I Was Gay Bashed in Greenwich Village

On why homophobia is misogyny

“Hey, youse! Yo!”

My ears twitch. Is he talking to me? Surely not.

My head rests on Lenny’s chest as we stand near the end of Christopher Street, just enjoying the night air as we gaze out over the purple Hudson.

My eyes dart back and forth in a rapid but tardy scan.

Damn! There’s nobody down here! We’re isolated. We’ve walked right out of the Friday night festivities and into danger without noticing.

I feel Lenny’s muscles tense.

I pick my head up, square my shoulders, and plant my feet.

Now I can see them.

Four or five young guys. Not too young. Dangerous in their ball caps and straight-kid drag. They probably just want directions, I tell myself. Don’t be paranoid.

“Hey, look at the girly men! Come ’ere, girly boy!”

That’s what he says, the New Jersey street tough come to Greenwich Village for an evening of fun and gay bashing, right before his fist smashes into my nose.

I hear the crack, but I don’t feel it yet. I’m numb from shock and outrage.

I feel rather than hear Lenny’s growl.

I draw in a sharp breath as adrenaline races and spikes every hair on my body.

Homophobia is all about gender inequality. In fact, I’ve said it before and I’ll repeat it now.

Homophobia is misdirected misogyny —

What do most homophobic men have against gay men? What do they find most distasteful? That gay men (in their view) are like women.

As a gay man, myself, having been frequently subject to homophobic taunting and slurs, I can attest to this. When a homophobic man taunts a gay man, he almost invariably does so by comparing him in unfavorable terms to a woman.

It’s as if being a woman were in and of itself something to be ashamed of, something less, certainly something less than equal.

Homophobes feel threatened by the dissolution of traditional gender roles.

Now, I am not saying that gay men actually don’t usually behave in traditionally masculine ways. That we don’t is a stereotype.

But homophobes don’t usually understand that.

I’d been out with my husband Lenny that night. He was a big bruiser of a man. I’m a former Marine. We weren’t acting effeminate. We rarely did. Just not who we were.

I was holding his hand and leaning my head against his chest, watching the stars.

That was enough, though, for the young man to insult me by comparing me to a woman.

Misdirected misogyny.

His breath stinks.

I remember that. I remember him so up-in-my-face that his breath violates me. I can count his zits.

Part of me can’t believe this is happening. Some guy I don’t even know just socked me.

Hard.

I stare at him for two seconds, perplexed.

Lenny breaks the spell. He roars like an enraged bear and throws himself on my attacker.

His buddies flee into the night. His face is a bloody mess by the time we finish with him. When we sprint off toward the nearest bar, he’s lying on the ground shaking.

This time the prey didn’t cooperate.

Misdirected misogyny. Sexism.

Think about it.