Searching For My Gay Style in a Sea of Carhartts

John Anthony Loffredo
·6 min read

The first time I stepped inside Akbar, Silverlake’s gay watering hole, I felt horribly out of place. My lavender bell bottoms, pink ribbed halter, and iridescent manicure looked gaudy in a room full of baggy, Carhartt denim, white tanks, and trucker hats. I meandered through the dense, sweaty crowd to order myself a drink. The bartender — a Stanley Kowalski lookalike — leaned his upper body over the bar, and I raised my voice just enough to be heard over the seventies jukebox anthems, “Tequila soda, please!”

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar; my pastel reflection looked amateurish in comparison to a mass of men uniformly dressed like they knew how to change a tire. Soon I sought refuge in a dimly lit corner of the room, clutching my drink, trembling in my hip huggers, and wondering: When did gay men start dressing like the jocks I avoided in high school?

From leather-clad Tom of Finland-esque daddies to the “Castro clones” whose outfits emulated an idealized version of working-class men, gays have been playing with hypermasculine attire for generations. Though I felt certain the boys surrounding me at Akbar were more focused on dressing to get laid than making a historical reference, the rugged persona seemed to be making a resurgence. And if I wanted to fit in at Akbar, it seemed like I’d have to trade in my lavender bell bottoms for a pair of camo cargos.

All the gays were “dressing straight,” all the straights were “dressing gay,” and I was just about ready to cut my losses and head home.

I rejected this realization; I had only recently broken free of the lifelong expectation to dress “like a man.” For most of my life, I had felt shame for wanting what the girls wanted: Barbies, the color pink, to kiss a boy. As a child, I wrapped blankets around my waist and paraded around the house, imagining I was wearing a dress; my beauty felt as boundless as my imagination. But, like many of us, I started receiving signals that my feminine proclivities were unacceptable — from my family, from kids at school, from the McDonald’s worker who looked confused to be handing me the girl’s Happy Meal toy. As my shame compounded, I distanced myself from anything overtly “gay.” Even after I came out, it took me until my mid-twenties to feel comfortable enough to invite to the surface what I had been taught to bury. My painted nails and colorful outfits reflected my hard-won battle to embrace my femininity. They were my sign of self-acceptance; I wore them like a badge of honor.

But that night at Akbar, my badge felt more like a scarlet letter. Ironically, these days when I see a boy with nails painted like mine, I have to think twice about whether or not he’s gay. Seemingly, the rise of waifish icons like Harry Styles and Timothée Chalamet has inspired a wave of straight men to adopt traditionally feminine markers. Of course, everyone should have the right to express themselves and experiment with clothing. Yet this shift in style is unsettling to me because for many of these straight men, it’s just a trend. Their femininity ceases to be when they take off their pearls. They don't have to endure the same obstacles gay men and other queers face when we choose to dress in the same fashion, especially after our accessories come off.

I took a few more sips of my tequila soda and considered whether I should come back tomorrow in an outfit that would blend in better with the other boys. I had waited my whole life to fit in, and here I was, continuing to somehow miss the memo: All the gays were “dressing straight,” all the straights were “dressing gay,” and I was just about ready to cut my losses and head home. But then I thought: Would it really even make a difference if I left and returned decked out in workwear and a trucker hat? In truth, I couldn’t forsake my femininity, and I was wrong to think that I ever could. It didn’t matter whether I wore an oversized T-shirt or a halter top; my femininity cannot be put on or taken off. It exists in my voice, my mannerisms, my emotional sensibilities. It is intrinsic to who I am.

I forced myself out of the corner and into the next room, where bodies bounced up and down, glittering under the disco ball. I didn’t recognize the song, but it didn’t matter. Weaving my way through the crowd, I reached the center of the floor and began to dance. My movements were awkward at first, until I realized that no one on the dance floor was focused on my outfit; they were just having fun. And so I thrust my arms into the air, swung my hips, and began moving my body freely for the first time all night. So what if I was the only one who didn’t look like they were auditioning for A Streetcar Named Desire? I was finally enjoying myself.

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Style will always ebb and flow, for individuals and communities. Recently, I’ve started to experiment with more masculine clothing, thrifting the perfect pair of Wranglers; an assortment of western shirts, oversized button-downs and tees; a silver chain that hugs my collarbone just so; even a seventies style stache above my lips. To keep up with the other gays? Perhaps. But in my exploration, I’ve found something genuine and surprising. Just like dressing overtly feminine, embracing the hypermasculine can feel like a subversion, though of a different nature. Like I’m donning an outfit I’m “not supposed” to be wearing. Like I’m dressing as the men who don’t think I’m man enough. Sometimes it’s subtle, like a sturdy work jacket, and other times it’s more overt, like a suede cowboy vest with a plunging V and nothing underneath.

Now, when I’m standing in my closet, getting ready for a night out, there’s more to consider: the weather, the occasion, the people I’m going to see, but also do I want to make a statement or fly coolly under the radar? Am I feeling femme, masc, or something in between? Luckily, my current collection is a mix of things. Options for every version of myself – the ones I used to deny and the ones I’ve yet to invent. No matter what I choose to wear, one thing is certain: When I put on an outfit, there’s always something gay about it.

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Originally Appeared on them.

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