Back in the days of yore, the term “fag” may have called up British New Wave cinema where men with wide sideburns and even wider sunglasses held a fag between their thumb and forefinger, exhaling a nicotine offering. Today the term has a different meaning, derogatory in nature, implying men who play only for the men’s team (i.e. homosexuals). “Hag” conjures imagery of an old witch with arthritic knuckles, warts, and a faded dress that could be worn sideways as well as upright.
So when someone referred to me as a “fag hag” during an evening of friendly cocktails, I had to make sure that I didn’t snort my drink through my nose (inadvertently adding to the harsh image of a hag) and really take in the term for all its worth. When you bump the two words together — fag and hag — they make a glaring combination, an awkward term that lives in that dark cave of modern clichés.
My fag hag-dom was at full throttle in the ’80s, when my gay friends had to swim upstream to be accepted. Our rebellious outings looked like an Andy Warhol picture book of hairdo parties and debutante balls, where everyone, straight or gay, had to arrive wearing a dress. Now that we’ve all matured, the hairdo parties have been replaced with salon visits, the flamboyance with discussions on culture, child rearing, and yes, even marriage.
I’ve always loved me my gays, and they love me in return. Our love has not been that of a woman who secretly wishes to be lovers with a gay man, or a man who secretly wishes to be the woman that I am, but a camaraderie of life and its limitless possibilities.
Am I a fag hag?
Labels can be powerful, whether they’re attached to Louis Vuitton handbags or a fag hag. How is it they carry such weight? Check your labels at the door or dispose of them. They are limiting and can create boundaries where the possibilities are endless.
Tags: 1980's, 80's, fag, Fag hag, forty, gay, Gay Marriage, hag, homosexual, middle aged women, over forty, women