Girl. Or my Bucks Fizz impression with the tea towel. Or the fact that I spent the summer of ’86 commandeering the video player in the living room so I could learn all the routines to the Virgin Tour. It never seemed like an issue that he’d given much thought to. One night a couple of years ago over a whisky he mentioned that he was confused, as I don’t act like one. Realising that the ‘one’ he was referring to was the ‘homosexualist’ I bit my lip and stopped my impulse to say, “You’ve just never seen me suck a cock”. Thankfully.
On further evaluation I began to realise just how far we’ve evolved in the past sixty years. My dad was 18 when homosexuality was decriminalised in the UK. He lived through a sexual revolution. A social change where James Dean spoke for a generation of angsty teens determined to gain their own freedoms and make their own rules. A time where centuries of repression finally gave way and gay men and women finally had permission to be who they really were.
The phrase ‘act like one’ jarred with me. It seemed narrow minded and ignorant, but then I realised that he comes from a generation where his first experience of gay men was watching the screaming queens on the telly. In-your-face activists were rightly, pushing in front of the cameras demanding to be heard after years of repression. Voices that had been silenced for eons eventually had volume, and people were listening! They became role models, poster boys or girls for a new generation, one where gender roles were blurred, where boys could be girls and girls could be boys and nobody had ever considered the possibility of gender being a non-binary concept.
It got me thinking about why so many gay men come screaming out of the closet. Is it a right of passage that I somehow
missed? Is it that for some of us, we’ve been so tightly wound that when we finally start becoming ourselves we can’t stop? It’s like a tourette impulse. I know a hundred gay men who left their girlfriends on Monday and by Friday night were teaching Cheryl Cole’s Fight For This Love dance routine to teenage girls outside chip shops at 2am, screaming like banshees and bitching about boys.
Is this how they’d be naturally if they’d been born into a society that didn’t condition children into behaviours based on their bits?
Would the twink in the corner demanding an umbrella in his flirtini have grown out of his conceptually feminine behaviours by the age of ten if he’d been taught the words to Gloria Gaynor’s I Am What I Am instead of Jack and Jill when he was four? Does it matter? Am I in my own way being homophobic by thinking that? Surely true equality comes when nobody is judged for being different.
I can laugh heartily at the choice to list ‘straight acting’ in a Grindr profile that later states ‘rimming’ as an enjoyable past-time, but is this just perpetuating yet another lack of tolerance? I’m not sure I’ll ever have an answer. I’m not even sure I need it. We are after all, all Jock Tamsin’s bairns and I for one love each sparkle and each bangle.