What part of 'gay' don't they understand?
October 5, 2004
Nadine Davidoff has had enough of men assuming that what gay women really want is a bloke.
When you see two girls walking down the street arm in arm there are a few of safe assumptions you could make about the scene; either the girls are friends or they are gay - they could even be partners. However, a certain subset of heterosexual men inexplicably arrive at a completely different conclusion: that the girls are putting on this display for their benefit and that they secretly want the men to join in the fun.
Who knows where this misconception comes from? Centuries of male privilege perhaps; a notion that everything in this world is created for their enjoyment? But this is the post-feminist age and men have long since ceased to be our supreme rulers. Which poses the question: what part of the word "gay" do these men not understand?
We are not helped, of course, by the likes of Madonna and Britney Spears, who recently engaged in a tongue-twister for precisely the purpose of revving up heterosexual men. I am sure they enjoyed themselves (well, Britney surely did) but did they realise that this wanton publicity stunt trivialises and misrepresents every genuine display of affection between lesbian women?
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A case in point; one warm Sunday afternoon, I was walking along Bondi Beach hand-in-hand with my girlfriend. Deep in conversation, we suddenly became aware of a fat, hairy man barrelling towards us with his arms outstretched. "How 'bout a threesome ladies?" he leered as he attempted to enfold us in a group hug. It didn't take us very long to come up with an appropriate response to this invasion, and we promptly told the fool to bugger off. But sometimes, it's a little bit more tricky.
For example, my girlfriend dropped me off at yoga one evening, and as we parted, she gave me a quick kiss goodbye. "Nice kiss, girls," drawled a male member of the class as he stepped into the room. As I followed him into a quiet candlelit studio with members of the class already deep into their postures, it didn't seem quite right to ruin the serenity with a loud four-letter word.
It does help though, to have your mother on hand. Strolling past Ravesi's in Bondi one hot afternoon (yes, hand-in-hand with my girl) the hairy boofheads spilling out of every open window could not contain their excitement, and proceeded to hassle us with catcalls and whistles. By now, quite used to this graceless display, we walked blithely on. Not so my mother, for whom this was a new experience. "What's wrong with you all?" she scolded as she turned to face them. "They're not doing it for your benefit."
I have never seen a bunch of men sink faster into their beers. Clearly, if there's one thing heterosexual men are still afraid of, it's their mothers.
