from Wayne Koestenbaum, Cleavage (2000) pp. 50-51:
Most straight men I know aren’t entirely straight anymore, or they don’t make a big deal of their straightness. They move with the balletic freedom once the preserve of confident gay men like the legendary dancer Jack Cole. Even men who identify themselves as heterosexual do so less adamantly, and incorporate into their style of physical self-presentation a peacock insouciance — a way of showing neck, abdomen, crotch, forearm — that proves them willing to be looked at, happy to be considered an exhibit. It is no longer possible at quick glance to tell straight and gay men apart, and making this distinction no longer seems the most practical or intellectually defensible exercise. On the subway it is no longer possible to know whether the men who stand, holding the silver bars for support, waiting for their stop, and swaying to the erratic movement of the car, are straight, because their principal rendezvous, as they ride, is not with any particular gender, but is an assignation with sight — the gaze of any voyeur or fellow traveler, male or female, anyone who allows herself the luxury of visual curiosity (does this man know I am looking at him? does he know that he radiates a desire to be looked at?). The men I see on the S train connecting Grand Central and Times Square care to be seen, and they dress with acute consciousness of belly and backside.