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Queer
[ queer - faggot - moffie - trassie - fudge packer - gay banger ] [ queer - faggot - moffie - trassie - fudge packer - gay banger ] [ queer - faggot - moffie - trassie - fudge packer - gay banger ]	Happy Parenting \| gaymen \| BackIssue [ Gay? ] WHY GUYS HATE GAY MEN (And Why I Don't Blame 'Em) A few decades ago, before Stonewall or Will & Grace; Ellen DeGeneres or RuPaul, the centuries-old archetypes of homophobia were reliably in place. On any night of the week you could step into a sports bar, wave a limp wrist and be guaranteed of a bloody nose at the very least. Back in those days, ignorance ensured a clear-cut scenario of fear, hatred and discrimination. As a faggot, you knew here you stood. You knew that the very thought of lads getting it on together drove heterosexual males to fits of uncontrollable rage, and you knew that, deep down, equally oppressed homosexuals would muster a frisson of solidarity for your plight. It was sore, but simple. Then gay liberation came along and messed things up. Step into a small town today, or ghetto, or a high school locker room, and you'll probably find these politics unchanged, yet in the adult, urban, middle-class realm where pink liberation has covered the most ground, the goalposts have shifted. On the surface at least, straight people are pretty relaxed about homos. At best, enough in their own sexuality not to give a damn about anyone else's. At worst it's a lame ploy for liberal credibility. Nothing wrong with a couple of fags at the dinner party, hon'. It's just like having friends of other races around - makes you look hip and enlightened, and it's fabulous of course, for hot fashion tips, cuisine directions and decor ideas. Gay people - they're like, hey, so creative. Don't give a toss what they do in bed, so long as they don't talk about it. "It's a girlfriend thing, isn't it?" a girlfriend of mine suggests. Straight women love gay men, 'cos they can talk girlie stuff and hang out and watch Ricky Martin videos together. Straight women love gay men 'cos they notice your new bag and they don't want to manhandle you. Straight women love gay men, 'cos straight men are such assholes. Hang out at Therapy on a Saturday night, and witness the few females who make it past the gay-only door code. There are no in-betweeners here. These girls are either overweight and frumpy or utter bombshells. So they're here to boogie 'cos either (a) nowhere else will have 'em or (b) 'cos they can wear low-cut halternecks without being at the mercy of wandering hands. Here, they can say g'nite without risking date rape. If, however, they're in the mood for a little wandering hand-work, they're gonna have to look elsewhere. For, as the same super-smart girlfriend points out, "Gay men just love women, but they cannot acknowledge us as sexual beings." And, sure, while your average fag knows what a Fendi baguette is, he is clueless as to the location of the clitoris. Mention the word "pussy", and he's scampering to the bathroom with a mouthful of you-know-what. In the average gay man's universe, female physiology is Deep Space Nine. Fear, ignorance and a ghetto mentality have bred some nasty misogynistic streaks. Although the annual Gay Pride March rallies a well-balanced mix for public display, for the remaining 364 days of the year, the male and female gay communities are about as united as gender-separate primary schools. Polarised by stereotypic notions of dyke seriousness and gay boy frivolity, two separate sub-cultures have evolved. so, effectively, many gay men et to drink, dance and work out in a man's world, where women are, like hey, so fabulous. Don't give a shoe what they do in bed, as long as they don't talk about it. Ironically, while gay liberation movement sought to integrate gay people into society, it has achieved the opposite. For centuries, gay men, who kept their sexual orientation secret, could participate in the heterosexual mainstream. Yet the more acceptable it's become to come out, the more separate social communities emerge. This makes me wonder just how genuine calls for assimilation were in the first place? Did gay people ever want to hang out with breeders? I doubt it. The low-lit separatism is central to its cult. "Oh honey, I'm so over with straight people," my friend Richard yawns. "Well, there's one thing worse than straight people," I retort brightly. "Gay people." And we laugh, 'cos it's true. To be sure, there's a whole nation of faggots out there that I'm supposed to identify with just because they like sleeping with men. these are people who like Celine Dion, you understand. People who wear white jeans, shave their chests, sell insurance and talk about the new Beetle. These are people who pump iron and shop constantly - some even dream of being Jennifer Aniston. Honey, there are some scary faggots out there, and if straight people don't like them, I don't blame 'em. Is this a bolt of self-loathing exposing itself? I think not, for at the end of the night, the superficial cK-One-reeking queens on the scene are harmless enough, provided you don't try anything too ambitious, like, er, conversation. The real monsters, in my little black book, are the gay bigots. Just how anyone from a marginalised group can discriminate defies logic. But logic is not what we're dealing with here. A couple of years back, on a patch of lawn outside the charming Champions Pub in Braamfontein, I witnessed a most telling incident. A young transvestite was mincing stiffly among a bunch of Muscle Marys, doing her best to holds her pose. Something about her couture choices gave me the impression she'd just stepped off the train from Springs. It was midnight, but her wig was pure 5am sadness - a skew, tatty and damaged nest. I imagined her last glance in the mirror, before leaving home ("Go get'em, baby.") and tapped into my own pathos and vulnerability. Before you could say "fudge-packer", some faggot tosses a cigarette in her direction, which bulls-eyes into the nest. No one says a word. No one rushes to her aid - in case they, ugghh, get some drag on them - and, as a fine tower of smoke graces the already tragic silhouette, the sound of muffled laughter mixes in with cheesy house music. It's all very Standard Six. And it's ugly. Better come with me honey," I Whisper. "You're on fire." Things get a little messy in the bathroom. No serious burns, but broken, understandably, into a hundred pieces. It's a zero-love situation - one of those moments that makes you wanna slice up your Gay Pride T-shirt and go straight. But you don't. 'Cos you can't. 'Cos, no matter how much repressed homophobia and Versace fascism you have to put up with, you are who you are. Scan the Gay Personal ads sometime. Such literary treats are peppered with innocuous phrases that say heaps for the culture's gains in terms of self-acceptance. "No fats. No fems", "Normal", "guy Next Door", and my personal favourite, "Straight Acting". Did Oscar Wilde sit in the clink for "straight acting"? Do dozens of gay men die of AIDS-related diseases for "straight acting"? This ain't no acting class, honey. It's real life. There was a moment, early on in the AIDS crisis, where the mere shock of tragedy promised a flicker of realness for the community. The ugliness and fragility of death and disease forced n people to probe beyond the superficial vanities of the scene. But the flicker died. Sick people hid themselves and people who weren't or didn't look sick, slouched back into escapism. So much so that I wonder sometimes: Do gay men turn to escapism or do escapists turn to homosexuality? Few sub-cultures will licence such dizzy abandon. The gay party scene, with its back-rooms, drugs, orgies and benign tolerance of one-night-stands dishes a smorgasbord of possibility for anyone on the run from intimacy. So, which runs deeper? The psychosis or the sexual orientation? You go figure. I have no issue with this, provided that it's upfront. I have far more respect for someone who doesn't ask for my phone number, than someone who feels obliged to and then crumples it up. But is there life after orgasm? And is there wit out there? Or individuality or honesty? These are more pressing questions. Since the free-love 70s, a generic gay party culture has colonised the planet. Be it at Heaven in London, the Bunker in Buenos Aires, the Roxy in new York, or Detour in Cape Town, it's the same dance floor, a-thump with the same well-built, half-naked, adult men, tripping on Ecstasy, jumping up and down to house music and seeking vacuous short-term relationships. The spirit of competition is rife. And anyone who comes across to edgy becomes somehow untouchable. It's certainly a high point for narcissism and superficiality, but it's not much of a day for diversity. And for a culture founded, supposedly, on tenets of personal liberation, there ain't much space for individuality. Let's examine this clone-fest more closely. Step into a gay club and you're stepping into a cartoon-strip of hyper-masculinity. Big, beefy caricatures of maleness surround you. The deep body-fascism of the scene compensates for a lack of substance - a direct result of reading too many issues of Men's Health and watching too much Ally McBeal. The miraculous absence of body hair (Thank you, Gillette) not only betrays an obsession with eternal youth, but also a pipe dream of prepubescent innocence. Somehow the thought of teenage lads experimenting seems less perverse than grown men making 'lifestyle choices'. And so you'll meet 45-year-olds going on 14. Or - God help us - 45-year-olds going with 14s. Strutting my stuff at New York's Pride March this July, I witnessed an encouragingly broad gathering of gay tribes. And yet the theme 'Love, Pride and Unity' would have been better represented by 'Gay Twins Day', for, indeed, while there were sexual deviants present of all shapes, heights, classes, races and nationalities, for the most part they were representing in pairs. S&M twins. Cyber Latino twins. Ghetto Fabulous Dyke twins. One plus one equals gay, baby. And although some of these were couples, others were just grimly co-dependent friends. Either way, I'm talking Noah's Ark. Of course, such relationships are not restricted to the gay community. Straight couples also learn to walk, dress and chew gum in unison. Straight people can also be superficial, dumb, and lacking in self-irony. Straight people can also be humorless and anal. But, hey, I expected it from them. Probe beneath the layers of fake tan at a gay party, and every person in the room has battled, at some point, with his or her identity. Every freak present has had to think about telling their Mama something she doesn't want to hear. Everyone has endured the terrifying realisation of his or her otherness. Whoever you are, and whatever you like doing with your clothes off, in the year 2000, it is quite possible to celebrate this spirit. There may be a whole lot of Hitlers out there, but there's enough tolerance to make it work for you. We have reached a point where the accountability for personal freedom lies within. where you can be everything you want to be, if you dare. There are lots of faggots I know who have the balls to wake up and slip into yellow leg warmers; gay folk who embrace their hard-earned liberty and uniqueness with every beat of the music, every interaction, every thing they create. Dykes who're secure enough in themselves to transcend the threat of other personalities. Homos for whom love and acceptance is as natural as breathing. There are heterosexual people, too, who carry this torch just as boldly. Breeders who don't give a nylon hose what you do in bed, so long as you're willing to share every juicy detail with due courage, depth and candour. And these people; these fabulous, kick-ass individuals are getting all my love, respect and admiration. - An Article by Adam Levin, SA Style, October 2000

Queer

[ queer - faggot - moffie - trassie - fudge packer - gay banger ] [ queer - faggot - moffie - trassie - fudge packer - gay banger ] [ queer - faggot - moffie - trassie - fudge packer - gay banger ]

Happy Parenting | gaymen | BackIssue [ Gay? ]

WHY GUYS HATE GAY MEN (And Why I Don't Blame 'Em)

A few decades ago, before Stonewall or Will & Grace; Ellen DeGeneres or RuPaul, the centuries-old archetypes of homophobia were reliably in place. On any night of the week you could step into a sports bar, wave a limp wrist and be guaranteed of a bloody nose at the very least. Back in those days, ignorance ensured a clear-cut scenario of fear, hatred and discrimination. As a faggot, you knew here you stood. You knew that the very thought of lads getting it on together drove heterosexual males to fits of uncontrollable rage, and you knew that, deep down, equally oppressed homosexuals would muster a frisson of solidarity for your plight. It was sore, but simple. Then gay liberation came along and messed things up.

Step into a small town today, or ghetto, or a high school locker room, and you'll probably find these politics unchanged, yet in the adult, urban, middle-class realm where pink liberation has covered the most ground, the goalposts have shifted. On the surface at least, straight people are pretty relaxed about homos. At best, enough in their own sexuality not to give a damn about anyone else's. At worst it's a lame ploy for liberal credibility. Nothing wrong with a couple of fags at the dinner party, hon'. It's just like having friends of other races around - makes you look hip and enlightened, and it's fabulous of course, for hot fashion tips, cuisine directions and decor ideas. Gay people - they're like, hey, so creative. Don't give a toss what they do in bed, so long as they don't talk about it.

"It's a girlfriend thing, isn't it?" a girlfriend of mine suggests. Straight women love gay men, 'cos they can talk girlie stuff and hang out and watch Ricky Martin videos together. Straight women love gay men 'cos they notice your new bag and they don't want to manhandle you. Straight women love gay men, 'cos straight men are such assholes.

Hang out at Therapy on a Saturday night, and witness the few females who make it past the gay-only door code. There are no in-betweeners here. These girls are either overweight and frumpy or utter bombshells. So they're here to boogie 'cos either (a) nowhere else will have 'em or (b) 'cos they can wear low-cut halternecks without being at the mercy of wandering hands. Here, they can say g'nite without risking date rape.

If, however, they're in the mood for a little wandering hand-work, they're gonna have to look elsewhere. For, as the same super-smart girlfriend points out, "Gay men just love women, but they cannot acknowledge us as sexual beings." And, sure, while your average fag knows what a Fendi baguette is, he is clueless as to the location of the clitoris. Mention the word "pussy", and he's scampering to the bathroom with a mouthful of you-know-what.

In the average gay man's universe, female physiology is Deep Space Nine. Fear, ignorance and a ghetto mentality have bred some nasty misogynistic streaks.

Although the annual Gay Pride March rallies a well-balanced mix for public display, for the remaining 364 days of the year, the male and female gay communities are about as united as gender-separate primary schools. Polarised by stereotypic notions of dyke seriousness and gay boy frivolity, two separate sub-cultures have evolved. so, effectively, many gay men et to drink, dance and work out in a man's world, where women are, like hey, so fabulous. Don't give a shoe what they do in bed, as long as they don't talk about it.

Ironically, while gay liberation movement sought to integrate gay people into society, it has achieved the opposite. For centuries, gay men, who kept their sexual orientation secret, could participate in the heterosexual mainstream. Yet the more acceptable it's become to come out, the more separate social communities emerge. This makes me wonder just how genuine calls for assimilation were in the first place? Did gay people ever want to hang out with breeders? I doubt it. The low-lit separatism is central to its cult. "Oh honey, I'm so over with straight people," my friend Richard yawns. "Well, there's one thing worse than straight people," I retort brightly. "Gay people." And we laugh, 'cos it's true.

To be sure, there's a whole nation of faggots out there that I'm supposed to identify with just because they like sleeping with men. these are people who like Celine Dion, you understand. People who wear white jeans, shave their chests, sell insurance and talk about the new Beetle. These are people who pump iron and shop constantly - some even dream of being Jennifer Aniston. Honey, there are some scary faggots out there, and if straight people don't like them, I don't blame 'em.

Is this a bolt of self-loathing exposing itself? I think not, for at the end of the night, the superficial cK-One-reeking queens on the scene are harmless enough, provided you don't try anything too ambitious, like, er, conversation. The real monsters, in my little black book, are the gay bigots. Just how anyone from a marginalised group can discriminate defies logic. But logic is not what we're dealing with here.

A couple of years back, on a patch of lawn outside the charming Champions Pub in Braamfontein, I witnessed a most telling incident. A young transvestite was mincing stiffly among a bunch of Muscle Marys, doing her best to holds her pose. Something about her couture choices gave me the impression she'd just stepped off the train from Springs. It was midnight, but her wig was pure 5am sadness - a skew, tatty and damaged nest. I imagined her last glance in the mirror, before leaving home ("Go get'em, baby.") and tapped into my own pathos and vulnerability.

Before you could say "fudge-packer", some faggot tosses a cigarette in her direction, which bulls-eyes into the nest. No one says a word. No one rushes to her aid - in case they, ugghh, get some drag on them - and, as a fine tower of smoke graces the already tragic silhouette, the sound of muffled laughter mixes in with cheesy house music. It's all very Standard Six. And it's ugly. Better come with me honey," I Whisper. "You're on fire."

Things get a little messy in the bathroom. No serious burns, but broken, understandably, into a hundred pieces. It's a zero-love situation - one of those moments that makes you wanna slice up your Gay Pride T-shirt and go straight. But you don't. 'Cos you can't. 'Cos, no matter how much repressed homophobia and Versace fascism you have to put up with, you are who you are.

Scan the Gay Personal ads sometime. Such literary treats are peppered with innocuous phrases that say heaps for the culture's gains in terms of self-acceptance. "No fats. No fems", "Normal", "guy Next Door", and my personal favourite, "Straight Acting". Did Oscar Wilde sit in the clink for "straight acting"? Do dozens of gay men die of AIDS-related diseases for "straight acting"? This ain't no acting class, honey. It's real life.

There was a moment, early on in the AIDS crisis, where the mere shock of tragedy promised a flicker of realness for the community. The ugliness and fragility of death and disease forced n people to probe beyond the superficial vanities of the scene. But the flicker died. Sick people hid themselves and people who weren't or didn't look sick, slouched back into escapism. So much so that I wonder sometimes: Do gay men turn to escapism or do escapists turn to homosexuality?

Few sub-cultures will licence such dizzy abandon. The gay party scene, with its back-rooms, drugs, orgies and benign tolerance of one-night-stands dishes a smorgasbord of possibility for anyone on the run from intimacy. So, which runs deeper? The psychosis or the sexual orientation? You go figure.

I have no issue with this, provided that it's upfront. I have far more respect for someone who doesn't ask for my phone number, than someone who feels obliged to and then crumples it up. But is there life after orgasm? And is there wit out there? Or individuality or honesty? These are more pressing questions.

Since the free-love 70s, a generic gay party culture has colonised the planet. Be it at Heaven in London, the Bunker in Buenos Aires, the Roxy in new York, or Detour in Cape Town, it's the same dance floor, a-thump with the same well-built, half-naked, adult men, tripping on Ecstasy, jumping up and down to house music and seeking vacuous short-term relationships. The spirit of competition is rife. And anyone who comes across to edgy becomes somehow untouchable. It's certainly a high point for narcissism and superficiality, but it's not much of a day for diversity.

And for a culture founded, supposedly, on tenets of personal liberation, there ain't much space for individuality. Let's examine this clone-fest more closely. Step into a gay club and you're stepping into a cartoon-strip of hyper-masculinity. Big, beefy caricatures of maleness surround you. The deep body-fascism of the scene compensates for a lack of substance - a direct result of reading too many issues of Men's Health and watching too much Ally McBeal. The miraculous absence of body hair (Thank you, Gillette) not only betrays an obsession with eternal youth, but also a pipe dream of prepubescent innocence. Somehow the thought of teenage lads experimenting seems less perverse than grown men making 'lifestyle choices'. And so you'll meet 45-year-olds going on 14. Or - God help us - 45-year-olds going with 14s.

Strutting my stuff at New York's Pride March this July, I witnessed an encouragingly broad gathering of gay tribes. And yet the theme 'Love, Pride and Unity' would have been better represented by 'Gay Twins Day', for, indeed, while there were sexual deviants present of all shapes, heights, classes, races and nationalities, for the most part they were representing in pairs. S&M twins. Cyber Latino twins. Ghetto Fabulous Dyke twins. One plus one equals gay, baby. And although some of these were couples, others were just grimly co-dependent friends. Either way, I'm talking Noah's Ark.

Of course, such relationships are not restricted to the gay community. Straight couples also learn to walk, dress and chew gum in unison. Straight people can also be superficial, dumb, and lacking in self-irony. Straight people can also be humorless and anal. But, hey, I expected it from them.

Probe beneath the layers of fake tan at a gay party, and every person in the room has battled, at some point, with his or her identity. Every freak present has had to think about telling their Mama something she doesn't want to hear. Everyone has endured the terrifying realisation of his or her otherness. Whoever you are, and whatever you like doing with your clothes off, in the year 2000, it is quite possible to celebrate this spirit. There may be a whole lot of Hitlers out there, but there's enough tolerance to make it work for you. We have reached a point where the accountability for personal freedom lies within. where you can be everything you want to be, if you dare.

There are lots of faggots I know who have the balls to wake up and slip into yellow leg warmers; gay folk who embrace their hard-earned liberty and uniqueness with every beat of the music, every interaction, every thing they create. Dykes who're secure enough in themselves to transcend the threat of other personalities. Homos for whom love and acceptance is as natural as breathing.

There are heterosexual people, too, who carry this torch just as boldly. Breeders who don't give a nylon hose what you do in bed, so long as you're willing to share every juicy detail with due courage, depth and candour. And these people; these fabulous, kick-ass individuals are getting all my love, respect and admiration.

- An Article by Adam Levin, SA Style, October 2000