In my last blog, I wrote about the running joke that gay men don’t know how to sit properly.

The theory was simple.

Maybe some of us spent so many of our formative years trying not to sit a certain way, move a certain way, talk a certain way, or give too much away, that now our bodies have gone slightly rogue.

We hid the crossed legs.

We softened the wrist.

We lowered the voice.

We monitored the hips.

We edited the laugh.

We tried, consciously or not, to make ourselves less obvious.

Less readable.

Less unsafe.

But I’ve been thinking about the other side of that.

Because the funny thing is, some of the mannerisms we once tried to hide to keep ourselves safe are the same ones we now use to make other people feel safe.

Particularly other queer people.

And, of course, our number one allies in public spaces:

Straight women.

I say this from the very specific point of view of being a six-foot, roughly 95 kilo man with a beard who is, apparently, masc presenting?

Question mark very much intentional.

Because yes, I am aware of how I can look in the world.

Broad.
Bearded.
Gym-built.
Man-shaped.

Not exactly delicate woodland fairy at first glance.

And that means there are moments where I am very aware of the space I take up, especially around women.

Sitting across from a woman on the train.

Walking behind a woman on a quiet street at night.

Standing near someone in a lift.

Existing in public while looking like a man who could technically help move a fridge.

There’s a specific calculation that happens.

Not because I’ve done anything wrong.

Not because she has done anything wrong.

But because we live in a world where women have had to learn to assess men quickly for their own safety.

And honestly, fair.

So sometimes, without even thinking, I make myself readable.

I cross my legs.

I soften my posture.

I let the wrist go a little.

I add a bit of swish to the walk.

Not a full Mardi Gras float.

Just enough.

A tiny public service announcement from my body:

Don’t worry, babe. I’m not the threat.

It’s almost funny.

The very things I may have once tried to suppress because I was scared they would give me away are now the things I sometimes reach for to communicate safety.

A limp wrist as a peace offering.

A crossed leg as a flag.

A little hip movement as community service.

I’m not saying every gay man does this.

I’m not saying all queer people move the same way.

And I’m definitely not saying mannerisms equal sexuality, because that gets messy very quickly and also some straight men are out here with more wrist than the rest of us combined.

But for a lot of us, there is a language in the body.

A way of signalling.

A way of being recognised.

A way of saying, I see you.

Or, I’m safe.

Or, I’m not here to perform whatever version of masculinity usually makes this space feel tense.

Sometimes it’s deliberate.

Sometimes it’s instinct.

Sometimes it’s just the body remembering a code it learned long before the mouth had the confidence to say the words.

And that’s the part I find interesting.

Because growing up, those signals could feel dangerous.

They could make you visible in a way you weren’t ready for.

They could make you a target.

They could invite comments, jokes, looks, questions, or that awful little pause when someone noticed something before you had decided to share it.

So you learned to control them.

Don’t sit like that.

Don’t walk like that.

Don’t move your hands so much.

Don’t sound too excited.

Don’t be too soft.

Don’t be too much.

But adulthood does something strange.

It gives some of those things back.

Not always easily.

Not all at once.

But slowly.

You start letting yourself move the way you move.

You stop correcting every gesture.

You stop treating softness like evidence.

You stop seeing femininity as a weakness you need to hide.

And then, eventually, those same things become useful.

Not just for self-expression, but for connection.

A signal to another queer person across a room.

A way to relax a woman sitting nearby.

A tiny act of resistance against the kind of masculinity that makes everyone else tense.

Because masculinity can be heavy.

It can fill a space.

It can make people brace themselves.

And when you’re someone who looks, at least from the outside, like you might belong to that world, there’s something quietly powerful about choosing not to perform it that way.

About letting the softness show.

About making your body say:

I know what you might assume, but I’m not that.

I think about this when I’m walking behind a woman at night.

There’s always that moment where I wonder if I should slow down, cross the road, make noise, look at my phone, do literally anything to make it clear I am not following her.

And sometimes, yes, the answer is to give space.

Always.

But sometimes, alongside that, my body does the thing.

The hips loosen.

The wrist softens.

The walk becomes a little less “large man behind you” and a little more “gay man trying to get home and mentally reviewing his skincare routine.”

And honestly?

If that helps, even slightly, I’ll take it.

Because I know what it feels like to navigate the world scanning for safety.

Queer people do that too.

We read rooms.

We notice tone.

We assess body language.

We look for signs.

Is this person safe?
Is this space safe?
Can I be myself here?
How much of myself?

So maybe it makes sense that some of us became fluent in subtle signals.

Maybe it makes sense that the body learned to communicate before we did.

Maybe it makes sense that what once felt like a liability can become a language.

The crossed leg.

The loose wrist.

The animated hands.

The softened voice.

The little glance that says, yes, me too.

The tiny shift that says, you’re okay here.

It’s funny, obviously.

There is something deeply amusing about the idea that I, a broad bearded man with gym shoulders, might be using a subtle swish of the hips as a safety credential.

But there’s also something kind of beautiful in it.

Because those mannerisms survived.

Even when we tried to hide them.

Even when we were told they were too much.

Even when we learned to tuck them away.

They stayed.

And now, when we let them out, they don’t just say who we are.

They can say something to other people too.

You’re safe.

I see you.

I’m not performing that kind of masculinity here.

You don’t have to brace yourself around me.

That feels like something worth noticing.

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Maybe the things we were once taught to hide were never really flaws.

Maybe they were signals.

Maybe they were softness.

Maybe they were survival.

And maybe now, when we cross our legs on the train, loosen our wrists, swish our hips down a dark street, or let our bodies move a little more freely, we’re not just reclaiming ourselves.

We’re communicating.

Quietly.

Instinctively.

Gayly.

Which, honestly, feels very efficient.

A safety signal, a personality trait, and a bit of flair.

All in one walk.