“Gay sex life, unlike straight sex life, is never a private matter. When a man and a woman walk hand in hand, it is their love that they make public. When two men walk hand in hand, it is their sex life that they make public… Our words are acts; our privacy is public. This reality stems from the nature of homophobia.”
— Rabbi Steven Greenberg

 

Let’s start here: This isn’t some kind of “Alphabet Mafia” think piece. There are plenty of blogs out there flying that flag and sounding the alarm on every new affront. I write from a different perspective — one rooted in healthcare, loss, and the parts of life that don’t make great soundbites. In healthcare, we’re supposed to treat the whole person — mind, body, soul, history, and identity. That last one often gets neglected.

So let’s talk about the quote above. Because Rabbi Greenberg nailed it.

When a man and a woman walk hand-in-hand, society sees a relationship. Romance. Maybe the future possibility of children, or a mortgage. When two men (or two women) do the same? Suddenly, it’s not about love. It’s about sex. Full stop. That’s not a quirk of the human psyche — that’s homophobia doing exactly what it was designed to do: reduce people down to acts and deny them the right to just exist without commentary.

And let’s be clear — when I refer to the “Alphabet Mafia,” it’s not disrespect. It’s shorthand. I remember when it was just LGBT. Now it’s a full roll call of identities, and that’s fine. Language evolves. But by the time we’ve gotten all the letters out, the point often gets lost. So today, we’re talking plainly.

Let’s go back to the real problem here: people are obsessed with what same-sex couples *do* rather than who they *are*.

I’ve been asked — more times than you’d think — who was “the man” in my relationship. As if gender roles need to be assigned for the dynamic to make sense. As if sex defines a marriage. I assure you, toward the end, ours was more of a business partnership. We coordinated bills, managed responsibilities, and tried to survive. Sound familiar? It should. It’s what a lot of marriages look like, regardless of who’s in them.

I remember once, a well-meaning LDS bishop I worked for pulled me aside and asked — not cruelly, just curiously — “How does it work, when you go home?” I told him: we check the mail, we talk about our day, we discuss bills, and figure out dinner. If we didn’t already have a menu planned. Same as him and his wife, minus the kids.

The only real difference? People see us and immediately think about what we do in bed.

Here’s what I think: most objections to homosexuality are rooted in an inability to get past the idea of sex. Abrahamic religions in particular have an exhausting fixation on gay sex. I don’t know what to tell them — it’s not always that exciting. Good sex happens. Bad sex happens. And just like with straight couples, sometimes it doesn’t happen much at all. But somehow, gay sex is seen as threatening.

Meanwhile, I’ve been grieving the loss of my husband for two years now. I’ve buried him. I’ve cleaned up the messes left behind. I’ve dealt with the trauma. And in all that time, sex wasn’t the thing that defined our relationship. Love, struggle, and partnership were. Just like in any other long-term relationship.

Someone once said to me that gay couples often have more disposable income because we’re not raising kids. I mean, maybe. But not having kids wasn’t some luxury lifestyle choice. It was just our life. You want to raise a family? Great. But let’s not pretend everyone is obligated to populate the Earth.

What matters more — especially in healthcare, and especially in grief — is how people live, how they cope, how they love, and how they *break*. Whether you’re queer or straight, you’re going to experience loss. Pain. Joy. Long stretches of beige-colored normalcy. That’s the human condition.

So if your primary concern with queer people is still what happens in the bedroom, maybe it’s time to ask yourself why that matters so much to you.

Your preoccupation with someone else’s sex life might just be an indication of your *lack* of one.

Be the kind of person your dog and your mom hope you are.