TL;DR
- Fag hags are essential allies to gay men.
- They have a rich history of support in the LGBTQ community.
- The term has been reclaimed with pride.
- Women in this role enrich gay culture and nightlife.
- Their bond with gay men is both personal and political.
It was a balmy Thursday night at Animal, the Brooklyn gay bar where everybody knows your name, when she appeared, joining my gaggle of gays as I waxed poetic about the most recent episode of my Sex And The City rewatch. “My Motherboard, Myself,” she chimed in. Yes! The one where Miranda’s mother dies suddenly, and the ladies rally around her. This mystery woman, whose name was drowned out by the din of the courtyard, unpacked the many layers of this episode so succinctly, so thoroughly, so insightfully — in the way that only a woman can. And just like that, with a stilettoed heel to her cigarette butt, she was gone. “That was a real professional,” one of my homos whispered after she vanished in the wind. We had encountered a true dyed-in-the-wool, goopy and gaggy, legendary fag hag. For a brief moment we basked in her wisdom, before she went off to sprinkle her empathy and fabulousness like fairy dust onto another cluster of gays. “Thank God for fag hags,” I exclaimed. “Who doesn’t love ’em?!” And that’s when a discourse erupted among the friend group.
Somewhere between Will & Grace and this nation’s full descent into fascism, fag hags had apparently gotten a bad rap in certain (loud) corners of the gay guy community. But perhaps, like Anne Hathaway in 2018, they were making a comeback. After all, to gain admission to one of New York’s hottest queer parties (which we’ll be leaving unnamed here, but if you know, you know), you must be accompanied by a woman in order to enter. I couldn’t help but wonder: what is a fag hag’s place in today’s gay community? My mind immediately jumped to this tweet, which sparked a furious debate last year. Honestly, some points were made. Who among us hasn’t experienced women pushing and shoving through the sweaty, heaving bodies at the clurb, using their sharp elbows like shivs? Or worse yet, disingenuously fawning over every buff homo in a crop top on the dance floor, determined to catch ’em all. Even still, there’s that moment in the wee hours of the morning when there are no more diva music videos to watch and the lone woman at the afters simply won’t get the hint: the ’mos are yearning to twist themselves into a three-, four-, or maybe even six-way pretzel.
But as one of my favorite professional female lovers of gay guys explained to me, those women aren’t hags. They’re tourists. Bachelorettes, interlopers, and hanger-ons who might have the best intentions but lack self-awareness. A true Hag, by design, is one with gay culture. If she can’t go to the club with her gays, then where the hell else can she go?! She knows the cues, the mores, and the unspoken rules because her kind was there when these ancient texts were written. She’s on the guest list at Wrecked while you’re waiting in line. (No, but seriously, how are tickets always sold out the moment the next party is announced?!). For all the ways in which hags might differ, this is their common thread. “I don’t have gays,” said one of my favorite hags. “I am the gays.”
For the record, I’ve spoken to many women in preparation for this piece, from a power lesbian to a femme top who loves pegging her favorite gay boys. All of these women wear the title of “fag hag” with pride, pejorative as its origins might be. The phrase is, of course, a double slur — a Sharknado of misogyny and homophobia. But in reclamation, there is freedom and reverence for what has been. In centuries past, when the threat of arrest and social ruin forced queer men into the closet — R.I.P. Oscar Wilde — fag hags provided protection as beards. After the success of the gay rights movement, they became out and proud allies of the newly liberated gay community. That support only intensified at the height of the AIDS crisis, as women fought fiercely via groups like ACT UP to change policy and public opinion, while caring for their gay friends and family afflicted with the disease.
By the early aughts, thanks to an NBC sitcom about a codependent redhead and a neurotic, the fag/hag relationship was appointment TV for households across America. History is littered with great hags, many of whom we’ll never know by name, and many who are known by mononym alone: Judy, Barbara, Liza, Cher, Madonna, Diana (both the Princess of Wales and the Queen of Motown), Beyoncé, Gaga. Why do gays have an almost genetic predisposition for diva-worship, exalting our most fabulous entertainers like modern incarnations of Oshun and Shiva? Well, we don’t call these women “mother” for nothing. For many gay men, female figures were our first protectors, our greatest heroines, and our closest friends. Shout out to the girls in middle school who, hand on their hip, yelled at our bullies: “he SAID he’s not gay!” They saw and loved us clearly for who we were, even before we could see ourselves.
With time and age, however, comes a greater divide between the genders. As queer men come into their own identities and form their first adult social groups, searching for love, lust, or something in between, the feminine often takes a backseat. At the same time, many, though not all, of their female friends are settling down, getting married, and starting families. Lifestyles and priorities change, and queer men are largely left to our own devices for better or worse. I’d be lying if I said some nights at Horsemeat Disco haven’t felt like Lord of the Flies.
And now we arrive back at the fag hag. The rare, intrepid woman who’s out at Animal on a Thursday night at 3 am. This is her scene. We are her people. She’s opted out of a traditional heteronormative lifestyle and enmeshed herself in our community, playing mother, sister, friend, and diva. It’s a beautifully symbiotic relationship. As one of my favorite hags told me, “Straight men don’t like women. Gay men love women.” And what does the world need now but more love? Well, action, perhaps. With the Western world hurtling back towards the 1840s, queer rights are more endangered than ever. Oddly, that political regression comes at a time when so much of gay culture, including nightlife in a post-pandemic world, has become popular culture. The fag hag understands that liking, subscribing, and consuming aren’t enough. She has dedicated herself to enriching and standing with the gay community through sisterhood and acceptance. The ties between fag and hag are inherently political: a radical, rebellious act of love in the face of great hate. Hopefully, the blur of the disco lights and the heavy thumping of the bass haven’t drowned out this sacred bond.