Diary of a Teenaged Fag Hag
I miss the groovy days in New York City, the days when you didn't have to clean up dog shit or use condoms. The days when graffiti covered the trains like a Basquiat art-piece, when 400 bucks a month for a two-bedroom apartment off Central Park West was expensive. The Donald was still with Ivana, Bernard Goetz was shooting 'em up in the subway, Son of Sam was doing his thing and pimps 'n' ho's plied their trade in Times Square, where on West 45th Street The Gilded Grape was packed every night with drag queens in slutty get-ups. Back then, there weren't any gay marriages. Gays were just coming out of the closet. In the gay world back then, there was always the whiff of danger in the air but also a strong sense of community, one that no longer exists.
I was a "fag hag," a girl who hangs out with gay guys almost exclusively, usually relying on straight men to satisfy her needs. Sometimes fag hags screw their fags, sometimes they only wish they could. Usually pejorative, the term "fag hag" has lost its sting and, like "queer," has become a term of endearment. In the '70s, being a hag was a political act, a pledge supporting alternative sexuality. Nowadays, fag hags are so Banana Republic, so tacky. Being a fag hag then was a revolt against straight society and traditional gender roles. So-called "normal" people turned their noses down at our homosexual sub-culture-it was a lifestyle. Sometimes homophobes would spit on us, even in NYC.
When I was in high school, my whole life changed when I met Bob, a gay boy who was to become my best friend, my Svengali, and eventually a thorn in my side. Although we were underage, we went to gay clubs. My initiation into the gay world was completed New Year's Eve, 1972. On break from college, where I had opted to live in the gay dorm, I celebrated the night with Bob at a favorite haunt. These two guys in a Buick outside the bar offered us a ride. When they started threatening us, we realized they were "narcs" (undercover cops). The men abducted us, forced my friend to blow them, then rewarded him with a black eye. Instead of killing us, we were dumped penniless into the night, in the middle of nowhere, miles from Boston. As the queens used to say, "Miss Thang," what a way to start the year! A year or two later, our 17-year-old friend Jerry, high on downs and wearing glitter and platform shoes, was murdered and left in the gutter one night for the crime of liking men. The gay life in those days could be scary.
When my friend and I moved to NYC in 1974, our apartment became headquarters for a posse of faggot friends from the Upper West Side. We danced till dawn at gay discos like The Saint and Paradise Garage. I stayed home afternoons while the guys would prance off to the Rambles of Central Park for sex in the bushes, returning with lurid stories of anal and oral sexcapades.
The upside of living with cockoholics was learning style, sophistication and independence as well as tips on how to party and please a man. Gay men loved me for me, not for sex. I had their total attention, except when they were trying to get laid, but their affairs didn't usually last too long. The trade-off with the gayola life was my postponing marriage and children. When this hag finally broke it off with her fag, I dated a bisexual hottie who lived part-time with his male sugar daddy. Our sex life was passionate, the dude was my bestest friend, but surprise surprise, Jimmy never wanted to settle down.
New dangers emerged, though, when they discovered AIDS in the early '80s. I knew my guy was lying about safe sex, so I ditched him and married a straight man. I didn't see Jimmy or speak to him for a couple of years, even though we lived in the same building. One morning in the elevator, Jimmy's lover told me he had died; I later heard it was hepatitis.
Nowadays, everyone and their mother is a tranny or a queer. The TV show "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" has become as dull as grandma's dishwater. Years ago, fags and hags were part of a club, us against the world. Gays are no longer sexual outlaws. Speaking as a fag hag, the only frontier left for gay men to cross is to sample a bit of 'gina. Years of gay pride and heavy-duty peer pressure (calling us "fish," due to the occasional odor of a woman's genitals) have indoctrinated queers against doing it with girls.
I know a couple of gay men who have recently swung both ways, and although ashamed to admit it, they may go back for more. Bisexuality for gays is frowned upon. A little straight sex may be the only taboo left for them to violate, and then we'll all be one big happy family.