“I’m not gay either. That’s why it’s perfect, we’re just two straight guys who wanna enjoy each other’s bodies” – Frank from 30 Rock (heterosexual) explaining to his episode-crush why it’s ok that he’s not gay

My ex-boyfriend is straight. Sometimes he likes giving a bit of head to someone in the bathroom of a gay bar, but he says that just like me eating meat doesn’t suddenly make me a non-vegetarian (it does), his occasional encounters don’t make him bisexual. For a while I thought this was just a humorous quirk, some internal battle for heterosexuality that he is clinging to, until I started to meet more men who are bi, and understood the way they are perceived.

What I started to learn is that there’s some sort of inconsistent line, on one side of which a man is straight, but as soon as they teeter past it they become gay. It’s like we’re all looking at a painted wall which is mostly red, but with a few streaks of black so we call it a red wall. As we add in more black we eventually decide it is a black wall, but at no point are we willing to point to it and say this is a red and black wall, like we so easily are with women’s sexuality.

In this light, I started to understand why my ex-boyfriend insists on being straight, why my male friends who are unsure of their sexuality are much less willing to admit to the gay part than myself and my female friends: the moment there is an admission of some sexual activity with men, they will be labeled by society, and hot women, as gay.

It seems most of us, no matter our sexual orientation or how open-minded we may be, have this line. It has never been as evident to me as with my friend who is on the verge of coming out as whatever he is. Those closest to him have known that his encounters with women have been existent albeit limited in the past year, and that to date he does not use any label of sexuality. Yet even many of these friends have lately decided he is gay, presumably because he has crossed some threshold in their minds. I have found myself doing the same with a male friend who has self-identified as bi for the past 15 years.

Interestingly, several of my gay friends, including my partner in Hard Knowledge, take a view that it’s not a societal judgment, but some sort of biological difference where women are just naturally more sexually fluid than men. I’m not a biologist, but empirical evidence shows me this just isn’t true. My “straight” male friends have told extremely few people about their encounters with the cock, so I have no doubt there are many more men like them: their sexuality changes as often as Mr. Black changes location (google it folks…).

The fluidity of male sexuality has always been a tough subject for me to approach. Like most gay men I know, I have a difficult time understanding, perhaps even believing in, male bisexuality, or something in between the accepted definitions of “straight” and “gay.”

If you’re a gay man, you likely share my doubts. But for others, my skepticism of a spectrum of male sexualities might seem unfair, too close-minded, and perhaps a symptom of modernity’s obsession with categorization.

I had quite a bit of time to ponder these points this summer while completing an internship in Egypt, a country whose sexual mores can fairly be categorized as a “traditional.” Heterosexual marriage is paramount, and while homosexuality of any kind is seen as morally offensive, there is a common understanding that some men do, from time to time, have sex with each other. “Gay” men, however, are assumed to not exist there.

And yet I met or befriended scores of Egyptian (and other Arab) men this summer who clearly identify as “gay” and reject the idea that this label was imposed on them. I actively courted these men for conversations on all things gay, eager to see if my concept of male sexuality was the product of my own life of hopping from one liberal bubble to another. Instead, I found compelling evidence of a greater force in male sexuality that seems to overwhelmingly, if not wholly, pull men towards sexual attraction towards one sex or the other, but not both.

My point in bringing this up is to directly address the issues of physical arousal, emotional attraction, physical actions, and social constructions. For a self-declared and bona fide heterosexual male, his physical and emotional arousal to an attractive woman will translate, if he be so lucky, into sexual activity with her; in other words, body, mind and heart work in tandem. For a self-identified and bona fide gay male, the same would be true with another guy.

But what of the men who claim attraction to both men and women? As it happens, science suggests, perhaps even demonstrates, that while some men’s hearts and actions may indicate sexual attraction to both sexes, their bodies respond almost exclusively to one sex. There have been a number of studies which track the physiological responses of men and women of various self-identified sexualities to erotic images of gay sex, lesbian sex, and straight sex. Tellingly, in one study, 75% of self-ascribed bisexual men were aroused solely by images and videos of men. The remaining 25%, almost solely by women (http://www.nytimes.com/2005/07/05/health/05sex.html).

Interestingly, women were found to have a very different arousal pattern much closer resembling a patchwork of attraction to men and women. In short, female sexuality has been shown to be distinct from male sexuality.

I’m not sure that men are necessarily born “straight” or “gay,” but it seems clear to me that almost all men are strongly grounded in a physical attraction to one sex or the other, but not both. This isn’t a rejection of open-mindedness vis-à-vis sexuality, nor is it the imposition of an overly structured, “modern,” “Western,” construction on natural sexual fluidity. It simply is.

Tonight, being bumped around by man after man at Posh, I thought, as I often have lately, about why I find myself more often in gay clubs than in straight bars or clubs. Tonight’s reason was how I get to be both an insider and outsider, just like what sex used to do to me.

One night I’d be pinned up against the bathroom wall being fucked by my short, balding manager from work, and only hours later holed up with my group in the computer lab at school doing some extra-credit programming to maintain my top 10% ranking.  I would lead the group, confident in everything about myself, internally feeding off the secret, sordid sex tales I created for myself every night (morning..afternoon…)  As the sex tapered, so did the rest of my life. Last summer working in rural Asia I found myself being fucked in some dirty hotel room by some guy.  The next day I walked around with an extra bounce in my step like I had just been given a positive appraisal at work.  I was walking around with pretend headphones on that kept me slightly separated from my beautiful environment.  Separated, and confident.  It made me different than everyone around me and somehow that made me capable.  I was an insider and an outsider.

Grinding with my friends in Chelsea, wingmaning for them: with them clearly I’m an insider.  But clearly I’m an outsider.  I can accept as much or as little as I want of my surroundings.  And sure, it’s not a secret that I’m not a gay male, but for now it looks like this is the barrier I want to create for myself. 

Like a nose, an eye, a baby toe, an armpit, my vagina is simply a body part and it definitely is not deserving of a monologue.

My vagina is just something people touch and use as they wish, like a pen, a keyboard, a subway pass. It is a tool, like a carpenter’s hand or the sole of a trapeze artist’s foot. And like the palm of a hand, the sole of a foot, it is worn and used.

My vagina is not special, it is not unique, it is not pretty or ugly, it is not strength or fear, it is not woman any more than my pinky toe. It just is.

Maybe he had changed. That’s what I thought. His house sure had: the move from a shanty to an apartment all on his own. He certainly thought he had: his phone calls desperately pleading with me for some sort of acceptance, friendship. His lawn had flowers circling a pine tree. It was a start.

Oh wait. Nevermind. He had a basement rental. The flowers weren’t really his. The pine tree definitely wasn’t his. The staircase with the stained carpet, frayed on the edges, was his. The brown plywood door at the bottom leading to his one room apartment was his. The damage to the door, that.. may have been his. But, really, perhaps he had changed.

Once perhaps it was special. Maybe my vagina did define me as a little girl. But then I learned the secret. Sure it’s true that special things have power. But special things give other people power over you. So when I was young, I said you can’t take this and make it yours. From now on you pay me to touch this. From now on this is a business deal.

Just because he used to hit the wall when he was mad at me. Just because he would bend my thumb back, hold me down, tell me nobody else would love me, and call me a whore, it doesn’t mean that he made that hole in the door. It could have just as easily been an accident.

Anyway, it ends up he was still big. He still had shaggy hair and an unshaven beard. He still had a cigarette sticking from his pursed lips, a beer bottle in his hand. He hugged me tight while the smell of cheap tobacco and day old beer forced me to concentrate on filling my lungs with oxygen. Or perhaps it was the fear. At this point, I’m starting to think he hasn’t changed. But it’s not exactly like I can leave.

Bent over in a warehouse, in this one’s car during school break, in the conservation park, in that one’s cheap, dirty basement, in Motel 8 (pay by the hour), in this one’s expensive house with the satin sheets, My unspecial vagina went to all these places. I know you’re all asking why I started. You want to be able to point to something and then fix it. An uncle, a neighbor, a mean boyfriend. Well don’t you think I want to be able to do that too? Blame it on someone else? But life doesn’t always give you reasons. What about that guy? ..oh that happened after.

I don’t know what was said in that room, but it must have been charged. My memory is of shaky, sudden movements. Just like a music video attempting a plot, lips moved, sometimes there was anger, sometimes there was sadness, indifference, and anger again. He wouldn’t let me leave until he made me suffer, until he proved he owned me.

My vagina can never be special again and it will never be a part of me. When someone touches it, when I touch it, it will always be with a goal, some goal.
He could have just stripped me and fucked me instead so it would have been over with quickly.
It will never be beautiful, mystical, magical.
Instead he took my car keys and stripped me naked. He sat me in this chair. He called me names. Told me he would never let me go. For hours. He wouldn’t touch me. He wouldn’t let it end quickly.
It was worth it to be spared years of violation and humiliation when I gave people that “special” part of me. Spared years of emotional attachment to what is quite simply another mound of flesh.
I sat it out. I wasn’t humiliated.
Eventually he wore thin and let me go. I went home and watched TV.

That night was the “authentic” tourist experience, complete with belly dancers. She had long black hair and metal bangles cuffing her arms. Her hands and hair waved in synchrony and the jingling of the mirrors accentuated her beautiful belly, which with each ripple towards her thighs, brought attention towards her low hanging skirt. The music alone was enough to make your blood feel erotic, but her breasts, the soft skin of her stomach, her flexibility; they all added to the Moroccan rhythms. After her dance, the audience got to join the show. Naturally, I avoided eye contact with her but Kevin forced me closer. “You can try out your skirt and scarf!” She pulled me up to join her. The first move was a bit of a roll of the hips, thrusting them forwards and then to the sides. “I can’t! It will show off my pudgy little stomach.” She told me my stomach was beautiful as she slid her hand over my skin. She put her hand on my belly button and told me to try the move. I shifted from one side to the other, and then thrusted forward towards her hand. She slid her hand up to the hem of my top and said “Very nice movement”. After half an hour of watching me dance, Kev got up and tugged on my arm “I have to fuck you now..let’s go back to the hotel”. The vacation became surreal the moment my new teacher offered to come over and continue the lesson.

We floated back to the hotel room. Kevin stood behind me and rested his hands on my waist as I tried out my new moves. The teacher suggested we demonstrate a duet. Standing in front of me, comfortably close, she grabbed my waist. Slid her hands across the front of my stomach. Her magnetic pull leaned me slightly forward as she kissed me. Kevin’s growing pants pushed into my ass. Electricity broken, I turned, grabbed his hand and led him towards the bed. He pressed my face into the mattress and climbed on top of me. He pushed my skirt up settling on my lace panties. Meanwhile, she climbed across the bed pulling the thread of my lace top letting it fall to my sides. He forced me onto my back. He leaned over my body and grabbed her hair, slowly moving her head across my breasts. He watched the tip of her tongue circling my nipples, which hardened at the feathery touch. He gently started moving her head down towards my stomach which she caressed with her tongue and tips of her teeth. Kevin focused his attention at my eyes. Suddenly he pried open my mouth with his thumb and started kissing me hard, licking my tongue, biting my lips. Then he sat back down on the floor and moved my dance teacher’s head down towards my cunt. She slowly started licking around it. He watched her enviously – her tasting my juices. But he got focused pretty quickly as he kicked off his pants. I had my eyes closed, breathing heavily with the delight of my pussy being licked. Suddenly I felt Kevin beside me. He swung his leg over me straddling my breasts. He grabbed my wrists and restrained them above my head. I moaned loudly from the pleasure of her wet tongue, and the anticipation of what was to come. Kevin opened my mouth again with his thumb and moved his body up towards my head. I loved his fleshy, large cock sliding into my mouth. I loved it mingling with my warm, warm saliva. Everytime the dancer hit the right spot I sucked Kevin really hard and fast. He looked behind him to see her tongue lapping at my clit. He pounded his body against my mouth harder and harder and I could feel heat flowing all through my body as I got closer to cumming. Suddenly I started tensing my body while it shuddered as it finished. I tensed my face and my mouth around Kevin’s cock sucking it with my mouth as he shoved my hands down into the bed beside my pillow and shooting cum deep into my throat.