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I would love to believe that this is part of an educational process, a few steps down some garden path toward wisdom and compassion, but I'm not so sure.

It all reminds me of a pissing/cruising scene I saw in the Washington Square tearoom in New York City.

This toilet was so filthy and so full of activity, it took my breath away on both counts. These guys did not have a shy bone in their, um, bodies. Tougher than shit, too. The muscular arms and thick necks I saw looked more like the product of prison than Gold's Gym. It's possible that these guys got their outfits from the Gangsta department at Macy's, but to me they looked very real and very dangerous and very attractive. I was apparently too white-bread, middle-class and middle-aged to attract any interest (much to my disappointment), but I had to stay and take in the vibe, at least.

Then five or six guys surged in, all loud and sweaty and in uniforms, obviously members of some soccer team. Far from being surprised at what they saw, these guys seemed to take pride in being the coolest of customers. They stood far from the urinals, as if to prove that they had no reason to hide and nothing to fear. They didn't pretend to be blind either; indeed, they checked out the whole situation and everyone in it quite clearly.

Wow, score another one for the revolution! I thought.

Hardcore jocks unfazed by in-your-face queer behavior? We can all kiss and go home, be friends.

And men won't have to pick up guns anymore to prove how heterosexual they are. They won't have to kill people, and then take their own lives, to kill some softness inside.

If this nation wants to have a serious dialogue about male violence, it must address internalized homophobia. I'm not saying every murderer is a closet case, but ignoring fear of the queer would make any discussion dishonest and useless.

Was that toilet the scene of male enlightened attitudes? Once again, after more thought, I'm not convinced. Those soccer guys may have strolled out of that park and made fag jokes for the next two hours. And that guy at work who wants me to feel his ass every other night, well, I wonder what he does with his buddies at 3 in the morning.

But even if they mean no harm, does a cool attitude and some playful flirting change anything?

I'm afraid that the male dynamic at work here might be the studly stance of being sexually ready for anything. Of not having an emotional response to any situation.

Eric, my ex-lover, told me about this straight guy, Johnny, who was an adorable, outrageous flirt. After a year and a half of hot lube jokes and nipple pinching, Eric decided to take it to the next level: He invited Johnny over for a few beers.

Johnny got drunk. They started fooling around. Now Eric's apartment was not quite a dungeon, but he made his own four-poster bed and there were chains and handcuffs in all the appropriate places. Johnny got more drunk, and laughingly agreed to be put into the restraints.

Eric never touched him that night.

He waited till the next morning. He greeted Johnny with a strong hot cup of coffee and a straw, because Johnny was still in the restraints. And here was the moment Eric got to deliver his well-practiced speech.

"OK, punk, I'm gonna fuck the shit outta you and I'm gonna do it while you're sober so you can't pretend that nothing happened. You been leading me on for more than a year, lying to yourself that it was all just in fun. Just teasing. You didn't mean it. Bullshit. You meant it. And now you're gonna get it. The lies stop here. Any questions?"

Whatever happened to Johnny? The story ended there, and perhaps for the best. Eric would never tell me what happened.

This may sound over the top, but I worry: What are we doing to ourselves, men? And what is it going to take to heal?
salon.com | August 3, 1999

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