I spent the majority of my teens being an overweight kid, and it wasn’t a joyride as one could imagine. Add to the mix another ingredient – coming to terms with being queer. Being the butt of every joke about taking up space made the journey of grappling with sexuality an even steeper slope than it was. Picture this: The year is 2011. You reach home from school after a long day of hearing monikers that describe your shape and impersonations of your effeminate voice and dodge family members ever ready to educate you with a new weight loss hack.
You dash into your bedroom, flip open your laptop and log into the virtual space of Youtube and Tumblr, your only safe space as a Gen Z South Asian queer kid. As you scroll across the love is love posts on Tumblr and watch vlogs by queer YouTubers, you come across a ‘thirst trap’ posted by your favourite vlogger on Instagram. That feeling of relatability is soon replaced by… something. You do not know whether the emotion you feel is attraction, despair, yearning or a mixture of all. You think to yourself, “Spatial distance aside, I could never.”
One would assume being the outcast makes one more inclusive. The truth is far from the matter. Escaping the cookie-cutter heteronormative system, the queer man is faced with another mould – one of which, if he doesn’t fit in, is subject to exclusion. That of a Tom-Of-Finland muscle man. Or a Leyendecker-esque chiselled jawline. Or a 90’s heroin-chic body. It’s categorical, it’s ideal, it’s worshipped.
Men, regardless of sexuality, have throughout history idealised a body type that, more often than not, is unattainable. With gay men, however, it’s a double-edged sword. They want to be it, and they want to be with it. In comes the hybrid of unattainable beauty standards, a lean figure with a six-pack and biceps, not too far removed from its female counterpart, the IG model with huge hips and a tiny waist. In doing so is born a homogenised ideal body type – a club of a few pedestaled by many. I spoke to a few fellow queer men from different walks of life about the shared queer experience that we have fallen prey to but have also been a part of–the queer male gaze.
Vishesh, an artist, feels that there’s an internal beauty standard in the queer community. “When I discovered my sexuality and my gender identity, I felt like I had to look a certain way. I’ve always been the more feminine one of the lot, and I felt like I had to be hairless–I would wax and shave–and go all out. Many men would question me if I didn’t do otherwise.”
On how he combats these notions, he says, “The people who judge you for how you look more often than not were themselves pressurised to fit in. It’s like a cycle. I have felt that pressure, for sure. I’m just trying to end that cycle and unlearn it all. It isn’t easy because we’re so conditioned to it.” He adds, “We’re a tightly knit community in some ways. Many of us share similar interests, but sometimes, such spaces of sharing are where the dogpiling happens the most. For instance, I was at a club night that was all about celebrating a fandom, and there was a famous influencer I could overhear passing remarks about someone’s hair. It was sad.”
Chaitanya, a model, shares an insight relatable to all of us. “As individuals, our first introduction to the queer community is quite westernised. As brown queer folks, we grapple with additional complexities of colourism, casteism and classism that further divide.” I get flashbacks of my YouTube vlogger fanboy days. With Western media being the only exhaustive source of queer representation then, we didn’t have much of a choice.
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“Dating apps often contribute to the problem of amplifying the queer male gaze,” he further explains. “Where one’s entire sense of self and worth is determined by how they are perceived. The preferences are often patriarchal, where only abject masculinity or ‘acceptable’ femininity in others is desired. Often queer folks take no shame in really making these preferences evident and often project harshness guised under the norm of rejection.”
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He shares a bit about his journey. “I’ve been categorised as multiple types throughout the years as I underwent changes in my body composition and was appreciated only when I conformed to the ‘desirable’ body type. I have been lucky enough to find safe spaces online, with bloggers like Mina Gerges and the niche they have carved for themselves, who push for radical body acceptance.
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In these safe online spaces, I’ve found solace and support by conversing with others who have shared similar stories, exhausted by this categorisation. Many of my dear friends live vivacious and proud lives while existing in the ‘unconventional’ body types. As a community, we are ever-evolving.”
Pulkit, a queer man, reveals how the queer male gaze often forces individuals into a struggle with self-love. “Sometimes I look at myself and feel that if I had a skinnier waist or a chiselled jawline, then that guy, who had no shame in being with me for the whole night but suddenly does not want to be seen in public with me, would maybe, like to hang out with me, in public. I know I’m the problem here, being attracted to that person in the first place. That’s a conversation for another day! I am pressured to think of them cause I want to look better to fit in. Fit in within the community, so I am liked better.”
Fitting in the community that is your chosen family to be liked seems like an oxymoron, but it isn’t. In addition to the ordeal of accepting their own sexuality, queer men are haunted by the constant need to be a certain body type to fit in a community. It can, unsurprisingly, be exhausting. So what is the way forward? Vishesh feels that body neutrality is the key. “There’s this content creator I follow, and they’re all about body neutrality. They say you don’t have to love your body if you choose to; just be neutral and don’t hate it! I think that’s a fine approach.”
Chaitanya adds, “I think that radical self-acceptance is the antidote. We’re not where we need to be, but we do better daily. I’ve had a long battle with body image issues, and while it’s a lot better now, I still deal with them on some rare occasions.”
This is a sentiment shared by many queer men, myself included. “It’s only because of a lot of work and dissociating from standards that didn’t serve me anymore that this was possible. There’s hope, but there’s certainly a long way to go—just a reminder to the reader: your body is truly the least interesting thing about you. The charm and persona you’ve repressed deserve to be seen. No one can be as unique and true to yourself as you!”
It’s a journey for us all. Ingrained within all of us, gay or straight, is a perception that only a certain type is what is beautiful. Perhaps the way forward is de-prioritising attractiveness and celebrating what is beyond the surface. Style over looks, creativity over updo, voice over the face. Accepting that perceptions can be flawed and that self-acceptance isn’t an overnight phenomenon. We can start by just trying to be kinder to ourselves and others.
Also read: At The End Of The Rainbow (Fatigue), Queer Collectives Take Centre Stage
