One of the most beautiful pieces I've read, by Margaret Cho:
I am fortunate enough to have been a fag hag for most of my life. A fag hag is a woman who prefers the company of gay men. The marriage of two derogatory terms, fag and hag, symbolizing the union of the world's most popular objects of scorn, homosexual and woman, creates a moniker that most of those who wear it find inoffensive, possibly because it smacks of solidarity.
Some women have come to me urgently expressing their desire for a new name. Countless fruit flies, queen magnets and even a swish dish or two have begged me to reconsider the title of such an important entity. While no woman wants to be thought of as a "hag," you must acknowledge that the gay man in your life is not concerned with your youth and beauty. He wants to know your soul. He loves you for your courage and intellect. Whether you are lovely or plain, you are beautiful to him for these qualities -- and many more.
Similarly, most of the homosexuals I know bristle at the word "fag." It conjures up images of awkward, limp-wristed adolescence, of the taunts and catcalls of bullying jocks who are insecure in their own sexuality, all too willing to lash out to mask their fear.
But when you put these two words together, they seem to cancel each other out. The pain vanishes, and as you know, bees without sting offer only pure honey.
As a teenager, I found myself drawn to the slight, sensitive young men in my theater group, perhaps because they reminded me distantly of my beloved Forbes and Dante. High school was a dangerous place, and my search for sanctuary led me to gay men once again, even if they didn't yet know their own sexual identities. Or maybe they did know and just weren't telling. The only thing that mattered was that we found each other. If you are a gay man, think back on the girl you took to the prom. She was your first fag hag.
I was a loud, fat girl, and saw as my natural companion the fey, lithe boy. We were both scared. Thank God we met.
Growing up, getting older, shedding baby fat for womanly curves, my fag, Berry, watched me burst forth from my fleshy cocoon, and I was suddenly seen by the world as the butterfly he always knew me to be.
I heard his voice get deeper, saw his long limbs become corded with lean muscle. His lips, once hesitant and shy, blossomed sweetly, confident and ready. When we walked down Castro Street together, longing looks would be cast his way, and I saw he was beginning to return them.
We never went home with anyone back in those baby days. We just stayed with each other, watched John Waters movies late into the night, daydreamed while listening to Roxy Music's "Avalon," cut each other's bangs and talked about Madonna and what we'd do when we left school and all the bullshit behind.
Berry cried in my arms after he told his family he was gay, and he let me throw things and break them when I was rejected by my first boyfriend because his friends thought I was too fat.
We sneaked into the gay hustler bars on Polk Street and laughed as the chickens and the chicken hawks cruised each other and ignored us. We dressed each other up and took pictures. When we both got lovers, we weren't jealous. We grew up, but we didn't grow apart. When Berry was gay-bashed on Market Street, greeting me the next morning with a black eye and a smile on his face, he tried to make the best of it, dismissing the whole thing as, "Truly funny, if you really think about it," but I knew that it hurt him more than he could say.
When my parents told me they hated me because I was a failure at everything, Berry baked me a cake, made me a mixed tape and loved me madly.
Berry and I dressed more and more alike as we got older. We told everyone we were brother and sister, but it is almost as if we were closer than that.
We both tended to pick boyfriends who cared little about us, which makes me glad that we had each other to love.
We are friends even now, in what seems like a lifetime later. We grew together, grew apart, then together again. We still love to make dinner together and talk about the days when everything was new and life was so exciting because it was just beginning.
If this relationship sounds familiar to you, it is very likely that you are a fag hag. We are from all walks of life, all classes, all ages, all races; straight, lesbian and somewhere in between. We are as diverse as we are numerous. The common bond that we share is our alliance with gay men, a connection that is both nurturing and powerful, sweet and sour, retail and wholesale.
Although our fag hag experiences vary greatly, there are generalizations that can be made. Fag hags usually make all the plans and see that they are carried out in a manner that pleases both the fag and the hag equally. This is because most of us have a knack at organizing and mobilizing. We are leaders and keep our troops in line.
Fag hags like to be the center of attention. It is ironic that at a gathering of men, coming together for the sole purpose of meeting one other, they will all spend the better part of their evening hanging on the only woman's every word.
Unfortunately, this situation does not last. By the end of the party, a fag hag often finds herself alone in the room, in the midst of the overflowing ashtrays and half-finished drinks, deserted by all her admirers -- who have paired off to admire each other. This brings us to the next fag hag rule of thumb: We always drive ourselves to events, and for the most part, we enjoy going home alone. I suppose it could be looked at as a depressing end to an evening, but I find it joyous. I love to sleep in bed alone, tossing my body in slumber every way I can, waking up without having to kiss some sour mouth or awkwardly realizing I have no idea whom that sour mouth belongs to.
I can carry on with plans I made for brunch without having to consult or bring along the "trick." I don't have to gauge his expression to see whether our drunken episode resulted in a fight and try to gauge his mood. I don't have to dress quietly and duck out the back door or learn a new language. Tricks are always much more trouble than they are worth. That is why, every Halloween, when I am asked "Trick or Treat," I always err on the side of chocolate. Yes, it's true. I do live in paradise.
Fag hags, contrary to the wisdom of popular culture, are not "beards." The term "beards" refers to the complicit relationships between some women and gay men, wherein they pretend, for the "benefit" of family and sometimes employers, that they are a conventional straight couple. This is so that they might enjoy the "status" of being "normal" heterosexuals.
I find this a violation, a travesty and an aberration of the fag hag/fag relationship. However, I do not wish to judge those who find themselves in the kind of predicament that requires such a facade. It is not their fault, but the fault of the ignorance of those around them. In my world, honesty rules above all and the truth helps everyone. So have a beard if you must, but I would prefer that you be clean-shaven.
We fag hags love drama and are skilled thespians on the stage of life. We also crave scandal and gossip. Be warned, we don't keep secrets, we harvest them. Of course, we do know when and where loyalty is required, and in these cases, we are true to our beloved. Bitchiness is always appreciated, and insulting others behind their back is a favorite pastime. This is a way for us to repay the world for the way we are treated. Women and gay men have long been considered second-class citizens by the dominant culture. How do we keep our strength? By talking shit about those who think they can oppress us. Herewith one caveat given me by a particularly elegant and flamboyant gentleman: "Fight fire with flame!" Do not underestimate the power of our wagging tongues. Cross us and you will get burned, not licked.
Most of us like to shop and love to be taken to lunch at a restaurant in a department store. Not the food court, mind you. We are still ladies, regardless of how we behave at times.
I still lobby for a "Fag Hag Day," when we might be shown the gratitude we deserve en masse. We are important. We are the backbone of the gay community and, as such, should be honored! Consider that there are holidays as innocuous as "Secretary's Day" -- with special greeting cards to celebrate them. What might a "Fag Hag Day" card look like? Possibly a photograph of a winsome young man in an evening gown, with a darling bit of verse at the bottom: You have stuck by me now and then, Even though you know I like men. We are so close, my sweet fag hag, Sometimes I think you are me in drag!
Gentle reader, if you wish to join us, I bid you "Welcome" with open arms and an arched eyebrow. Let it be known, however, that this is certainly a profession that chooses you. Many of us did not plan to become fag hags, we just looked around one day and realized that was what we were. Others aspired to greatness, and then greatness materialized around them in the form of a group of cute advertising executives spending Labor Day Weekend on Fire Island.
The fastest way to become a fag hag, if you are so inclined, is to get a job as a makeup artist, but this is not practical or realistic for most. (I do not offer the perfect solutions, only the ones I know work.) Another is to become a grand dame of the stage and screen. For myself, this route has been most rewarding. This way, I can "hag" as many "fags" as I like, and bring to the world this kind of love story that is so common, yet so often overlooked.
Whatever road you take, when you get there, be good to the men in your life and let them take care of you. Know that what you have is precious and holy. Remember, regardless of sexual orientation, men and women will always need each other.
So if you've nothing nice to say, go sit next to the cutest, most elegantly dressed and well-mannered guy at the party. He will appreciate it, I promise.
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