Femmephobia: Getting Over the Ick

I broke up with my boyfriend at the weekend. The reason comes from the part of my psyche of which I am most ashamed…

I am femmephobic.

What is femmephobia?

For those of you who might be confused, femmephobia is a term used to describe an aversion to anyone who presents as feminine. In my case, it applies specifically to men over a certain height. It’s not in a hateful way, more in a literal I-get-scared-and-I-don’t-know-why kind of way. I don’t struggle with it on a regular basis, and most interactions I have with flamboyant people are fine. It is something I quickly recognised as irrational when I was young, and have worked on ever since. But despite the personal growth I have achieved over the years, it remains difficult for me to see a man being overtly camp and remain attracted to him.

But I’m not a horrible person. And I know the only reason that it took me so long to notice my now-exe’s more flamboyant qualities is because he intentionally ‘manned up’ for the purpose of attracting me in the first place, which is a symptom of a broader issue in the gay community. Inevitably, just as whenever someone tries to be someone that they’re not, he couldn’t keep up the act for longer than a few weeks.

When the Mask of Masculinity Slips

Did it feel like entrapment? No, because I recognised that the reasons for his gradual introduction of his true self were based on insecurity, and a culture of femmephobia that is rampant within the gay community and across wider society — especially within the black community, of which I am part. I knew that he was the same person I had fallen for, regardless of how sparkly he turned out to be. I knew that femmephobia is a really shallowreason to disregard someone as a potential life partner.

And I also know that my femmephobia didn’t come from a dislike of rolling necks or limp wrists, cutesy pet names, homosexuality as a concept — or even from the toxic masculine culture that has existed on most gay dating platforms since before I was a 17 year old catfish.

My femmephobia came from Bruce.

The origins of my femmephobia

I first met Bruce when I was about 13, and on a residential trip at a famous drama school in London. I can’t remember his name and I’m not trying to create scandal so I’ll just refer to him as Bruce and the drama school as a drama school.

The trip was for a summer school event. There were acting workshops and theatre trips, with a small performance to families at the end, and Bruce was in charge. He seemed like a nice enough guy, if a bit strict. He didn’t seem to approve of the quick bond I had formed with one of the girls, who incidentally he also appeared very fond of. But aside from separating us a couple of times and asking us not to talk, everything seemed fine.

Everything, that is, until later that night when we were all supposed to be in bed, at the King’s College student halls in Central London.

Some commotion or other in one of the nearby rooms had attracted Bruce’s attention and he knocked on my door to see if I was one of the perpetrators. I wasn’t. But Bruce didn’t care. Bruce didn’t like to be answered back. Bruce had thought I had an attitude since the moment he met me.

As soon as I opened the door he reminded me that I could be sent home for breaking the rules. I explained I was not breaking any rules. He became indignant and began jabbing and twirling his fingers as he shouted at me for talking back, calling me ‘babe,’ ‘honey’ and accusing me of thinking I am smart — but promising to introduce me to reality.

This was a 6ft tall, broad-shouldered man who I had met less than 12 hours before, in my room, in the middle of the night, in the dark, with no witnesses except the girl across the hall, who had opened her door to see what the fuss was about but was instructed to stay in her room.

I was horrified by juxtaposition of such usually sweet terms of endearment being weaponised against me. Words I had barely had a chance to experience in the right way, were being used to attack and belittle me. Looking back now, I know why he did it, but at that moment the only way I knew how to react was to say,

‘I am not your babe, and please don’t call me honey.’ If there is one thing about me that has never really changed, it’s that (most of the time) I speak my mind, even through fear.

Bruce hit the roof. After a couple of calls he had me removed from the premises for ‘anti-social behaviour’. He wanted to leave me on the street. I can’t remember if my parents came to get me or if I got home in a cab. I just remember Bruce being slightly defeated when someone made it clear that I couldn’t, as a minor, be left to fend for myself in central London at 2 a.m.

My parents were livid and complained as soon as the school offices opened that morning. I was invited back, but only under the condition that I apologise for being homophobic.

I was shocked. And defensive. I made it clear to my mum that I hadn’t been homophobic in the slightest. I had felt intimidated by this enormous angry man standing in my room angrily using words like babe and honey like some unpredictable psycho.

My father is homophobic so I didn’t pay attention to much of what he had to say except that it wasn’t appropriate for an adult to speak to a child the way that Bruce had spoken to me. My mum, who worked with children at the time, pointed out that he shouldn’t have come to my room alone.

The sad part that I couldn’t tell my parents is I knew I wasn’t homophobic because I had recently started feeling attracted to other boys. I had long since shed the attitudes impressed upon me by my father and it was in my nature to make a conscious effort to be accepting of people and ideas that I didn’t understand.

This was reflected in the group of people I had befriended during my time there on the first day, for instance someone equally as flamboyant as Bruce, who I had fun working with for a couple of partner exercises, and added on social media. Bruce didn’t seem to know or care about that positive relationship or how it might be a sign that he had got something wrong.

My parents and I agreed that I should apologise for being rude and answering back, a misdemeanour I always took issue with as a child — why shouldn’t I respond to someone’s point in a conversation? But in order to get back to my new crush — the girl from across the hall — I agreed regardless and went back that morning.

Wrong and Strong

When I arrived at the school, Bruce told me that since he needed a witness, he had decided to bring in one of the other children to be part of our conversation. Guess who it was.

Once the three of us were sat in Bruce’s office, he began the conversation with the sort of apology for being too harsh that told me he had been told off by someone higher up than him — or was at least afraid that might happen. That moment was short-lived; he then launched into a tirade about how homophobic I was, how dated and obscure my ignorance was and how I was in for a shock if I wanted to join the Performing Arts. He returned to using the words ‘babe’ and ‘honey’ to address me.

I desperately wanted to protest, for more reasons than one; Bruce was clearly misinterpreting my character, and now I risked my new crush thinking the same hateful things about me. He made it abundantly clear that if I wanted to get back to the workshops and avoid a bad report being sent back to school then he needed to be sure I was truly sorry. There was something about the venom in his glare that terrified me. But a signal from my friend showed me that she knew he was wrong and that the best thing we could let him do is just run out of steam.

It was almost like I left my body, I sat so quietly. It may seem dramatic but it was like my entire soul trembled as he made himself feel empowered at my expense; I knew myself to be fearless and outspoken with a strong sense of justice, and yet here I was figuring that it would be easier to just fake-apologise. I knew it would seem genuine enough because I honestly had no qualms with gay people.

When he had finished weaponising his sexuality to admonish me for essentially what was my taking issue with the way he aggressively told me off for something I hadn’t done, I offered him my fake apology and was finally able to rejoin the group for the afternoon. The rest of my experience on that trip was tainted, and I experienced an anxiety I had never felt before whenever Bruce spoke to the group or came anywhere near me. When I reached the end of my BTEC National Diploma at college and realised that this particular drama school was the only one I could afford to apply to, I decided instead to pursue other things.

I’m Grown Now

Looking back, I still think that Bruce was wrong, but he is not alone in using his sexuality to attack as a form of defence. At the time I was too young to really understand how the world treats gay men, or to even know how gay men treat each other. All I did know was that my first interaction with an openly gay man was absolutely terrifying, and incredibly unfair.

As an adult, I now see how effeminate and flamboyant men are treated as ‘undesirable’ or ‘less than’ their ‘masculine’ counterparts; I now know how toxic terms like ‘straight acting’ and ‘real men only’ encourage people to suppress their natural quirks and idiosyncrasies to make themselves appear as desirable as possible. And in some cases, like Bruce, when it is not possible to hide, the bullied become the bullies, and use their shame to shame others.

Femmephobia Towards Onself

But what happens when you can play it ‘straight?’ In the case of my recent beau, what happened was a cycle of distortion and disillusionment followed by heart break, as both parties invested; one of us hoping that the other will be able to see past the little quirks as they gradually appeared more and more, and the other becoming increasingly insecure about how much he truly knew the man he was dating.

I am not what I would consider to be ultra-masculine; I barely feel comfortable saying that because I honestly don’t believe in assigning activities to gender roles — especially in a same sex relationship — to me, it doesn’t make sense. And that’s why in the past I’ve been able to work on my trauma from blocking my attraction — not that I had identified it as trauma, but I had realised it was a toxic part of my thinking that I could do without.

It’s not like my ex being especially camp made me think directly of Bruce. By now, it’s been so many years that all I felt was suddenly turned off.

When I broke up with him I made it clear that my reasons for not being attracted to him were nothing that he should have to change, and how sorry I was to have let him down. We both cried.

Processing My Femmephobia

At first, I didn’t understand why it was too much for me to handle my guy’s quirks — a little neck or eye roll accompanied by a finger pointing or snapping to emphasise your point doesn’t really hurt anybody, at the end of the day. But it was only after breaking up with him, and doing the post-mortem of our short-lived relationship with my cousin, who reminded me about Bruce, and that time I was let down by someone who was supposed to protect me in the absence of my parents.

I ended up writing to my guy. I had decided that I owed it to him to explain exactly how I was feeling, and told him about some of the things I had realised, including that I had kept all of my worries to myself the entire time we had been dating as an attempt to honour who he is and because I really didn’t want to hurt him.

I admitted I felt bad to now ask for his friendship, but I wanted to see if we could get to know each other, really know each other from a place where expectations couldn’t be disappointed as much.

Harsh Reality

His answer was no. In fact, it was an email with a point-by-point response to the long message I had sent him explaining everything. I won’t share the details of what he wrote other than that he recognised the venom and insecurity in his words when he is angry and that this is something that comes from bad experiences in the past. The past, he said, is to be left behind along with bad habits.

The things he said reminded me of what’s important in a relationship and reminded me that I could end up missing out on something really special if I let something so shallow distract me from that. Throughout the email he addressed each of my concerns, offered reassurances, and described all the reasons he cares for me and feels we should give things another chance. The bigger picture had become abundantly clear and I was reminded of all the positive ways in which he already impacts my daily life, and all the potential we have for the future.

He also reminded me that the risk of him getting hurt is not mine to take or refuse. He said many sweet things, which highlighted to me exactly why I found him so special in the first place. I had ended the relationship because I didn’t want to ask him to change, but in facing the conversation I sought to avoid, I ended up finding a way to effect the necessary change in myself.

He was adamant there are only two options. I chose the one where we grow together.

This article was originally published in Queertopia on Medium