An Unexpected Mirror

Over the past year, I had an arc of connection with a man in the community who is gay. I remember the first time I met him. I felt this sense that he might be attracted to me. This was back when I would do things for my physical appearance that could be considered queer-presenting. I still do some of them, like applying eyeliner because I just like it. Back then I typically wore a single earring — a round, bronze-colored one I’d picked up at the Sadhguru Ashram, a small nod for me to ancient Indian warrior culture. I didn’t wear the other because that ear wasn’t properly pierced and would bleed whenever I tried. The earring wasn’t good quality and my ear didn’t like the material, but I wore it anyway because I liked how it looked. I was in a phase of wondering what to do about it: I didn’t like how it felt and thought it might be worth upgrading to real bronze instead of the fake bronze I had.

We said hello for the first time after having seen each other around. My body tensed a bit in his presence — it often does when I sense someone may be attracted to me and I’m not. I wasn’t attracted to him, though I could acknowledge that he was a beautiful-looking person. Part of my healing from childhood sexual abuse by men has been reclaiming the part of me that once liked it. There was an inner child who liked the abuse, and that part now feels alchemized in me. Through that alchemy I’ve gained a heightened appreciation for beauty in both men and women. Yet I have no desire for erotic exploration with men — just as I have no desire for erotic exploration with a woman I find stunningly attractive but see no future with. I imagine that, to some, this could look like repression.

There’s an interesting tension here: some people acknowledge the existence of — and I’ll use Christianese — temptations, yet have no desire to pursue them. To those still caught in the trap of temptation, this can look like repression. But in reality they’re simply living from something higher.

I still feel my body tighten when

I sense attraction from a gay man. I recognize that this sense isn’t always accurate and that I don’t feel it with all gay men. It’s a protective response shaped by my own past, not a judgment about gay men themselves. I know this well from the other side because I’ve felt women go on edge when my attraction was front and center in how I approached them. In the past, I have confused that for their excitement, but it was their anxiety. Sometimes they themselves may have confused anxiety and excitement — that happens too, that’s how people get caught up in unsafe, but “hot” romantic entanglements — but it’s really anxiety.

That day I noticed a heightened awareness of my single earring. I can’t know for sure if I was tracking his attention on it. I am aware that in certain queer cultures a single earring is considered an outward signifier. I think it depends on the ear; I’m not sure. That day I decided this wasn’t feeling aligned anymore and I stopped wearing the earring. My ear was already irritated by the poor-quality material, and I was in such a focused season that I didn’t want to deal with the energy drop from signaling something outwardly that didn’t match my inner orientation.

We stayed connected in community. He would often compliment me — not my looks but my actions and words. Over time my heart slowly opened to simple friendship with him and with that my body began easing.

Disgust as a Clear No

Later we were both at a festival. Again I felt waves of appreciation and affirmation from him, and my heart softened further. The guardedness of worrying about a one-way attraction started to relax.

At the end of the festival there was a gratitude-circle ritual. Fifteen or sixteen people sat in chairs in a large room with their eyes closed while others approached from behind to express gratitude. You could signal whether you were closed to physical touch by putting a yoga mat under your chair.

The part of me that is very attuned to group ritual design rang an alarm bell “Uh oh, there is definitely room for some boundary transgressions here”. You were blind to who approached, and your only options were “no touch” or “touch.” It’s a big gathering, you haven’t really met everyone. There was no way to say, “I’m okay with some kinds of touch but not others.”

That is exactly what happened. I was sitting there when he approached from behind and gave me a very close hug, his face next to mine. The closest we had ever hugged was when I was sitting with my eyes closed and was approached from behind. I felt the prickle of his beard on my cheek and my entire body froze in disgust. I managed only to turn my face slightly away before freezing. I don’t remember what he said — probably something kind — because I was locked in that freeze response. I had never told him to not hug me in that way, and yet, it was an escalation of physical intimacy into an unwanted territory when I was at my most vulnerable. Heart open and receptive. Pure, plain disgust.

It’s been quite the journey for me to honor Disgust. It is a powerful embodied experience. Disgust. It is often confused with rage, but they’re different. Rage comes later.

This wasn’t a boundary I had spoken aloud, but it was alive in my system. If he had been attuned to my energy throughout our interactions, he might have sensed my anxiety. Perhaps he mistook it for excitement. Perhaps he read my heart opening as erotic openness. Or from his perspective, it could just be a “cultural” thing, a subtle way of relinquishing ownership of your choices.

“In conscious queer culture, we are just touch positive you know! It’s not such a big deal! Don’t make such a big deal out of it! Don’t you want to be touch-positive?”

Yuck.

I can’t know for sure. I tried discussing it with him directly, but it didn’t reach resolution. I can only present these hypotheses because as a man, I have been on the other end of this so many times — oh Lord! Forgive me! I repent thoroughly for all the times I have transgressed the very obvious energetic boundaries of the women I have been with. Regularly, in my prayers to God, I repent and seek forgiveness and pray for the well-being of those women. Reading women’s nervousness or politeness as excitement, crossing unexpressed but obvious energetic boundaries, and being surprised when they surfaced it. So misattuned all my life.

Thankfully, I’m at a stage now where disgust and rage aren’t intertwined. Often, disgust and rage can be fused. Wonder why so many queer people are attacked “unprovoked”? It’s because disgust and rage are fused in many heterosexual men.

I don’t blame him in the traditional sense of the word. I think he could benefit from more experience in attuning to others. I also feel some sadness, because I imagine that in parts of queer subculture the kind of hug he gave me is considered normal. There’s a conditioning there — a sense that this is accepted. I’ve been in that culture myself, where people lead with overt sensuality and connection and even mock those who keep touch minimal when there’s no romantic commitment. I was once that person too.

Now I’m very much someone who avoids unnecessary touch because it creates unconscious entanglements. I’m focused on keeping my energy channels clear as I move toward marriage. Those entanglements draw on my energy and then require work to disentangle.

I didn’t feel rage toward him — not because my rage is repressed, but because I’ve done the work to fully feel, channel, and release it. I’m rooted in forgiveness because the blood of Christ has washed over me and God’s grace has flooded my life. There’s no room for unforgiveness, not from repression but from real transformation. And yet I can feel disgust. It’s a very particular emotion, one that should be honored because it signals a clear no in the body. You don’t need to debate it or ask for explanations. Ignore disgust and you’ll drift into temptation — like a pig that luxuriates in filth.

I can imagine that people without much capital-T trauma may not even feel much disgust in their systems — just simple, clear no’s. Those of us with capital-T trauma need to honor disgust. And in my experience, honoring disgust requires being able to be alone and stay regulated.

There’s a cultural myth in this kind of conscious, touch-forward subculture, that we need co-regulation through touch. I don’t believe men do. Maybe women need it; I’m not sure.

Men don’t need touch to regulate themselves — they really don’t. If you keep your life clean and maintain healthy testosterone, you can self-regulate. There are natural ways to do this: avoid porn and masturbation, work out every day, eat enough red meat and protein, have a solid creative outlet, and pray to God. Testosterone is a containment chemical — it holds you steady so there’s nothing you need to regulate from the outside. As a man, you actually have the energy to help regulate others through your touch because you have so much testosterone flowing through you. Women may need that from men. Men don’t need it from women. That is a lie of Lust.

From Lust to Integrity

The harvest of all this is gratitude for queer culture. It helped me meet and trust my disgust — that visceral no that keeps my energy clean and focused. When gay men have been either overtly sexual towards me or more physical than I felt open to, I have been reminded of how my overt sexuality and physical boundary transgressions can harm women. Without that mirror from gay culture, I wouldn’t have learned how delicate it is to open your heart but not your Eros, and how easily that gets misread. Not all gay men misread; many are beautifully attuned. The same is true among straight men.

Now my erotic energy feels tightly integrated with my heart and mind. I don’t lead with lust. I can see someone attractive and stay contained unless there’s real alignment. It’s not perfect; sometimes I still get thrown off, but I have much more capacity than a couple of years ago.

I remember feeling disgusted in my body while biking through Amsterdam, around the central train station during Pride. I felt the eyes of many gay men on me – hungry, devouring. It felt like being visually raped. And I remembered I have been that man too, hanging out amongst a group of guys, enjoying leering at attractive women, disconnected from their discomfort.

Last year, I had biked over after Helene to help someone in the neighborhood, I passed three athletic, visibly butchy lesbians. They looked at me in a certain way. I don’t think they were attracted to me but I suspect there’s something in parts of lesbian culture where they do things to intentionally give men a taste of their own medicine. A group of lesbian women might do the same thing men on street corners do to heterosexual women — look in a way that creeps them out — just so men feel it for once. I think one of them might even have catcalled. I can’t recall clearly; my memory often fades when my body freezes. Fascinating, isn’t it? A testament to the body keeping the score in ways the conscious mind can’t. I’d bet the next time I walk past a group of butchy, athletic-looking lesbians, my body will freeze again. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. It lets strong, heterosexual men touch a part of the human experience we’ve long been disconnected from.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.