I own a red tote bag. Red is not my colour; it looks harsh and uninviting next to my pink, freckly skin. But I very rarely hold a bag up to my face and, crucially, the bag was free when I bought some spectacles, of decent quality and could fit plenty of things inside. I remember when they handed it over with my glasses. Red, I thought, that’s going to stand out. Not my thing. But I used the bag for over two years in rotation with the various other totes most gay men have in their collection of accessories. It became my default, almost, but whether conscious of this or not, I wouldn’t take it everywhere – I definitely went for a more muted bag depending on where I was going. I didn't even know why.
A few weeks ago, on a pleasant, sunny Saturday, a rare flash of spring before the monsoons began again, I took the bag out with me. Slung over one shoulder as ever, paired with my usual ‘unpredictable weather’ springtime drag, all devastatingly ordinary. A beige car coat, a cream sweater and navy trousers with a very faint, subtle check, and white trainers with bright socks. Glasses on too, probably. My partner and I walked to our local Tube station and stood on the platform. It was crowded; there had been a long gap between trains. The first one pulled in, rammed, and we quickly decided to get the next one, due in a minute. I heaved the red bag back up my shoulder – I am not hench so the straps are prone to slipping off – and held it in position with my right hand, leaning against the wall and half-facing my boyfriend as the passengers tipped out onto the platform. A man came from behind me, from absolutely nowhere, and walked very close to us, pausing for a second to say, with considerable force and venom, a homophobic slur, right in my face, before walking on.
This is not my first time at the rodeo. I did not move, or say anything, neither of us did. Outwardly, you might imagine I didn’t hear him. But my imagination brainstormed possible scenarios at great speed, working out what I would do in each. I won’t list them – if you’ve ever been frightened out of the blue, you will know what they are. Instead, I said absolutely nothing, but I did remove my hand from the strap of the bag and carefully inch it off my shoulder and bunch the bag up slightly, to make it smaller. Then, the next train came and we got on. My boyfriend asked if I was all right and I lied that I was fine.
It’s been a while since something like this has happened to me, but not long enough. The first since I moved areas about three years ago. I’m sure many people have had homophobic intentions and I haven’t noticed; perhaps they’ve even called out but I didn't hear them because of headphones. It’s unfortunate that it happened in my home Tube station, because the one place you need to feel safe is your immediate neighbourhood, but I’ve been attacked on my own street in previous years, and I need to use that station, so I can shrug that off – although, obviously, I now think of the incident every time I’m there.
I have written about this before, but the words themselves don’t hurt me; they’re just vowels and consonants spat out in a particular order. And, as Graham Norton said once when recounting having slurs shouted at him in the street, ‘Who are you telling?’ I know I’m gay, and I’m glad to be gay. But what I find really detestable about events like this is his need to express it, the urge to let me know that he had seen me exactly for who I was and that if he could detect me, so could others, and that I should be frightened. It’s the reminder that I have no power, that a complete stranger can approach me and bark something so repulsive right in my face and I can do absolutely nothing. (The one time I tried to report an incident like this to the police – reluctantly, after a lot of pressure from my Twitter followers – they were hugely unhelpful and made me feel a hundred times worse, so I would never put myself through something like that again.) I have learned, after repeated incidents that now go back decades, not to react, or argue in any way. I have learned not to cry, or even run away. It’s like being chased by a bear; the onus is on you not to do anything that makes yourself more likely to be killed. The homophobe, after all, is just doing what comes naturally. It isn’t always men – the previous two incidents of this nature involved women – but it usually is, and goes a long way to explain my general discomfort around straight men I don’t know very well.
When something like this happens, I go through my usual process. Wondering what the tells were, this time. A full body scan head to foot: outfit; posture; voice; hairstyle; accessories; who I was with; what time I was there. And then I will look at what I have to change to protect myself next time. I will play bad cop with myself – maybe this ‘look’ was a bit much, for example. A car coat, white trainers, blue trousers – not exactly Lady Gaga – but, ah, the red bag. He must’ve spotted the bag. The proverbial red rag in tote form. I got too bold, allowed myself to breathe a little easier. Policing the way people look is on the rise. The culture wars have made gatekeeping and unnecessary hypervigilance of how other people dress and behave a human right. Maniacs acting like bouncers in toilets. People think it’s their duty to challenge, that they have an inalienable right to be bigots in the name of free speech, when all any of us want to do is live our life peacefully and enjoy the same rights and freedoms as anybody else.
I wonder sometimes about the future. I would feel far less safe out of London, where I can slip into crowds, or step into bright lights. There are some items of clothing I won’t take with me when I travel out of the city, and I have learned to modify my behaviour in places with little LGBTQ+ representation. Be smaller, duller. It won’t stop them, though, will it, because the general narrative around queer people now is that we’re creepy, weird, and intent on indoctrinating children. It will happen again, and again, and as I get older it will be less easy to escape them. There is guilt, too. Am I endangering my partner? Will those close to me feel obliged to stand up for me and risk retaliation? My sexuality has become a grenade. I am sometimes puzzled by the idea of being ‘proud’ of anything you can’t choose, like nationality, sexuality, or preferring Beyoncé’s Renaissance album to Cowboy Carter, but I am proud to be a queer author, writing stories about the way we live, good and bad. It’s something I never thought I’d get the opportunity to do. I only hope I don’t one day regret my candour, or my visibility.
I don’t write about these incidents for sympathy, or even to provoke debate. They are merely a reminder, to you, to me, that this stuff is still happening, to seasoned old gay people like me, to our trans and non-binary friends, to people of colour. And it feels to me, whose ear is perhaps closer to the ground than I’d like, that this very vocal, bold bigotry is on the rise. They want to quash people like us – like me – because minorities finding their voice, getting too comfortable, shows others like us that you don’t have to stay hidden, that you can be ‘different’, but happy. And this threatens the bigots’ plans for global domination. Perhaps there is nothing I can do, but be myself, and not go down without a fight. I am not going anywhere.
But I will not use the red bag again.
MORE FROM ME: I reviewed the Guardian Blind Date this week – they were very sweet and are both fans of fizzy water. READ NOW
My fourth novel LEADING MAN is released this week (Thursday). I love this book and I hope you will too. It’s about a 33-year-old gay drama teacher who is used to living in the shadows of his own life until a series of events means he has to take centre stage. It’s a dark comedy and is great. Buy it from your favourite indie retailer, or head to the internet and get it from Bookshop.org, Waterstones, Amazon, Bert’s Books, Foyles, and Lighthouse Bookshop.
Thank you for reading.