Batty Boy?! I'm sure VOGUE said that platinum weave and short shorts were in?

I was waiting for a friend on Old Compton Street and overheard a group of thirty to forty-something muscled, masculine looking gay men having a conversation about how gay men should challenge stereotypes and that we should show the world that we’re not the feminine, theatre & glitter-loving boys that everyone thinks we are – We are real men.

Erm no, I thought, how about we all just be ourselves?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for challenging stereotypes, as long as it’s being true to yourself, but what happened next made me realize how wrong these “real men” were. A young lad, about twenty-something, minced past in a haze of flowery perfume with a hello kitty bag on his back.

“Ergh,” I heard Daddy Muscle growl, nearly choking on his white wine spritzer.

A five minute speech followed, about how “queens like that are doing us no favours and the young guy may as well have a sex change,” whilst his friends grunted agreements in between puffs of their Vogue cigarettes.

What is that saying again, don’t throw stones when you live in a glass sauna? – something like that, although I’m guessing the only things these Muscle-Marys are throwing is drain cleaner down their throats and their legs in the air. 

So let’s fast forward a week and I’m in a club in South London and my fellow dignified friend is smirking and nudges me in the ribs, beckoning to the opposite corner of the club. What do I see?!?!? There’s Daddy Muscle, OFF HIS FACE, slapping both hands to the floor and gyrating his big behind, much like Nicole Scherzinger’s slightly butcher sister except singing “Don’t you and your boyfriend wanna enter me?”, to a very unimpressed looking couple.

Meanwhile, that same day, I expect the “queen” that Daddy Muscle despised so much was walking down his local high street in a pair of hot pants and peroxide blonde hair getting dirty looks from other men and the words “faggot” and “batty boy” shouted at him, but he carries on cause he is who he is and ain’t NOBODY making him feel less fabulous than he knows he is.

Reader, answer me this question: Who is the real man?


Gilét’s Moral: It doesn’t matter how many harnesses you own, how many steroids you take or how big your ‘guns’ are, if you take it up the bum – you’re just as gay as the rest of us… If not gayer.