Tag: lgbt

Support Structures

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

As I stand at the cusp of my fifties, I find myself reflecting on the arc of relationships that have shaped me: the people I’ve grown up with, the ones I’ve grown beside, those I’ve grown distant from, and those I continue to grow with. Most of them have been friends, some family, all deeply woven into the fabric of who I am. Because I’ve always loved with the entirety of myself.

For the longest time, I used to be devastated when relationships fell apart. I took every loss as a personal failure—proof that something in me had failed to be worthy of the love I so readily gave. But with time—and a great deal of heartbreak—I’ve come to see it differently. Now I know: I did the best I could. And so did they. No one is to blame. Life simply moved us in different directions.

Last year, I lost a 32-year-old friendship. It hurt, yes. But I don’t regret it. I stood up for who I am, for what I believe in, and I realised that I was not being treated with the respect I offered so freely. I had accepted my friend entirely, even her flaws. But she couldn’t meet me where I was. That wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t even hers. She simply wasn’t equipped to hold what I was bringing to the table.

Today, another moment came—and passed. An altercation with my partner, Anand, someone I’ve spent 25 years of my life with. We’ve seen some truly destructive storms together and somehow, we’ve always found our way back. Today was no different. He left. I felt the ache, but I didn’t crumble. Because here’s what I’ve learned: the things we believe will destroy us rarely do. The will to survive, to mend, to continue, is always stronger.

I saw it in myself. But I saw something younger in my family. As they watched the disagreement unfold, they became emotional, scattered, concerned not just for me but for him as well. That mattered. What is more important t o note: My family stood by not just me, but the man I love. And in that moment, I saw something I never expected to: the social scaffolding we so often deny queer people in this world—support—had quietly, finally, taken shape around me.

Even my other partner, (I am one in a throuple) asked me to call Anand. And I did. Not out of guilt or obligation, but because I knew there had been no malice in me, no cruelty and I wanted their anxiety to abate. What had occurred was a light-hearted joke misread, so I told Anand to come back if he believed in the word I gave him. And he did.

But it’s not just about that trivial argument. What moved me was everyone who stood by me and said: bring him back home. That’s what mattered. That home is not a place—it’s a choice people make, together, for one another.

In this Pride Month, I want to say this: queer relationships are not made of fairy dust and rebellion. They’re made of daily effort, missteps, recovery, repair. And while straight couples often have the privilege of familial support—two clans coming together to protect the sanctity of their union—queer couples are often left to navigate that terrain alone. When something goes wrong, it’s just the two of us, lost in a storm we’re often too young to steer through.

I see that now. At 50, I have an ingrained emotional sustenance I didn’t have in my twenties or thirties. Now I don’t need my family’s support. But standing slightly apart, observing with a kind of fourth-dimensional wisdom, I realise how rare and necessary it is that they choose to give it anyway.

That’s the heart of this. I’ve become my own person. I no longer need people to feel whole. But I choose them. That’s the truest form of intimacy, of maturity: to choose someone not from need, but from selfhood.

And to anyone reading this during Pride Month: remember that queer love thrives not just on passion, but on structure. On support. On society showing up for us the way it so readily does for others. When a queer couple falters, we too deserve a circle that rallies and restores, that says: bring him back home.

Love Languages

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

There’s a peculiar kind of grief in being surrounded by people you love and yet feeling untouched — not emotionally, not intellectually, but physically. For those of us whose love language is physical affection, the need to be held, touched, kissed, cuddled — is not a luxury, it’s a lifeline. Without it, we don’t just feel lonely; we feel withered.

I have always wanted to be held. Not just in fleeting embraces or in transactional foreplay, but in the quiet, steady ways that bodies communicate love — arms around shoulders, limbs entangled in sleep, breath synchronised in the hush of night. I fall asleep best when someone’s hand is atop my body, not in lust but in love. And yet, despite this deep yearning, I find myself in relationships with men who either cannot, or will not, offer that kind of touch.

It’s a cruel mismatch. A man whose language is touch falling in love with men who speak love in acts, or words, or in silence. And when you are six feet tall — tall enough to be imposing — it becomes even harder to fold yourself into someone’s arms and feel held. When the men I love are shorter, smaller, more delicate, they assume I am the one who will wrap them. I must become the blanket, the protector, the pillar. But I ache to collapse into someone too.

So then, there’s how I look. There’s a particular injustice in gay culture — assumptions wrapped in desire. Because I am tall and masculine-presenting, most men assume I’m a “top.” But I am not. Nor am I a “bottom.” I’m a side — someone who doesn’t enjoy penetrative sex but cherishes all the other physical intimacies: the grind, the kiss, the sensuality of skin on skin. And for the longest time, there was no ready vocabulary for all of that. So I get approached by men who want to be topped — who want from me the very thing I don’t find natural to give. They long for the same care and physical affection I do — to be cradled and dominated in a way I cannot perform without a deep dissonance.

And now I find myself in what many might envy or judge — a polyamorous relationship with two men. A throuple. But love doesn’t multiply without friction. One of them is deeply sexual. He identifies as versatile, but prefers anal sex. He tries to meet me halfway, because he loves me. I see that. But still, there is a chasm between my need for slow, non-sexual physicality and his need for release. And try as we might, love doesn’t always stitch the gaps between bodies.

My other partner, meanwhile, doesn’t like touch at all. His love language is acts of service. He’ll run errands for me, cook, fix things, do what needs doing. But in bed, he shrinks from closeness. And it is agonising to be in bed with two men, night after night, and feel untouched. To feel like a satellite in the very centre of love.

People think polyamory solves problems of lack. That if one person can’t give you something, the other will. But life and time touch all forms of love. What if the very thing your soul craves most — to be held, to be touched — becomes absent? And what if the only thing you are left holding is your own longing?

I don’t know if all relationships will end in heartbreak. I hope not. I believe I am loved. And I love them. But love feels incomplete, when your primary language is unheard. When you’re the one always reaching out, and no one ever quite meets your arms halfway.

There’s a wound in this. It bleeds in silence. And it aches most not in rejection, but in the quiet lack of reciprocity. Touch, for some of us, is not foreplay. It is prayer. It is home.

And I wait to be let in.

FRIENDS

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The sitcom Friends has long been celebrated as a cultural touchstone for its humor, iconic characters, and portrayal of friendships in New York City. However, watching it again two decades later, the show reveals some cringe-worthy moments, especially for those of us in the LGBTQ+ community. As a proud and out gay man, it’s hard to ignore the problematic tone the show adopts in several episodes.

One of the most glaring issues is Chandler’s attitude toward his father, who is portrayed as transgender. Instead of accepting or even attempting to understand his father’s identity, Chandler often resorts to jokes and derision, feeding into outdated stereotypes.

Throughout the series, Chandler is frequently mistaken for being gay, and he constantly reacts with exaggerated discomfort or anxiety. This recurring joke plays into the idea that being seen as gay is embarrassing or something to be avoided, which subtly reinforces homophobic attitudes. There’s even a flashback episode where Chandler talks about being afraid of “turning gay” because his parents got divorced. This comment reduces complex personal issues to a baseless fear of homosexuality, implying that being gay is something undesirable or linked to emotional trauma.

This discomfort with LGBTQ+ identities is a recurring theme throughout the series, with many characters expressing unease around gay people, whether through homophobic jokes or dismissive attitudes.

Take, for example, the episode where Ross and Brad Pitt’s character cruelly joke that Rachel is a hermaphrodite. The comment isn’t just off-color; it shows a total disregard for sensitivity and the real-life experiences of intersex individuals. When Carol and Susan get married, the ceremony is treated as a novelty, with some characters expressing awkwardness about attending. Though the show deserves credit for airing a lesbian wedding at a time when this was rarely seen on TV, it was still framed in a way that made the audience feel like it was an oddity.

Similarly, Monica and Chandler’s treatment of their maid—accusing her of stealing Monica’s clothes—feels not only overblown but abusive. The way Monica handles that situation, fueled by her insecurities, highlights a troubling power dynamic.

Joey’s character, known for his womanizing ways, also offers moments of toxic masculinity that now feel outdated. He’s perfectly fine with sleeping around, but when it comes to his sister being pregnant, he can’t handle it. Then there’s the issue of his discomfort with grooming and self-care, reinforcing the stereotype that men who take care of their appearance are somehow less masculine. In one episode, Phoebe even calls Joey a “woman” for grooming himself, though Monica rightfully stands up for him. Similarly, Joey’s comments about men doing their eyebrows being “sissy” is another eye-rolling moment.

Joey often makes offhand comments that imply being gay is something to be avoided, like when he jokingly warns Ross about the dangers of hanging out with his lesbian ex-wife and her partner. He treats the idea of being around gay people as if it’s a threat to his own masculinity. Whenever Chandler or Joey show affection toward each other, it’s often accompanied by homophobic jokes or awkwardness, as if two men expressing close friendship must be shielded by humor to avoid any “gay” connotations.

The show is littered with subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) homophobia. Ross, in particular, stands out in his awkwardness and unease with anything that challenges traditional masculinity. He’s irritated by Sandy, the male nanny, despite Sandy being the perfect caregiver for his child. Rachel defends Sandy, but in the end, he’s still written off because he doesn’t fit into Ross’s heteronormative idea of a nanny. And when they hire a different nanny, Ross’s immediate reaction is sexual—only to find out she’s a lesbian, which Joey, predictably, finds exciting.

There are countless other moments: Mona’s date commenting on Ross’s pink shirt, the ridicule of a gay colleague at Ross’s conference, and the laughter at Ross’s speech when he uses the term “homo erectus.” These are moments that might’ve seemed harmless to straight audiences at the time but are painful and alienating for LGBTQ+ viewers today. Imagine how I felt when these scenes came up when I was struggling to find acceptance in a homophobic society.

In retrospect, Friends often worked for its straight, cisgender audience by reinforcing the norms of the time. But for those of us who see these jokes and storylines through the lens of experience and pride in our identities, the show feels outdated and at times deeply offensive. What was once a comfort watch has become a reminder of the work still needed to challenge and change these ingrained cultural narratives.