R Taylor Grow

I was at work one day, when my co-worker called my name.

“Taylor, do you like this?” and I turned to see my male coworker and a second male coworker embracing, their hold adorned with a vulgar, grinding motion of their hips.

I turned away quickly and answered with anger that I had never before commanded at this particular establishment. I then berated myself for speaking so sharply to them and told myself I was taking my homosexuality too seriously.

At this business, and perhaps even outside of the small town in which it stands, homosexuality stops being cute when it becomes anything beyond comedic inspiration. My “No” had the potential to remind my coworkers that sometimes my gayness is not simply an excuse for them to rub their bodies against each other. When I said “No,” I said that sometimes my naked male body touches a second naked male body, and when I cried “NO,” I asserted that this touch can be tender or passionate, lovely and sexy. In the aftermath of my “No,” I condemned myself for letting my sensibilities disrupt the cheerful cadence of their homosocial antics. But it’s not okay to let someone silence you. Goddammit, I said “NO!”

It is not funny when straight boys play gay. It is not funny when straight characters in a film kiss to provoke some laughter in their target audience; it is not funny when boys feign “69” on stage; and it is particularly not funny when my coworkers pretend to screw each other and then ask for my approval. These actions silence me. When my straight co-worker humps my other straight co-worker, his gaze fixed on my reaction and his mouth curled into a complacent smile, it is as though he has waltzed up to me, leaned in close and whispered into my ear, “You are a punchline.” If I am to suggest that perhaps this performance offends me, I risk dampening the mood with an over-sensitive complaint that only reminds them that my gay is not the transitory play-gay they get to try on in a circle of friends. My gay is one that still has not been accepted inside of small towns, and especially not within its tiny businesses.

So I say nothing.

I am in no way suggesting that homosociality is inherently dehumanizing. In fact, I would argue that it is impossible to escape some level of it in day-to-day activity; at its simplest, it is same-sex bonding. However, when I am the spectator of a homosocial performance, and their method of bonding travels a homophobic path, whether I am one in a crowd of thousands or the only expected observer, I become ashamed of myself.

Perhaps homophobia is unconscious, for I am sure that my coworkers did not intend to invoke the reflections you have just read (I’m also sure someone with a Ph.D. has articulated this already with volumes of social science to support his/her claims). What I am saying is simply that perhaps, as a culture, we should endeavor to be more conscious of the ways we appropriate, and subsequently perform, identities. There is no reason that I should have to endure such a poisonous performance when I did nothing to intentionally provoke it.