Your blogger comes out
as a sapiosexual androphile
WTF?
I didn’t start this blog to share personal details, and I don’t want to be like the blogger Kenneth Walsh of “Kenneth in the 212.” I’m not that needy or possessed of an ego that would result in my posting dozens of photos of myself standing next to B-list celebrities. Plus he tells us way too much about himself. But lately I’ve become more comfortable relating a personal experience or two.
In a conversation with a new acquaintance, we were discussing what it means to be gay, and I confessed that I am a poor example of the typical gay man. I do not go clubbing, I abhor drag (watching a drag show makes me so embarrassed that I look down at my feet), I can’t cook, I hate shopping, I don’t throw parties. I spend so little time in front of a mirror that I’m sometimes startled to observe which shirt I had put on. I would never book a gay cruise. I don’t stay at gay hotels (I stay at hotels that fit my budget and afford the best location for my needs). I don’t need to convince myself that I’m gay by always surrounding myself with other gay people. Yet I don't belittle those who do.
My companion looked over at me and declared, “So you’re an androphile.”
I just stared back at him. I had never heard of the term.
He explained that some homosexual men use “androphile” to describe themselves, because they do not live or embrace the stereotypical lifestyle that the term “gay” connotes.
While I'm not put off by the label “gay”, I’m not defined by much of the gay stereotype, and I never wanted to be a clone of anything. Even in high school I was never pressured by conformity.* Yet I have artistic sensibilities that are over the top. I’m a professional classical musician. I cringe at poor grammar/spelling. I was once a professional decorator. I can sit on a bench in front of a Rothko painting and be struck dumb with awe. Listening to a recording of Gerald Finzi’s Eclogue for Piano and Strings can transport me to another place. I know that “listening” is a gerund, and it's a strike against you if you don’t, too. On average, I read six books a month, and a few of them have literally brought me to tears. I attend a monthly salon evening in private homes, where we listen to music, discuss art, absorb history by guest lecturers, etc.
Yet I don’t fuss over clothes. I don’t own a DVD player or a TV. I’ve never heard of the people on the covers of supermarket tabloids. I don’t own a single recording of a Broadway musical. I’ve never seen Rent (the film or the stage musical). But I earned tons of $$$ during my college years when I formed a jazz piano trio to play at country club lounges. Our audience? Drunk wives of neglectful husbands who would rather play golf than spend time with their spouses. Our repertoire? Almost 100% show tunes. I learned that drunk women are great tippers, especially to young men who will listen to their tales of neglect (I was quick to learn defenses; when an inebriated woman of a certain age would plop herself down on my piano bench and demand that I play “All the Things You Are” [she intended to sing along], I would say, “Where were you a half hour ago? I just played that.” Ever since I’ve been an adept liar. A very convincing and adept liar. It’s one of life’s most useful skills.
But I’m not a cultural snob, and I can’t abide those who are. I’m on the board of a respected classical concert series, yet I light candles to Patsy Cline (that voice! those wrenching lyrics!). I used to be able to sing “It’s Raining Men” by heart. Those Weather Girls could always get my butt out onto the dance floor. When I watch TV at a friend’s house, I enjoy it. We like what we like, and we don’t need to defend it. Ever. Is snuff fiction your thing? Fine by me.
I’m partnered and monogamous, but if I wanted to cruise for men, I wouldn’t go to a gay bar. For one thing, I get hoarse yelling over the thumpa-thumpa music, and in order to evaluate a potential sexual partner, I’d need to engage in a little conversation. Plus I wouldn’t want to be drunk if I were considering a guy for a potential hook-up (I’ll never make that mistake again). Instead, I’d go to a museum. Let me tell you, museums are full of single gay men. Horny gay men.
But I digress. Where was I? Oh – androphile. Guilty as charged. And we owe the term to the German sexologist Magnus Hirschfeld (1868-1935). From Wikipedia: Hirschfeld divided men into four groups: paedophiles (who are most attracted to prepubescent youth), ephebophiles (who are most attracted to youths from puberty up to the early twenties), androphiles (who are most attracted to persons between the early twenties and fifty), and gerontophiles (who are most attracted to older men). So, right on the money, that makes me an Androphile.
My sexual turn-ons and tastes are no secret. I’ve shared them with my blog readers since 2008. Near the bottom of my blog’s right hand column, just after the archives listings, I state that I am a “die-hard sapiosexual with an ever curious mind.” Yup. That’s what defines me.
My new acquaintance lifted up his wine glass and offered a toast to “a die-hard sapiosexual androphile.” I blushed scarlet in embarrassment, then looked over and emptied my glass in a single draft.
-- Terry, bidding you a good-bye to October.
*Quote of the day:
“Conformity is the bane of middle-class communities.”
– Edith Wharton (“A Backward Glance” 1934 autobiography)
