MASCULINITY, BRO?

What is it about masculinity and gay men that makes terms like "bro" resonate or repel? Is "bro" just a casual greeting, or does it symbolize deeper insecurities about conforming to heteronormative ideals—promoting division instead of fostering unity? For some, it’s just a word. For others, it's a reminder of painful exclusion.

Recently, I posted a meme about being called "bro" in a gay context. Some people understood the humor, while others found it offensive or overly analytical. The meme was sparked by a line I saw on a gay dating app: “I’m just a guy sitting across from another guy asking him, ‘Is that your beer, bro?’” What does "bro" even mean in this context? It's not just a casual pun from Notting Hill—it speaks to a much larger issue.

The word "bro" carries connotations of fraternity, of brotherhood. Yet for many, it signifies a cultural expectation, a stereotype of masculinity that not all gay men identify with. While some may use "bro" as a natural extension of their upbringing, for others, it evokes negative associations. Personally, I never grew up with "bro" or "bubba," and both carry elitist and negative undertones from my New England upbringing. I’ve never been a “bro,” nor do I want to be.

When I hear gay men using "bro," I’m often confused. My mind goes to the harmful "bros before hoes" culture—the same culture that bullied and assaulted me as a young gay man. "Bro" culture, with its emphasis on power and dominance, reflects a toxic model of masculinity that fosters violence, homophobia, and misogyny. These are the same "bros" who taunted me, who perpetuate rape culture, and who contribute to a patriarchal system based on power over others.

This power-over model is not isolated to heterosexual spaces. It permeates queer culture too, manifesting in behaviors like femme-shaming and the Masc4Masc dynamic, where anything deemed “feminine” is derided. Why do some gay men adopt this "bro" persona? Because it’s often a code for being "straight-acting"—a way to avoid the stigma of being seen as effeminate or weak.

As Jeremy Alexander noted in his HuffPost piece on toxic masculinity, “These men overcompensate for their queerness by embracing ‘bro’ culture, adopting behaviors that they believe make them appear more masculine.” Whether it’s through working out excessively, deepening their voice, or distancing themselves from traditionally “gay” culture, these men are trying to reclaim a sense of masculinity that society tells them they’ve lost by being queer.

A 2009 study on the effects of masculine ideals on gay men found that many are hypervigilant about their appearance and behavior, fearing they will fall short of these imposed standards. This anxiety is often internalized, leading some gay men to police others who don’t conform to these ideals. The pressure to fit into these boxes is immense.

I understand the appeal. I’m often seen as masculine-presenting, and I’ve experienced the privileges that come with that. But my exterior is a defense mechanism built after years of abuse and rejection. I’ve struggled with accepting terms like "bro" or the hyper-masculine language of gay culture because they don’t align with who I am. The fact is, I don’t fit the bro code, despite outward appearances.

The danger in this hyper-masculine culture is that it not only alienates gay men who don’t conform to it, but it also harms those who try to fit into its mold. Some gay men go to extremes—abusing steroids, fetishizing pain, and internalizing a version of masculinity rooted in violence and domination. This search for acceptance often leads to self-destruction.

Ultimately, the ones who suffer most from this dynamic aren’t the straight men who perpetuate bro culture, nor the Masc4Masc gay men trying to fit in. It’s the queer men who don’t conform, who are ridiculed or marginalized for not adhering to this narrow view of masculinity. We, as a community, reinforce toxic messages about masculinity when we shame or exclude others based on outdated power dynamics.

We have a choice. We can either be an inclusive community, or we can perpetuate the same systems of division and exclusion that have historically oppressed us. The world outside already threatens our rights and identities—queer erasure is real. But we don’t need to contribute to our own marginalization by adopting toxic models of masculinity.

Instead, we can embrace a masculinity that is empowering and inclusive. We can reclaim both our manliness and our queerness, celebrating the diversity within our community. Let’s stop using "bro" as a way to fit into a heteronormative box and start creating a space where all expressions of masculinity are welcome. Together, we can redefine what it means to be a man, on our own terms.