There’s this peculiar phenomenon in queer spaces that I’ve come to call ‘the gay cold shoulder’ – that icy, razor-sharp, side-eye moment where we look at another gay man and silently say “who does she think she is?!”
It’s a defence mechanism so refined, it could win olympic gold in psychological gymnastics.
I remember a time, last year, when I experienced this masterclass in missed connection first hand during a night out with my friends; straight mates, queer friends, hes, shes and theys.
Two new gay guys had joined our extended friendship group – friends of friends who I hadn’t met before. And from the moment they arrived at the club, it was like watching an intricate dance of avoidance.
They stood at the periphery of our group, and I’ll be brutally honest – I gave them the gay cold shoulder as much as they gave it to me. Not a smile, not a nod, not even the courtesy of a casual introduction from either of us. Weird right? But not as uncommon as you might think.
But here’s the thing about the gay cold shoulder: it’s never really about attitude, unfriendliness, bitchiness or unkindness.
It’s about fear. Fear of rejection and fear of not being good enough.
Deep down, we were desperate to connect. We all are! We wanted to be seen and to belong. I wanted to make them feel welcome, genuinely. I am an extremely warm and friendly human.
But neither of us had the courage to be the first to crack, to risk potential rejection, to be vulnerable or put ourselves on the line.
It’s a tale as old as time in the queer community – we who have experienced marginalisation, who know intimately what it feels like to be an outsider, somehow become the very architects of the exclusion that has hurt us.
We build intricate walls and make masks that scream “I’m fabulous, unbothered, completely fine” when what we’re feeling inside is “Please see me. Please include me. Please connect with me. Please accept me!”
As the night progressed, I watched these two guys (and myself). They were charming, funny, attractive – I could see snippets of conversation, moments of wit, flashes of fun.
But we remained disconnected from each other, floating around each other like little gay icicles on a freezing cold pond. Such a shame.
It wasn’t until the end of the night, as I sat on the bus on the way home, that the utter absurdity of our mutual coldness hit me.
Here we were, three gay men on a night out, with friends and fabulous music, filled with potential connection and delight…
And we chose isolation over connection.
In that moment, I made a decision…
The next time – and there would be a next time – I promised I would be the gay I want to see in the world.
What does that mean?
It means breaking the cycle of conditional belonging.
It means understanding that every queer interaction is an opportunity to create community and kindness. We don’t all have to be best friends of course, but we certainly don’t have to act like we hate each other!
It means recognising that our shared experiences of marginalisation can unite us, not divide us.
The gay cold shoulder is a protective mechanism born from years of hurt and isolation, of not feeling good enough, of anticipating rejection before it happens. But connection requires risk.
Personally, I’m done with that narrative. I want to be the guy that opens with warmth, who opens portals of potential, who extends a hand and heart of kindness and connection and inspires others to do the same. It’s not easy, I’ll be honest. Everyday I discover new challenges on that journey. But I am devoted it.
Since that night, I’ve been gently rewiring how I show up around queer people — especially other gay men. It’s shaped everything I do now, from my writing and social content, to my work as a therapist and facilitator, to the sober, sensual dance space I’ve created for GBTQ men called ‘Pleasure Medicine’.
To those two guys from that night – consider this my retroactive olive branch. And to every queer person reading this: Be brave. Break the ice. Create the community you wish existed.
Because the world doesn’t need more perfectly curated queer coldness. It needs warmth. It needs authenticity. It needs us to show up, exactly as we are and to lift each other up.
It needs us to Be The Gays We Want To See In The World.
Gary Albert is an award-winning music maker/performer, conscious DJ, writer and creator of Pleasure Medicine — a fortnightly evening of sensual connection and conscious dance for GBTQ men in Hackney, East London.
With over a decade of experience as a therapist, and currently training as a Somatic Embodied Sexologist, Gary is devoted to helping queer men unlock their pleasure centres, soften shame, and rediscover joy, intimacy and sensuality through embodied dance and celebratory sexuality.
Instagram: @_garyalbert_ & @pleasuremedicinedance
Website: www.pleasuremedicine.co.uk
