THE GROUP CONTINUED
“I feel like the normal masculine energy
is to penetrate. But the idea that I can’t stop
obsessing about is the other, the opposite:
being penetrated.”
“How does it feel saying that?”
“It feels great.”
I opened my eyes. I told them about my
latent homophobia—directed not toward
others but toward anything inside myself that
could be perceived as gay. I told them about
how I felt I was still defending myself against
a seventh-grade bully who called everything
“gay.” How, when I was in yoga class and the
guy next to me accidentally touched me with
his arm, the “that’s gay” alarm bells went
o≠—even though I knew that it wasn’t gay,
and even though I knew that there’s noth-
ing wrong with gayness. I grew up in a very
progressive household and community and
had the message beamed from very early
on into my little brain that it was okay to be
gay. Duh. I had even told a few people that
I was 70 percent straight. Actually, I told a
girlfriend once, and it felt to me like it created
some tension in the relationship. It seemed to
nag at her, like anything that cast doubt on
my absolute straightness might be a threat to
the relationship.
So maybe I had internalized the feeling that
anything less than total straightness wasn’t
safe—I was certainly getting that message
from a variety of sources. And as professor
Eric Anderson, a London-based masculinity
scholar, pointed out to me, there’s a di≠erence
between knowing intellectually that it’s safe
to have romantic or sexual interest in other
men and feeling that it’s safe.
“So you want to be penetrated,” Nathan
said. “What else? It’s like, big deal.”
This thing that I thought was way too per-
sonal to share—this thing that I felt at a deep
level would, if it got out, somehow undermine
my standing in the world—provoked none of
the frightening reactions I had always imag-
ined. It elicited little more than empathetic
shrugs from the men in the room.
As far as personal revelations go, mine was
pedestrian. What was new and powerful about
the experience, though, was that I had been
honest and “spoken my truth” and that the
group helped me do it. The thing that I’d never
felt comfortable saying aloud in the locker
room, at the frat house, in the dormitory—I
just said it. And that cracked me open.
I called Anderson, who helped me think
about why I’d been so reluctant to discuss these
things before. He told me about a phenomenon
called homohysteria, which appears frequently
in all-male communities. He explained that
even in groups that aren’t enacting or enforc-
ing overt homophobia, a subtle performance
is often under way as guys try to prove they
aren’t gay. It’s not unusual to see them project
a macho version of masculinity around one
another, in a frantic e≠ort to avoid being seen as
anything other than squarely heteronormative.When I told him about my revelation in
group, I described myself, without really think-
ing about it, as “mostly straight.” Anderson
pointed out that “mostly straight” is actually
a thing. I looked it up online and sure enough,
it’s the newest category in the ever evolving
taxonomy of sexual orientation.
It’s only recently been outlined in the
academic research, and it’s just now enter-
ing the mainstream dialogue. It’s di≠erent
from bisexuality, somehow—though I’m not
exactly sure where the line is drawn. One
researcher puts it simply as: Mostly straight
men have a higher attraction to women and
a lower attraction to men than do bisexual
men—and found that as much as 5 to 10 per-
cent of guys in America identify within those
parameters. Guys who identify as “mostly
straight” tend to date women but occasion-
ally engage in homoerotic behavior. To me
it means that I date women but sometimes
I kiss men.
Deprogramming homohysteria used to be
harder than it is now. And if I were 10 years
younger, I probably wouldn’t even be having
this conversation. I probably wouldn’t bother
putting a label on my sexuality. But for me, an
ancient 30-year-old, it felt important to say it
out loud. And my men’s group “held the space”
for me to do that.benjy hansen-bundy is a writer and a
former senior associate editor at gq.PHARRELL WILLIAMS
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 82
Which part of it, specifically?
The focus on all things women. How is it
considered controversial to have pregnant
women in a campaign? That’s considered, in
some instances, taboo, and in other instances,
controversial, and in other instances, racy.
And I’m like, “What’s racy about a pregnant
woman?” What’s racy? We are on the eve
of 2020.
Right—2020 sounds like something out
of The Jetsons, but it’s here.
There are flying cars. Not many, but they
exist. And yet there are still wrinkly old
men who are deciding the fate of women’s
reproductive organs and using religious
dogma and the word Christianity to scare
people into thinking that there’s only one
way that society can go when it comes to
a woman. So I think it’s high time that these
brands start to get behind matters and issues
and conversations that a≠ect the people
what the context was. Now that’s just not okay.
If you’re saying you don’t mean it in that way,
it’s still at the cost of a woman, of the female
species. It’s just a di≠erent time, you know?
And to me, empathy is at the heart of all of
this. Because when you talk to folks who lived
through the ’50s and ’60s, they might not say
the N-word, right? But they’ll say, “That was
just the way it was then.” That was accepted.
But African Americans, when we hear that,
we go, “Yeah, but fuck that, that’s bullshit.”
It was unacceptable then, and it’s unaccept-
able now. And just because it was acceptable
at that time doesn’t give anyone the room to
excuse it. Well, that’s exactly how women feel.
That is exactly how the LGBTQIA feel. That’s
exactly how other minorities [feel]—or what
they call minorities, right? Listen to that word.
Just because you are the smaller portion of the
population, it’s okay for someone to refer to
you as a minority.Meaning as being “minor”?
Right. Like, what makes me minor? Is there
other language we could use? Or some of these
people who are the largest stakeholders in the
NBA and NFL franchises, they refer to them-
selves as owners, and they don’t realize the
sensitivity of those who have not too long ago
been owned. So when you ask me, “Why are
you doin’ this?” I feel like if everybody could
just tap into their empathy, then we could get
to a better place. Instead of pointing fingers,
I want to help point the way.will welch is the editor in chief of gq.who are contributing to their bottom line
every quarter.
I’m not the guy saying, “Boycott this com-
pany.” There are people who do that. But
I think another way to skin the cat is to go
in those boardrooms and these marketing
meetings and say, “Look. Another way to have
a great relationship with your audience is to
consider what they’re actually going through.
What are their plights? Why don’t you show
her that you support her?”What was the process with Adidas
to get this idea out in the world?
Um, it was definitely a slow but choreo-
graphed dance. Behind that was a lot of con-
versations, a lot of dialogue. Whenever the
conversations became too legal, that’s when
morality and ethics paved the way.Did you feel like you were pushing into
new territory?
I think everyone was feeling pushed. See, the
thing is, even as the pusher in the scenario,
I felt something new, ’cause I knew that we
were gaining ground. So it wasn’t, like, Yeah,
man, I had to push those people. It was more
like we were all pushing, you know?Is this in any way, like, paying the
culture back for past mistakes? Or is
it about moving forward as a more
evolved person?
Both. This is all of it. I remember the time
when saying bitch and bitches was not neces-
sarily o≠ensive. It just depended on how and