Gay posture

As 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. 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. But most people immediately read me (correctly) as queer . It takes only a glance to make my facts obvious. I recognize this from strangers who find homosexual people offensive enough to elicit a remark—catcalls from cab windows, to utilize a recent example—as well as from countless casual social engagements in which people easily presume my orientation, no sensitive gaydar necessary. I’m not so much out-of-the-closet as “self-evident,” to exploit Quentin Crisp’s statement, although being of a younger generation, I can’t subscribe to his faith that it is a kind of disfigurement requiring lavender hair rinse.

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. Maybe a better way to phrase it would hav