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These sorts of comments made by queer people have never bothered me the same way as the comments made by straight men. I’ve been called minx, fairy, and otter and coaxed into sexual submission by larger queer men who associate masculinity with bulk and muscle – and hair, lots of hair. “Never shave” were the parting words of a Grindr hookup one Sunday morning.
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“When was the last time you shaved?” is a bizarre question for someone to ask when they’re lying next to me in bed. “Is it real?” A drunk guy once breathed into my ear at a club, looking at me with those same tree frog eyes, as he squeezed his hands between the buttons on my shirt and rubbed my chest as if I was some animal. On the flip side, some queer men have flirted with suggestions of domination in the bedroom due to the inverse relationship between my body mass and the amount of body hair I have. Often, my body hair is sexualized by queer men, with nods to the disruptive perception that my body hair is representative of my masculinity. Often, it’s brought up even before we get into the bedroom. While my experience with my own body hair has changed, it’s still a point of conversation. I came out as gay when I was a freshman in college. My chest hair protected my masculinity in some ways, but also called attention to my difference. The boys who laughed at the sight of my chest hair did not have as much as me, but were often the same ones who called me “faggot” or confronted me about my sexuality in front of large groups of people in the way that makes closeted, young gay boys’ hearts fall to their feet. SEE ALSO: How Brooklyn became the world’s queer mecca To avoid unwanted attention, I changed clothes in the bathroom stall.
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When I was in high school, boys in the gym locker room would make their eyes as big as a tree frog’s and cackle in the direction of the tangled, coarse, chestnut-colored mess of hair on my chest. The hair on my chest, ass, and thighs has been the property of others for as long as I’ve had it.