Straight Queer
“Is your boyfriend gay?”, Mario asks me. He’s gay himself and swears my new boyfriend isn’t into women — not into me. I’m 21, and this isn’t the first time I’ve been asked such a question.
It’s over 30°C as I head out to meet my friends by the Danube Canal on a July evening in the late 00s. I’m 17, wearing 10-centimeter heels and a mini skirt. My legs, honed from years of sports, are lean and muscular. There's not an ounce of fat on my 1.74-meter athlete’s body. I spin in circles for a few minutes, searching for my friends, when an older man approaches me.
“Are you trans?” he asks me quietly, and I know I’m supposed to answer “No.” I don’t even think about it for a second. The response comes naturally, like a reflex, something I supposedly knew about myself without ever questioning what it really meant. I had never challenged my gender identity or heterosexual orientation, despite the odd questions from others.
“Is your boyfriend gay?” Mario asks me secretly outside the bathroom. He’s gay himself and swears my new boyfriend isn’t into women — not into me. “No, he’s not gay,” I snap, irritated. I’m 21 now, and this isn’t the first time I’ve been asked such a question.
There’s something about me, about us, that doesn’t fit the traditional heterosexual mold. Maybe it’s because my boyfriend is a lanky model who dresses better than I do. Or that he speaks with wild hand gestures and loves sitting cross-legged while waiting. His vibe is soft, elegant, and yeah, how else can I describe it: femme.
I could list twenty more situations like this. Different partners, different years, different locations—it’s always the same. Like that one time at the traffic light near Burggarten, when a man hits on my boyfriend in the middle of the street, completely ignoring me, his romantic partner. Or the time at Berghain, when he’s once again recruited for a hookup, and I can only smile tiredly.
“Whatever, go ahead,” I say.