One of the first concepts one learns of upon coming out (after discovering that one is fat and ugly if one cannot see one’s ribs but can see one’s beard, and before the trauma of the secret handshake and the Barbra Streisand megamix (the female rituals are similar, though more forgiving of extra pounds and plainness and conducted to the strains (emphasis on strains) of the Indigo Girls)) is that of gaydar.

It is the means by which one can detect one’s fellow homosexuals, and it is theoretically fine-tuned to the extent that one can discern good from bad queers and know whom to snub, upon whom to practice intra-tribal homophobia and also who to subject to nastiness/bitchiness for which bashing is a difficult-to-resist instinctive response. In my case, I was told the first night I stumbled into the inner circle of gay life in my town (a night that will live with June 29, 1967 for Jayne Mansfield and January 21, 1793 for Marie Antoinette in terms of feeling as though one’s neck had been attacked) that I did not show up on gaydar, that the speaker in question was never wrong and that, therefore, I was not gay, unless I could prove it (to which I would reply: (a) he was wrong about wearing those plaid pants, honey (catty, yes, but evidence I MUST be queer…) and (b) not if his was the last syphilitic dick in Kingston!)).

It used to concern me, but now I consider it a badge of honour that I can be a stealthqueer, because it is easier to make a ‘phobe sputter, hem and haw when he makes a fag joke and I light the pink triangle bulb above my head, and it also means that gay people I consider particularly troubling (i.e. Tory party members, the sort who think a surplus ounce of fat is tantamount to leprosy and those who feel liberation can be achieved by patterning some category of respectability that the majority of heterosexuals they envy/lust for (the status of) don’t fit EITHER) never get into my face.

But why don’t I show up? Why do people not pass me pamphlets for hairdressing school when I sashay down the street? Why do waitresses lay hands on me in restaurants, even when I’m not choking on something as phallic as, oh, a sausage or a Ding-Dong? Why is it that the only time someone reads me as queer is when I’m wearing my Bear hat, rainbow flag pin, leather vest and Tab Hunter Fan Club ID badge (unless you count the time a drunk Daughter of Bilitis mistook me for a bulldyke)?

I wanted to conduct a scientific study, but I was an Arts student who never took a course in statistics, and, large as I am, I do not constitute a significant sample all by myself. Therefore, the following theories are just that, and have not been rigorously tested:

(1) Gaydar is scrambled by punk rock and books larger than a copy of Vogue, GQ or FAB. Since I tend to listen to the former and am always carrying scads of the latter, the signal is deflected back.

(2) Gaydar is calibrated for a certain size of target. My borders simply fall outside the screen. I can be seen – but the picture is not clear…am I a basher? An agent for some beer company? A dutch boy (het fella who hangs with dykes – rarely used equivalent of fag hag…)? Ask me, motherfucker, and LEARN.

(3) Radar is a device used by the State to detect enemy presence. A dirty secret of gaydar is that, though it is supposed to be used to find bachelor brothers and sensibly shoed sisters in general, it has covertly been modified to find GOOD queers. It is okay to be a hairdresser or a female mechanic – however, flit a millimetre too much or grow a handlebar ‘stache (for the girls – though the boys are risking censure for facefur too beyond a point…) and the missiles are launched to take you out (and I don’t mean for a three martini lunch and a watercress salad).

(4) Gaydar is also set for density, not just horizontal and vertical space occupied. It cannot penetrate to my heart (though it cannot be faulted too severely for this – very few forces can (witness one tall, Danish exception)) and read the queerness there.

(5) The beard contains a scrambling device. Oh, I know what you will say – that I only started growing that about a year ago. Ah, but I’ve almost always had stubble or a five o’clock shadow, and you’d be surprised how tiny the machinery is (oh, don’t bother, honey – I see the retort coming, and I have a ballgag ready…). The brief times in which I have not, oddly, HAVE resulted in more compliments and notice being taken, which gives this theory more credence – however, the attention was always from people I despised, so go figure.

(6) Compared to many of my peers, my sense of sexuality started to develop quite late, so I missed the registering with Fly-Me-I’m-Chris-the-Steward Central, causing me to be more difficult to track down to administer the rainbow tattoo that can be picked up by the scanning device. (What, you say? Queers cooperating with this system that is there to ghettoize? How unthinkable!!)

(7) As someone I knew once speculated, I am not gay, but, instead, slumming. The fact that I was involved in radical causes at the time I knew this person might have something to do with his theory, though he never considered the possibility that my sense of identity fueled my activism (gee, bosses, economists, family fetishists and churches hate me – maybe I should work against those movements while being a fag too!).

Yes, I hate sucking cock – that’s why I do it so much – but it’s necessary to cultivate a respectable image for as many people as possible…and what says that more than ‘degenerate homosexualist’? I only manage to do the dick-downing deed by fantasizing that I’m muff-diving on Jodie Foster and Kristy McNichol (hey, if I’m a straight boy, I’m supposed to be into lesbians, am I not?). Seriously, though, that fellow is beginning to think maybe it’s not a chic phase for me – after all, I’m with one guy, so, unless I’ve found a collaborator in my delusion, I can’t be spreading the word of the revolution one blow job at a time…

I’m sure there could be other explanations, such as: my perversity, reclusiveness and poor self-image; and the lack of obvious Bears in Kingston leading to that image/body-type not reading as gay (however, I was chuffed the other day when someone said my being a Bear-Lover was awesome, and I thank that Boy sincerely – it was sweet, even if he was trying to put me at ease, though he was Cubby)…but I prefer to go for the snarly, sarcastic ones, because, as long as you’re ironic and hostile, the enemy is going to be confused (and that’s both the power structure above and the gay status quo within the community that seems to be determined to make diversity mean similarity and respectability mean boredom – when the fuck was I asked what was respectable to me? Do I want Ernie Eves, Jean Chretien and Ralph Klein to like me? Did I want them to BEFORE I came out? Why, then, would I after?) – and that’s the way to survive…

So go on, boys and girls, keep on blipping – but, every once in a while, consider exactly WHAT they’re tracking you for, and consider the possible advantages of flying low (again, just stop that filthy thought while you’re at it – hmmm – while you’re at it, why don’t you… J ).

After all, if there is such a thing as queer space, there is also liebensraum (bad pidgin German punning for ‘loving room’) that has been occupied by your enemies (both gay and straight), and you might want to bear in mind the possibility of rebellion and reclaiming…