The guy was named Patrick. He had a jawline you could grate cheese on and the kind of unearned confidence that comes from peaking in high school. We were at a crowded Brooklyn house party, and he’d cornered me by the kitchen sink.
“Good to know,” I said, and then I took my “gay hot” self to the other side of the apartment.
And for the first time, I believed it.
He blinked at me, slow and sleepy. Then he reached up and traced the line of my jaw—the sharp one, the one that never fit the straight mold.
It’s the guy who shaves half his head and wears a cropped sweater. The bear with the kind eyes and the massive beard who makes you feel safe before he makes you feel anything else. The twink in platform boots who can recite every episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race but also fix your bike chain. It’s confidence that doesn’t come from being desired by the masses, but from being seen—truly seen—by a few.
He said it like he was doing me a favor. Like he’d just handed me a consolation prize at a pageant I didn’t know I was in. I laughed, because that’s what you do when you’re 22 and a man with a frat-adjacent aura is dissecting your appearance like a frog in biology class.
Gay hot is not about fitting into a box. It’s about building your own.
The first time someone called me “gay hot,” I was 22, wearing a thrifted cardigan two sizes too big, and trying very hard to look like I hadn't just cried during a car commercial.
I thought about Patrick, that party, that kitchen. I wondered what he was doing now. Probably yelling at a TV somewhere.
“Baby,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “You’re the reason the word exists.”
