At first glance, I’m as hetero as they come: the athlete, the Southern fraternity man, the dude with a Pangaea-like supercontinent of hair covering his entire body. My taste in women is impeccable, my knowledge of 90’s NBA players vast, my testosterone coursing in excess, hence the omnipresent man sweater. I wear Axe and rush tees and funnel beers and occasionally use the word “bro” without irony, sometimes in reference to myself. I am Straight Guy, hear me roar.
But, then again…
I live in the Village and work in fashion, my dance skills, at this point, far surpass my athletic ones (“pass the rock” < pas de deux), and my latest DVD rentals include A Chorus Line, Hairspray, and Rent (I’d be a liar if I pretended not to know every word to every song in each of those and a bigger liar I pretended to be ashamed of that). My inappropriately frequent displays of nudity violate the hetero eyes of hetero guys at the frat house, my belting voice echoes in the locker room showers (“Will you light my candle?!”), and my affinity for dressing up in women’s clothing is not confined to Halloween. I was recently seen vogue-ing to RuPaul at discos across Europe. Still, I promise: I am Straight Guy, hear me…lisp?
One of us is into girls, one into guys. But man, are we into each other.
So, it’s no wonder a cousin recently added herself to the long list of concerned and supportive friends and family who sat me down for one of those is-there-something-you-need to-tell-us? talks. Apparently, she thought my beard was just my “beard.”
And despite it all, my feeling towards my (hetero)sexuality are like a night’s sleep on a Tempur-Pedic mattress: absolutely comfortable, and to an enviable degree.
I attribute this sexual dual citizenship to the environment in which I was raised. I lived in both a straight world and a gay world but, unlike Neo in The Matrix, nobody mentioned there was a difference between the two or made me choose one over the other or made me dress up in leather (I would have done the last on my own).
I felt accepted as a jock, a budding romantic, an awkward adolescent in a hetero-normative world; see: all-star baseball tournaments, flowers—at school, no less—for my fifth-grade girlfriend, SI Swimsuit Edition-induced erections.
And yet, I also lived and loved my big fat gay childhood, which, as I think about it, would make a great name for a musical (dibs!). At age three, my older sister dressed me up in a tutu (Benjamin Michael became his pigtailed alter-ego, Britney Michelle), which lead to ballet classes at age five, and by eight, I insisted on applying my own stage lipstick for The Nutcracker—generously, I might add. Between the dressing room and all the same-sex couples at my house—where were all my parents’ straight friends?—I was surrounded by and, therefore, desensitized to an inundation of gays.
My resulting acceptance and appreciation of them was less a product of my tolerance and more one of my obliviousness. In middle school, I remember earnestly asking my sister if she thought my über-flamboyant artistic director was gay. She laughed in my face: “Are you kidding me?” When they discovered my budding career as a ballerina, some adults called me “courageous.” Only later did I realize they weren’t referring to stage fright.
So, I became somewhat of a social chameleon and acquired an eclectic circle of friends. There are my 12 closest guy friends from high school, the state-champion soccer players and college quarterbacks, my 80 fraternity brothers clad in trucker “frHats” and, of course, my gay friends. It’s not that I went out searching; I just kind of naturally gravitated towards them, partly because sexuality was such a nonissue and partly because, even if it was, I got my gay-dar at a Chuck E. Cheese. What a waste of 1500 tickets.
In high school, my gay fifty-something mentor/collaborator/friend hosted me for regular sleepovers—with my then-girlfriend, of course. My best college professor and favorite administrator both happen to be gay, and a longtime friend even came out to me this year. Images of his future beautiful beachside wedding ran through my mind. Tissue, please.
And, of course, there’s my so-called “gay best friend,” although I’ve never called him that. We go on “dates” and giggle when people treat us like we’re “together,” then cringe-gag when someone suggests it aloud. He’s insightful and thoughtful and honest and, without even trying, constantly reaffirms my heterosexuality. As all straight guys do, I sometimes wonder if I’m gay. Then I get coffee with Alec and realize, “Nope. He’s gay.” I am Straight Man, hear me…phew.
And as he struggles to overcome a world rife with homophobia and intolerance, what I appreciate the most is that he accepts and understands me, my quirks (nudity) and insecurities (everything besides nudity) and interests (SportsCenter, So You Think You Can Dance?). He allows me to share the best and worst parts of myself (minus the nudity); I know I’m safe.
This type of “gay best friend” scenario is common for straight girls, which makes sense, because girls seek (a) what one of my gay friends calls “insider trading,” that is, information on secret guy stuff that all guys know but only gay guys would tell, and (b) a husband who is gay in every way (fill in the blanks) but still wants to have sex with them. Keep dreaming, ladies.
Meanwhile, fewer straight guys have a GBFF—and even if more did, they’d surely skip the acronym. The reason straight guys have reservations about befriending gay guys is the same reason they’re hesitant to befriend straight girls: even the slightest potential for sexual tension impedes openness within the relationship.
Of course, if a straight guy thinks all gay guys are attracted to him, he’s flattering himself. The bigger issue, though, is that the straight male fear of honesty is not confined to his relationships with straight girls and gay guys. Turns out, straight guys have difficulty being vulnerable to even their straight (best) guy friends and, moreover, to themselves. This is less about his peers’ sexuality and more his personal insecurity.
At its core, any healthy relationship—romantic, platonic, gay, straight. whatever—begins with the self. If you are comfortable and self-assured enough to share the important parts of yourself while receiving those from another, that’s friendship. I have masculine qualities, feminine qualities and, like the most talented of ballerinas, ones that straddle the two. I accept that, and so do the people who truly care about me. Many of my friends happen to be empathetic and understanding and gay. Yours just need to be two out of three.