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gaysha |
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gaysha n., pl. -shas. A gay man who is expected to be subservient, attentive, adoring, obliging, considerate, devoted, respectful, and thoughtful to another gay man, usually the one who considers himself superior in every way.
I don’t know whether I "invented" this, but I haven’t seen or heard of it anywhere else. I wrote it for a column in AXM, a London-based gay men’s lifestyle glossy. Love the site.
Cheers,
Jason
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GAYSHA GIRLS
gaysha n., pl. -shas. A gay man who is expected to be subservient, attentive, adoring, obliging, considerate, devoted, respectful, and thoughtful to another gay man, usually the one who considers himself superior in every way.
Now, you don’t have to work at Oxford University Press to figure out that this is unlikely to be located between the covers of one of its esteemed dictionaries. No, where you’ll find it is whistling between my ears (so OUP, if you’re listening, the copyright belongs to yours truly.) Let me explain. Before I met my current inamorato, for a couple of years I was what is referred to as Single. You can probably gather from the big-boy capital ‘s’ that to most gay men-–nay most people-–this worry-laden word strikes fear and loathing in the spines of otherwise sane adults and provokes Herculean bouts of hyperventilating. Me? Frankly, my queers, I don’t give a damn. Yeah, sure, I quite like having a boyfriend, but only in the same way I like eating Brie; it’s great from time to time, but too much of the stuff is bad for the heart.
Anyway, whilst I was on Singleton safari, I noticed a pattern to the dating dance. You meet someone-–it doesn’t matter a jot whether you particularly like them or not-–you go out, you don’t bother to get to know them at all and come last orders on the date, you expect to indulge in some hot below-the-waist action. Is this really the best we can do? Are we so one-track dimensional that we can’t see the trunk for the trees? The Great Gay Male isn’t interested in dating as a process of getting to know someone because it involves putting’n’shutting up. It means sealing the gob and–shock! horror! alien idea ahoy!–-prising open the ears. Gay men do not want friends. They do not want boyfriends. They want gayshas, people who are willing to bow the knee and fall to their knees (metaphorically and literally) before them. They want a cross between a therapist and a rent-boy, someone to cover all bases on the need-fulfilling front, a decorative, obedient pet that slobbers on demand and keeps the barking to a minimum.
And don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking. Oh, here’s someone who’s had a few bad dates and suddenly he’s a postmodern, post-early-for-Christmas, anti-gay ritual ranter, going down the well-trodden Bridget Jones moaner’n’groaner cul-de-sac. Well, this Jones doesn’t subscribe to the all-gay-men-are-bastards shtick. What I am saying, from dating experience, is the only time I’m expected to use my tongue is when the other bloke stops blethering on and fancies a bit of a snog. Silly me. I thought conversation was a team sport. Gay men aren’t bastards-–that would at least take a little imagination. They are simply brain-curdling bores.
In fairness, the can’t-listen-won’t-listen culture is not an exclusively gay affliction, although it is an almost exclusively male one. It’s everywhere we turn. It’s a sign of our speeding, breakneck age. We’re too impatient to make the effort, to go the distance and–a very out-dated notion this–get to know somebody rather than just jumping on their body. We prefer the easy option. Dating is all kerr-ching! kerr-ching! kerr-ching! It’s me-first, me-last and anything or, more precisely, anyone who doesn’t play ball is regarded as an annoying bogey to be snotted on the nearest sleeve. One is the star and one is expected to be the worshipful fan. You must not detract from them, interrupt the soliloquy or steal the spotlight. You must sit, or even better genuflect, listen and nod appreciatively. Bung in the odd "Ah, really?" or "How interesting!" and cock’s-yer-uncle. Got it?
Towards the end of Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit, Jeanette Winterson’s newly lesbian protagonist, musing on her desire for love, says "I want someone who will destroy and be destroyed by me… I would cross seas and suffer sunstroke and give away all I have, but not for a man, because they want to be the destroyer, and never be destroyed." And herein lies the rub. Men won’t relinquish their ego, their dominance, their control. (And, yes, I do know I am one, thankyouverymuch!) But surely if there’s to be even the merest whiff of love, there has to be a degree of risk, a willingness to be destroyed; otherwise, what’s the point? Isn’t having a gaysha a shade on the safe side of dull? There has to be at least some mutuality. A one-way street always leads to a dead end. Instead of the me-me-me mindset with a dollop of me thrown in for good measure, maybe we should indulge in a bit of sha-sha-sha, a quaint phrase an American friend of mine uses for old-skool dating. It might sound unhiply fogeyish, but has the alternative proved any more successful?
God, sometimes I could scream, but in Gay Space no-one will hear you. Probably because they’re not listening. There’s only one thing for it: buy a kimono and bind the feet. Sake, anyone?
© Jason Jones |
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25.08.09 14:25 |
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