'On why every man should wear florals'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 6th January 2016, available here.

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When I was 19 years old, I used to shoot for a popular womenswear boutique in Hawthorn, Melbourne. Every week I would saunter in and photograph the garments for each stocked label. 

It was also the time I bought my first pair of floral denims. They were “girl jeans,” worrisomely thin, and had a waistline so small it could only be fit into after a three-day food-free bender. But when I saw that vibrant print on the racks of the womenswear boutique, I simply had to have them. Gender be damned.

Pictured above are the actual pants on my actual legs. As Rachel Zoe so famously says: I die.

Cue what has become a love affair with floral prints of all kinds. Not just florals: Anything wild and unabashed. And fortunately for decorative menswear lovers such as myself, there are a variety of Australian labels out there stocking some seriously kewl threads.

Jayson Brunsdon’s Spring/Summer ’15 collection showcases intricate attire; glossy suit jackets with delicatedetailing, defying the notion that elegant menswear must be ‘simple’ in design. Jack London’s Summer ’15collection is awash with exquisite and flowery shirts (Mother took me Boxing Day shopping there and casually let the staff know, “he’s obsessed.” Cheers, Mum). And I can’t go past a pair of colourful summer shorts by Franks Australia.

Those floral denims I purchased at 19 years old garnered me much praise the following weekend, as I sashayed them through the city streets. 

Yet at the same time, they earned me some remarks I could have lived without – a slew of slurs by strangers walking past. Many by men. Many homophobic in nature.

Let’s be real. As a gay man, I’m no stranger to homophobic slurs. I’ve worked enough nights to know that dickheads are gonna dickhead, and sometimes it’s best to Just Keep Walking when someone shouts abuse.

But those floral denims made me something of a walking target. People seemed much more willing to depart with hatred while I had flowers on my pants than if I were holding hands with a boy. I stopped wearing my florals out after that, in spite of how much I loved them. 

It really begs the question: What’s the deal with gender roles in fashion? Are there clothes a man mustn’t wear? Where do these judgments about what we put on our bodies come from?

There’s an unspoken gender script in society about how each gender must behave and how they must present to the world. It’s part of a larger unwritten how-to guide on being a ‘real man’ or a ‘real woman.’ 

Flowers are soft and feminine – ergo, only girls can wear floral-print denims.

To be a man is to be masculine, and nothing is more threatening to the social dynamic than a man in a pretty floral shirt. Stick with plain jeans and a tee – or heaven forbid, camo khakis.  

Although we get a hall pass if our shirt is very obviously Hawaiian. Because it’s summer, bro, sweet threads, let’s go to the beach. 

Anyone who diverts from the preconceived social script is asking to be shamed, or – gasp – labelled a homosexual. My attempts to express individual style were met with aversion and disgust. Hell, it’s even considered alternative for men to take a mere interest in fashion. Them’s the rules, kids. No messing with tradition. 

I’d like to be the first – and hopefully not the last – to say, fuck that. 

If I’ve got the pins to rock a pair of floral jeans, then my God, I’m gonna show them off. I’m gonna wrap myself in Jack London shirts and rose-printed short-shorts until I look like a damn Christmas tree. 

I’m thankful for the fashion icons of Instagram, for donning eclectic styles that make it easier for the rest of us to don our floral denims. You kids keep me young (and pretty), I love you so much.

Every man should wear florals – or whatever makes them feel good. Defy the social script and throw on what you love.

And all of the slurring shouters, the poorly dressed macho bros yelling comments from their cars can go screw themselves. Screw themselves in their tacky camo khakis.

'How I learned to love myself (a week before my nose job)'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 1st of December 2015, available here.

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It’s been the law of the land in fashion and entertainment for decades: for a woman to be deemed valuable and appealing, she has to fit a size two and resemble a Victoria’s Secret model. This notion sends the message that sample size is king – or queen – and self-love comes from bodily and facial perfection. 

But in recent times, A-list celebs and other influencers are flipping off the social script and killing it with talent, regardless of Hollywood glamour laws. 

Adele is one of the most successful musicians in the working world, and gives zero fucks for your perception of her weight. Amy Schumer regularly gabs during her sell-out shows about how media magnates criticise her body type. (She also looks absolutely killer in this year’sPirelli calendar.) Rebel Wilson will smash a burger and then the box office with her roles in various comedies. 

These are women finding success in the face of what society tells them. Yet despite these individuals crushing societal expectations, there’s still pressure to look flawless. We’re still being covertly convinced to acquire perfection – and the end results on your self-esteem can be crushing. 

I’m about five foot eleven weighing in at fifty-eight kilos, with a bump on my half-Greek nose and a receded jawline. I’ve been described as ‘lanky’, ‘waifish’, ‘alien-like’ and ‘dangerously thin’. No matter what I do, I can’t put on any damn weight. A girl might find that kind of look appealing; that might even be her goal. 

But for a guy, that ain’t right. Us dudes have to be muscular, fit and powerful. We’ve got to be strong-jawed, clean cut and suited up with stylistic flair like a Jack London model. 

I remember when I’d go out to gay clubs; I’d look around at some of the guys, stare up at how beautiful they were - and feel angry. I’d be physically vibrating with rage that I couldn’t look like them. I would stand around, grimace, cast prejudgements galore and wallow in my misery.

And I remember when it drove me to seek surgery. 

I wanted to get my nose hacked off and my jaw reconstructed. If I couldn’t be born with a strong, sleek jaw like a model, then God damn, I was going to build one for myself. When the surgeon said ‘We can take the bump off your nose, too,’ I was emotionally available in a way my ex-dates never were.

After so many years of hating my own face, I was gonna have my time. I was gonna look fantastic. All of those gorgeous guys? The ones who would probably never even look at me, let alone strike up a chat? They were gonna regret never giving me a second glance. And obviously I would win a modelling contract, because I would be just that fab.

And I remember when I changed my mind entirely. 

Because I realised something that, if you’d asked me years ago, I would have found strange and terrifying.

I kind of liked my bumped nose.

It belongs to me. It’s one of the many unique qualities that make me who I am. Why would I ever want to get rid of it? Why can’t I be proud of it? Why would I ever want to change myself just to fit a mould? Why was it so damn important?

The answer was: It wasn’t.

So I cancelled the surgery it took me years to plan, a week before it was due.

The media is changing and bending to the will of a new culture of people who are happy with their bodies and their faces. Young girls and guys are aspiring to new icons, who bravely fend off criticism and loudly disparage our culture that actively inspires self-hate. 

But in spite of all these uplifting developments, it’s still hard to ignore the stabs of envy when you see a babe in an advertorial. It’s rough to glance at a magazine advert or a dude in a club and think you’ll never look like that. Or he’ll never look at you. Or if you just had a bit more money, you could go under the knife and change your life.

So if you’re grappling with self-hate, or fighting off jealousy, this is my message to you.

All of those physical features – the jaw you hate, the nose you despise, the wide shoulders or hips you resent – are yours. They’re how you are recognised. They’re your heritage.

They’re gifts, and they belong to you.

'You're more than just a bicep!'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, on September 2nd 2015, available here.

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We are a community that, in so many ways, takes pride in our physically attractive members and our conventionally gorgeous gay boys. We do so at the exclusion of a lot of other elements.

And I have to ask – why?

Why does the gay community celebrate people simply for being attractive?

Why is it that, when I open certain gay websites, I’m confronted by articles titled with shit like “The ten most attractive dudes on Instagram”? Or, “Five straight footballers who look good without a shirt on”? Why is this considered newsworthy? Why are these stories taking over?

Marketing campaigns for gay nightclubs are awash with images of nearly naked attractive men, showcasing ripped physiques and chiselled jawlines. The target market for these soirees seems to be every homosexual with a self-esteem problem, as all of the photographs documenting these nights are of the most physically appealing individuals you can find. They’re of the most subjectively ‘gorgeous’ characters – and these are dubbed the ‘elite’ gays, and the ‘alpha’ homos.

I should point out that I am a photographer by trade, and have primarily worked in nightlife and events for the past five years. I know what the purpose of this type of marketing is, because as part of my various briefs, I have been asked to fulfil this style in the past. I have explicitly excluded unattractive patrons from my photographs, and have gone out of my way to document the most aesthetically appealing individuals at an event. Because a client wants their brand to reflect a certain image, and they want to market themselves with a specific style.

Which would be all good and well, if it didn’t seem like this kind of attractiveness-is-key advertising was seeping out from the homo nightclubs – and into our big gay media.

Articles putting hot dudes on pedestals are absolutely everywhere. Every day, there’s a new journalistic dive into What Straight Guy Has The Best Ass? Here’s That Z-List Celeb You MUST Follow (For His Abs!), and Guy Minding His Own Business Loses His Pants “AND WE ARE HOT FOR HIM!”

And sure. Some of us probably are hot for him.

But people are starting to take notice of this vapid excuse for marketing and journalism. People are starting to see it for the empty and vacuous thirst-fodder that it is, and growing steadily disheartened. I’ve started making a conscious effort to check the comments section every time another of these articles pops up, and it’s becoming awfully predictable. “Is this what you call journalistic integrity?” one might cry, or “Another article praising a hot dude for looking hot” sighs another.

This is now becoming a concerning facet of the community that threatens to erode the depth of our collective journey. Whether it’s as individuals with extraordinary stories, or as survivors battling through in spite of homophobic opposition, our story is being quietly tucked away behind a giant framed photograph of Nick Jonas’ abs.

I should also point out at this point that I have no issue at all with gay men expressing their sexuality, and I am the furthest thing from a sex-negative prude. If it were up to me, we would all be semi-naked in a nightclub, gyrating upon one another in our underwear, and making out on Mardi Gras floats. I respect and adore public expressions of gay sexuality, as so often it is used as a tool to shun the systemic oppression that has silenced us and rendered us invisible.

What I take issue with is that so much of this looks-oriented digital and print marketing does a disservice, not only to the individuals being adored for their looks, but to the community as a whole, and represents a shallow decline in the integrity of our community.

“Stop celebrating people simply for being attractive. Start celebrating them for their intellect and accomplishments; for being clever, for being unique, for being kind.”

There is one very good reason why we should be fighting this descent into superficiality:

Because we’re worth more.

Because our young people – the consumers of our media and the harbingers of our future – need to be shown that their value is greater than the width of their biceps. That their worth is not directly tied into the proportions of their face and body, but based on the strength of their characters, their kindness, their generosity, and the thoughts that they put out into the world.

We must communicate to them that we are not Neanderthals, where physical power and aesthetic visage is of the utmost importance. We represent so much more than mere mass and good looks, and we are capable of vast oceans more than commercialised thirst.

And if there are physical characteristics worth being appreciated for, it’s that which your parents and your families gave you. Every line, spot and curve that is yours and yours alone, which the tabloid media dictates are not worth having love for. All because you do not resemble the image of a beautiful man in a gay magazine.

Gay people are just as impressionable as straights, and at the same mercy of junk food news and marketing. When a young boy sees an image of an attractive person being glorified based simply on how they look, what it tells them is: You’re not good enough. You will never be good enough, unless you look like this.

That can have an incredibly destructive effect on someone’s self-worth.

And that, to me, is not good enough.

We should strive to break the mould of making icons out of abs, and broadcasting these individuals as the ideal, the infinitely desirable, based purely on their looks.

Stop celebrating people simply for being attractive. Start celebrating them for their intellect and accomplishments; for being clever, for being unique, for being kind.

Because you are more than just a bicep, or a pretty face in a gay magazine.

Be exactly who you are.

Recently I participated in an evening show on one of Australia's most popular community radio stations. The reason I was a guest was because I am oftentimes given the label of a gay community stereotype, one I do not personally identify with.

I am labelled a twink.

A twink is a feminine, flamboyant young homosexual man, whom dainties about and throws caution to the wind as he chugs his vodka cruisers, smokes like a chimney and parties to Beyonce like no other. He is thin, hairless and prone to high-pitched squealing, and he can often be found at loud nightclubs, dancing it up with other members of his subculture.

I am given this label because I am, to many, a slender party boy. This is not something I asked to be called, and it is not something I identify with. Primarily because oftentimes the reaction by many when accosted by a twink, is amusement and distaste, though that is based primarily on my own personal experience.

People oftentimes choose to identify with a label - indeed, in a recent study published by the Australian Research Centre for Sexual Health and Society, it was found that, of 1,000 gay men between the ages of 18 and 39, asked whether they identify with a label, 20% identified with 'twink', compared to 9% who identified as a 'cub' - because it provides them a greater sense of community. They feel at home with those among them, and whether or not they actively seek twink counterparts - which I don't personally feel is the case - it helps to know that there is a group that they fit in with.

It is interesting to note that while 20% of the participants identified as twinks, and only 9% identified as cubs, that cubs were more likely to be organised as a group through meetings. That they were more likely to congregate and form friendships. And you know that it's the norm. There are no 'twink bars' that I know of, but bear and cub haunts aplenty. Entire bars filled with a certain determined 'type' of homosexual man, catering to their subculture. So, from that, you could assume that although twinks may potentially occupy a larger spectrum of the gay 'community', they lack that sense of community itself. That sense of belonging.

It runs right back through to high school notions of cliques and wanting to feel like you belong. There's quintessential sociology and psychology at work. Knowing this, and knowing it's a perfectly normal characteristic of human beings - why don't I fit in with the facet of the community I am perceived to belong to? Why don't I try to fit in?

Maybe it's because I don't appreciate being pigeonholed. I don't want people to make assumptions about my personality. I have gone on dates with men who, within the span of our meeting, have come to the actual conclusion that I am vacuous and airheaded, purely because of my body type, because of the subculture I appear to belong to. I quote, "You're such an airhead twink". I've been told this within minutes, to my very face. Like I'm meant to agree, and falter into a giggling fit. Oh god, you're right! I'm so silly.

Which is why, when put on the panel for the radio show, I was bizarrely confronted when I realised that my detest towards this label might, in fact, be part of a problem. A problem that I have.

I might hate labels, but I'm sure as hell ready to label others.

Nobody wants to be seen as anything other than the convoluted, unique individual that they are. Yet, in the spirit of attempting to belong, we assign ourselves labels - some less so than others, as 56% of the participants in the above study did not self-identify with a label - and we succumb to the merciless stereotyping committed by others, others in our own community.

"I don't want to be that person, because that person is seen as gross. That person is vacuous and childlike and reckless and embarrassing to be around. I don't want to be that person, and I don't want you to view me as that person, because that person is a flicker of a human being, a mould of someone who was once flesh and bone. Don't make me into a type."

Yet, in the same breath that we utter these words, we create an image. And when we look around at the people surrounding us, we start to see that same image. We notice the same trends viewed of us by others. When I go out to a gay nightclub, I see the slender arms and the flouncing stride, the characteristics of a stereotype, and suddenly, I'm perturbed, I'm embarrassed, I'm revolted.

Maybe not revolted, but you get my gist.

Look at that little twink. What a laugh. What a joke. I'm nothing like him.

I should point out at this point that I think it's perfectly acceptable for friends to bandy about terms and assign each other stereotypes amongst themselves - in the spirit of a joke, of playful camaraderie and jest. Because you know the person you're talking to. You recognise their intricacies and their uniqueness and the complexity of their mind. You see them; who they are. Not a stereotype.

One of the hosts on the radio show asked me a question based upon a finding from the study; that many gay men who did not self-identify with a label were found to feel less positive about being gay. That many of them were found to have less self-worth. He asked me, in a tone so casual that it could have been the drunken banter sprawled out across a bar along with a bottle of vino - and I'm paraphrasing here - do you feel like you hate yourself because of your sexuality?

What a question.

Is the reason why I choose not to self-identify because, on some level I hate myself, and am ashamed of being gay? Is it because I don't want to fit in with the cliques and the stereotypes, said cliques and stereotypes I dole out unto others as though those others are not walking, talking, three-dimensional, convoluted and too-often-misunderstood human beings? The same complicated meat sacks of firing synapses and original thoughts who suffer the same derogatory dalliances with other people presuming their personalities that I do? Was I once alienated, and in turn began to alienate others?

I didn't think much of it at the time - we were all laughter and jokes and intelligent discussion, and it certainly wasn't a question posed in any negative spirit at all - but later, as I wandered the city streets on my way home from the station, I started to really think on what I'd been asked.

And then I remembered when I nearly went under the knife to change the way my face looks. To get my nose hacked off and my jaw realigned. Because when I looked at strangers in the dark of a nightclub, who looked something close to the picture perfect homosexual man, it made me angry, and sad, and yearning. Because I thought about how they might not want to ever know me, just because of the way I looked. Because I wanted too badly to "fit in" - to be seen as attractive to strangers who don't even know my name yet, let alone my story.

And I remembered when I changed my mind entirely. When I cancelled my surgery, one I'd been planning for years, the week before it was due. Because I didn't want to be the person who tried to assimilate into a culture which pulls in and isolates and estranges one another based on their physical characteristics. Because I wanted to be the person who values every single person for their unique characteristics - for the parts that make them interesting. Fascinating. Wonderful. On the surface, and within.

How strange, then: the very concept of sitting in a radio station, speaking into a microphone on Australia's most popular community radio show, considering all of my past experiences, passively deriding homosexual men for prejudging me over my looks, while at the same time going to every effort to distance myself from the very stereotype I've tried so hard to insist does not befit me, casting that stereotype upon faceless characters in the dark of a nightclub.

I guess this kind of thing takes time.

Jimmy at the bar is studying law. He's got his whole life ahead of him, just like his mother always told him, and he knows where he wants to end up. He likes video games, playing with his dog, hanging with his friends, and the smell that wafted in from the trees outside his childhood bedroom window after a storm. When he was sixteen, he came out to his parents. His mother was fine with it - you know it's a dangerous life, Jimmy, it's a dangerous life, but I love you, and I'll protect you - but his Dad gave him one hard look in the eye, then walked out the door. When he came home, he took all of Jimmy's video games, and threw them out his bedroom window. With the trees and the scent of rain on the air.

Later that week, Jimmy moved out, with some friends in a sharehouse. He's a little too young, but he's trying, and because if there's one thing he knows, it's that he's got his whole life ahead of him. Just like his mother always told him. I'm sorry, Dad, I'm sorry you never got the football-playing ladies' man that you always wanted. I'm sorry we couldn't work out together. I'm sorry we couldn't kick the pig skin, or whatever. I'm sorry I'll never have a wife. I'm sorry I never got the chance to develop a taste for beer with you, because you could never accept me for who I am. I'm sorry I've got bigger dreams than whatever broken ones you've flayed out on the floor, that you keep trodding on, trodding, trodding, trodding, trodding, trodding...

Jimmy at the bar is studying law. And you're rolling your eyes and clenching your teeth because he's skinny, because he's small, because he's feminine. Because he's not what you want to be. Because he's not what you think a gay man should be. Because you think you know him. Because you think he's not worth knowing.

And that's a tragedy. Not for them - for you.




I won't be self-identifying as a twink any time soon. I'll call out any motherfucker who wants to typecast me as an airhead, all because I'm thin, and I'll refuse to allow anyone to view me as anything other than clever, brilliant and three-dimensional, irregardless of my size.

But the next time I'm out at a nightclub, and I see before me, a slender and dishevelled, flouncing dancing queen: I'm going to take another look. Refrain from clenching my teeth.

We have been conditioned towards treasuring masculinity and demonising femininity in gay men. It's something many of us have tried hard to avoid, but inevitably collapses out of our rears at the unlikeliest of times, just when we think we've unlearned it. We have been also conditioned into stereotyping others, and placing them in categories. This is both a blessing and a curse - and unfortunately for some, has a habit of somehow determining their perceived worth.

But you can't ever be held to someone else's standard of beauty. You are better than a body or a type, and you are worth so much more. After all, are we not an incredibly diverse community, awash with colourful characters and whimsical personalities and beautiful stories and shared struggles? I'd like to think so.

Be exactly who you are. Because you are beautiful. Everything that makes you, you. I won't judge you.

This was for every person who has ever felt like they weren't good enough, or fit enough, or lean enough, or muscular enough, or attractive enough, to fit into this community. This was for every person who has ever felt like they were not worth knowing because of the way that they look.

This was for you.