Saturday night, my wife and I went to the wedding of some dear friends of ours. The groom works in the music and entertainment industries, and so it wasn’t at all surprising that dancing constituted the chief activity for most of the wedding guests.
(Parenthetically, I’ll note this: secular wedding receptions are longer than religious ones. I’ve gone to a heck of a lot of weddings in my day, and all things being equal, it seems that those couples who have never slept together, having waited dutifully until the Blessed Day, are understandably more eager to leave the reception early. They’ve got business to which to attend, business that may seem somewhat less pressing to those who’ve been lovers for a long time. I don’t know if there’s a study on pre-marital sex and time spent by newly married couples at their reception, but it does seem — based entirely on anecdotal evidence — that the newly married who are most interested in “dancing the night away” with their nearest and dearest are those who have spent lots of time together naked.)
In any case, we had a lot of dancing on Saturday night. And I watched as a number of the groom’s male friends clowned around on the dance floor. The mood was silly and playful (helped along by plenty of alcohol). A few of the guys began to engage in what I can only call the ritualistic mimicking of gay male behavior. Two or three of the guys would start “freaking” each other, rubbing their rears into the crotches of their friends, accompanied by lavish hand movements. Others broke into intricate, graceful, dance steps, twirling and dipping their male partners. All of these men, whom I know quite well, are straight. And they were all joyfully playing to a crowd of fellow dancers who gathered round them, hooting and laughing at the increasingly silly antics of their buddies.
I haven’t posted before on the ways in which straight men engage in “faux homosexual behavior” in order to reaffirm their masculinity. I wrote a long time ago about the ways in “faux bisexuality ” has become chic, even de rigeur for many teenage girls today. But I haven’t posted about the ways in which their male peers engage in similar behavior — albeit for a much different purpose.
Spend time chaperoning a high school dance these days, and don’t be surprised to see two or three girls not only dancing together but rubbing against each other with an exaggerated and entirely unconvincing eroticism. These displays always draw male attention, which seems to be their purpose. When I ask my high schoolers how often they’ve seen girls get pressured (by boys) to kiss other girls, they groan with familiarity. This is, of course, hardly an uncommented-upon phenomenon.
But spend time with boys and even men in their twenties and thirties in certain social situations, and you’ll see something that is almost analogous. It’s hardly new, of course. Going back decades, the heterosexual alpha males of college campuses have dressed up in drag at frat parties. What greater staple is there of the college or high school spring social than having football players dress up as cheerleaders, doing ridiculous imitations of can-can dances or dance routines? This behavior is seen at countless high school assemblies all across the country (CJ Pascoe recounts one such event vividly in her marvelous, Dude You’re a Fag.)
As any social scientist or gender researcher will tell you, boys don’t play at “faux femininity” or “faux homosexuality” in order to arouse their audience. This isn’t about “turning on the girls” in the way that young women’s ersatz bisexual displays are often aimed at gaining male attention. Rather, these young men dance together and rub against one another and put on women’s clothes in order to reinforce their masculinity. Their displays are always greeted by gales of laughter and cheering. The boys who pretend to be girls (or who pretend to be gay, which in high school often amounts to the same thing) see the laughter as validation. The audience laughs at the husky offensive lineman in his cheerleading skirt because, after all, it is supposed to be utterly absurd for anyone to question his raw masculinity. Much of what is funny is rooted in what is incongruous and contradictory — and thus those boys and men whose feminine or gay antics draw the greatest laughter get their masculinity and their heterosexuality validated. The joke is obvious: “Isn’t it wild to see Bubba in his miniskirt? What makes it funny is that he’s so strong, so big, so male, so straight.”
Many queer folks are, understandably, uncomfortable with these displays. At first glance, the behavior of these ‘alpha males’ seems deliciously subversive. A hopeful observer might want to believe that these thirty-something men grinding on the dance floor together, these college lads dressed up like Paris Hilton, are evidence of a wonderful new willingness to flout conventional attitudes towards gender roles. But spend five minutes around these guys, listen to the hooting and the hollering that always accompanies these displays, and you’ll get the message pretty quick: this isn’t subverting a homophobic and sexist culture, it’s subtly (and more often, not so subtly) reinforcing it. The men who engage in this behavior aren’t any more accepting of homosexuality than their peers who refrain from these displays; rather, these displays boost the “masculinity quotient” of the young men involved. If too much anxiety about being labeled “gay” or “feminine” is seen as evidence of weakness, what better way to show off one’s sturdy self-confidence than to assume the role of what one so obviously is not?
In my day, I’ll confess I often engaged in — and even initiated — this sort of behavior. In grad school, I had a buddy named Cale. Cale was a rarity: an enormous former football player for a division I-AA school who was getting a doctorate in medieval history at UCLA. Cale was beefy (6′4″, 270 or so) and remarkably quick for someone of his size. He and I bonded because we were the only two medievalists who cared really passionately about virtually all sports (Cale could talk knowledgeably about golf and fishing as well as football). And somehow someone started a joke that Cale and I were lovers. We were both married at the time (to our first wives, this was nearly twenty years ago), and seemingly, our heterosexual credentials were firmly in place. But without ever naming what we were doing, Cale and I responded to this teasing (which had begun because we had the same adviser and were working on very similar projects and spending oodles of time together) by putting on flamboyant, puerile, and risible displays of faux homosexuality. We shrieked at each other in high voices, pretended to have “lover’s quarrels” at parties, and always made a great show of dancing together. Our behavior was wildly over the top, and of course, only took place in front of an audience. Alone together, we were cordial but somewhat distant.
Cale and I were colleagues, and because of the way grant money was disposed, we were rivals. Though we were both married, we both were pursuing the brightest and most mysterious woman in the grad program, which made us all the more competitive. (Again, folks, this was a long time ago. I was a very messed-up twenty-four year-old, even if my skills in paleography and Anglo-Norman French were at the highest they’d ever be.) Cale and I continued to study together, talk sports together, compete for money and for women’s attention for the better part of a year — all while regularly mugging it up for our friends and classmates.
Cale and I only stopped this behavior when the one openly gay man in the program, Alastair, approached us both in fury one day. He pointed out that what we were doing was the equivalent of Al Jolson putting on blackface, and that though he liked us both, he was disgusted beyond words by the way in which (as he put it) our own “internalized homophobia manifested in these pathetic performances.” Cale and I were both chastened, and we toned it down. I apologized profusely to Alastair, but it took me a while to earn his trust again.
Over the years, I’ve found myself more than once playing this game of establishing my masculine bona fides through these sorts of shows, though never to the degree that I did so with Cale all those years ago. (Another parenthesis: Cale and I ended our friendship altogether in a fight over the first Gulf War, which he strongly supported and I just as strongly did not.) But I’ve worked very hard to avoid engaging in these “sexualized blackface” rituals, and I’ve begun to gently and firmly call more and more young men on this behavior when I see it.
But Saturday night at the wedding, with hundreds of people milling about, I wasn’t prepared to pull the groom and his well-lubricated friends aside. There’ll be time for that conversation.
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