I once placed a personal ad in which I described myself as “gay-acting/gay-appearing,” partly as a jab at my peers who prefer to be thought of as “str8” but mostly because it’s just who I am. I’m not so much out-of-the-closet as “self-evident,” to use Quentin Crisp’s phrase, although being of a younger generation, I can’t subscribe to his belief that it is a kind of disfigurement requiring lavender hair rinse. I know this from strangers who find gay people offensive enough to elicit a remark-catcalls from cab windows, to use a recent example-as well as from countless casual social engagements in which people easily assume my orientation, no sensitive gaydar necessary. It takes only a glance to make my truth obvious. But most people immediately read me (correctly) as gay. Nor am I typically perceived as androgynous, not in my uniform of Diesels and boots, not even when I was younger and favored dangling earrings and bright Jack Purcells. Gay men are more likely than straight men to have a counterclockwise whorl.Īs a presence in the world-a body hanging from a subway strap or pressed into an elevator, a figure crossing the street-I am neither markedly masculine nor notably effeminate.
