Times have changed. Gone are the days when the sound of swinging keys meant a carabiner-clad lesbian was near—instead, it might be the keys of a mustached straight male Brooklynite. These days, you never know; the hyper-feminine girl with a long set of acrylics might just be the queerest person in the room (or on TikTok). With most queer interactions now happening online and queer aesthetics becoming increasingly mainstream thanks to social media, how does gaydar function for a new generation?
Gaydar, the cultural phenomenon used by queer folks for generations to identify the queer people they encounter, relies on physical queues—clothing choices, makeup, hairstyles, the way someone walks, the sound of someone’s voice, and eye contact. When applied to the virtual queer world, it faces unique challenges. For sociologist Bernadette Barton, a professor at Morehead State University who has spent time researching the functions of gaydar, the online space has many positive effects on young queer people. “Digital space is super important for sexual and gender minorities and coming out and finding resources and having a sense of belonging,” Barton told GO. “You can just join a group that’s like ‘black trans masculine people’, and you’re going to be surrounded by queer people. So it sort of eliminates the need for gaydar in that way,” Barton added.
However, Barton remarks that something important is lost when gaydar is no longer necessary. “You miss out on like two-thirds of gaydar by being only digital,” said Barton. “We’re missing out on a kind of a really important connection with one another, and the kinds of communities that happen when you’re with somebody in person versus just digitally.”
While gaydar is often referred to as a joke, it has historically functioned in important ways for the queer community. For years, queerness had to be hidden and only signaled to those within the community using codes such as the Hanky Code or coded questions like, “Are you a friend of Dorothy?” The knowledge of these signals and a finely tuned gaydar allowed queer people to find one another in otherwise hostile times. “The more oppression, the more domination, the more discrimination, the more important it is to have a finely tuned gaydar,” said Barton.
These signals are no longer only available to the queer community though. With over 63% of the world’s population on social media, people have more access than ever to the inner workings of previously underground subcultural practices. So, when an aesthetic choice to signal lesbianism, such as dressing masculine, becomes a trendy aesthetic on TikTok, the waters are muddied for gaydar users.
Some queer people on TikTok have started noticing this trend, one writing, “Since when did straight girls start wearing outfits like this that would normally set off my gaydar.” Other users have started trying to create new ways to signal queerness that don’t interfere with their aesthetic preferences—rainbow necklaces, queer stickers on a phone case, queer-themed tattoos, and name-dropping queer artists have all been suggested as potential symbols of queerness.
But what does it mean when queer artists stop existing solely in queer spaces? What happens when Chappell Roan’s anthem of queer longing “Good Luck, Babe!” trends on TikTok are used by queer and straight fans alike? What happens when queer supergroup Boygenius become Grammy winners and perform on Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour stage? While queer media becoming mainstream allows for representation to soar, it also allows for the queerness to be ignored or taken completely out of the context of the art.
A similar phenomenon occurs when queer aesthetic choices become trendy and widespread. For Barton, the accessibility of so many historically queer aesthetics online has led young people to adopt looks as costumes instead of expressions of their truest selves. At this year’s Kentucky Pride, Barton recalls seeing the varying array of aesthetic expressions that for her, “felt flat.” For Barton, these expressions were without “the embodied experience of being a person who endures this and experiences this, versus someone who’s playing with this idea, maybe this is who I am, it wasn’t lived out this fully.”
One such identity that has historically been signaled through clothing is the masc or butch lesbian. However, the stereotypical butch look was always deeply tied to a personal deconstruction of traditional gender conventions and was often tied to working-class lived experience. Now, searching “masc” or “butch” on TikTok yields an interesting mix of thirst traps, discourse about the so-called ‘masc-shortage’ and numerous style tips. These videos offer important tips for those looking to present their gender through outward appearance but also provide a guidebook for those looking to simply try on and then take off a masculine aesthetic. Users on the app write about “one day just deciding to become masc” and another posts a series of “trying to turn myself into a masc.” While it may confuse traditional gaydar triggers, in the realm of social media, one doesn’t need to deconstruct their own gender or evaluate their sexuality to wear a stereotypically masc outfit. Is this a sign of a generational disregard for gender expectations or just a reflection of a social media generation’s need for the cultivation of exciting new aesthetic trends to follow?
Whatever it may be, young queer people yearn to find one another and create community as can be seen in the virtual queer world. So, whether it be an engraved carabiner, a lesbian flag tattoo, or a new coded question, in this moment when community will become vital, Gen Z must discover what signals will set off their gaydar.