“My Guy Pretty Like A Girl”: How 21st Century Queer Men Are Changing the Hip-Hop Space

Nomun-Erdene Surkhiisaikhan

Read the Faculty Introduction.

Abstract

Since its formation as a Black cultural movement in the late 1980s, hip-hop has quickly emerged as one of the most prominent artistic spheres that has influenced popular culture across the world. However, as hip-hop has gained mainstream success, it has simultaneously affirmed hypermasculine and homophobic messages that undermine its emancipatory potential. This paper argues that a radical rethinking of hip-hop is necessary to challenge and subvert these dominant ideologies, emphasizing the importance of a ‘quare’ lens that acknowledges and uplifts the experiences and perspectives of queer Black artists in hip-hop. Later sections will introduce the works of Frank Ocean and Lil Nas X who are being considered trailblazers in the rap industry for the ways they challenge traditional notions of masculinity and heteronormativity in the hip-hop sphere.

Keywords: hip-hop, hypermasculinity, gender studies, quare theory, Frank Ocean, Lil Nas X

In the summer of 2021, controversy surrounding hip-hop artist DaBaby took social media by storm. The rapper’s homophobic rhetoric at Miami’s Rolling Loud music festival quickly enraged spectators and commenters when he said, “If you didn’t show up today with HIV/AIDS, or any of them deadly sexually transmitted diseases that’ll make you die in two or three weeks, then put your cell phone light up. … Fellas, if you ain’t sucking dick in the parking lot, put your cell phone light up” (Johnson). His remarks prompted the industry to respond by canceling his upcoming gigs and making public statements against him. At the same time, a significant number of influential hip-hop artists like Tory Lanez and T.I. came forward to DaBaby’s defense by asserting that he is simply “living his truth” (Johnson).

With its innate defiance of social stigmas and unapologetic critiques of institutionalized oppression, hip-hop¹ seems like an ideal space for marginalized queer expression to thrive. Yet, those who have already claimed success in the genre seem reluctant to welcome queer artists. This unwillingness of many in many in the rap community to accept new artists — especially those who don’t conform to traditional norms of hip-hop — is an established pattern. Female rappers as old-school as Queen Latifah and as new as Cardi B have fought tooth and nail to be respected and treated as real and noteworthy artists in a field saturated with patriarchal worldviews (Brown).

Scholarly and journalistic literature surrounding hip-hop has repeatedly revealed the industry’s hypermasculine and misogynist beliefs. Such norms not only affect how the audience perceives patriarchal power dimensions but extend to queerphobic attitudes that marginalize and discredit the LGBTQ+ community. There seems to be a light at the end of the tunnel; with the growing awareness of sexual and gender fluidity in recent years, queer artists such as Frank Ocean and Lil Nas X are paving a new way forward in hip-hop — as a distinct musical genre as well as the culture that surrounds it — by defying patriarchal gender norms and inspiring others to be more comfortable with self-expression. DaBaby’s insensitive comments serve as a stark contrast to what Frank Ocean and Lil Nas X are striving for within the industry, highlighting hip-hop’s struggle to reconcile the imperatives of authentic Black masculinity with what it means to be queer. As a new generation of queer rappers increasingly claims success and visibility, it demands us to critically engage in conversations regarding persistent hypermasculinity and queerphobia that diminishes the spirit of Black creativity.

Contextualizing Hip-Hop through the ‘Quare’ Theory Lens

Hip-hop’s emergence can be dated back to the surge of socially conscious music in the late 1980s that reflected the ideologies of Black radicalism from the late 1960s and 70s (Rashid 344). As it evolved into “an intergenerational movement around crafting solutions which were artistic, organizational, and institutional” (Rashid 344), it is important to acknowledge hip-hop for what it is — an African-American cultural movement — rather than a conventional music genre without social or political connotations. In many ways, hip-hop arose as a platform for social criticism, explicitly confronting white hegemony and shedding light on the lived experiences of marginalized communities.

In particular, hip-hop lyrics strongly resonate with and influence African-American audiences as many young Black men construct and shape their own identities around hip-hop culture (Jamison 58). As Alabama A&M University professor Melvin L. Williams put it, there is an “inherent connection between Rap lyrics, the performers and its listeners” (4) founded on the common understanding that hip-hop is a form of cultural resistance. Self-determination is a critical facet of hip-hop; Black Americans finally found an outlet to define, name, and speak for themselves, instead of being defined, named, and spoken for by others (Rashid 345). Thus, artists of this music genre pursue projects that more or less reflect their positionality, touching on their intersectional experiences.

It then follows that analyzing queer expression through the ‘quare’ lens becomes imperative in realizing the connection between social communities and the relevant music genres that arise from their culture. Coined by African-American studies scholar E. Patrick Johnson, this subset of queer theory focuses on the intersectionality of LGBTQ+ people of color and addresses the problem of conventional queer theory that portrays all queer people as one monolithic group. While acknowledging its contribution in critically interrogating notions of heteronormativity, Johnson notes that much of queer theory is “unable to accommodate the issues faced by lesbian, bisexual, gay, and transgendered people who come from ‘raced’ communities” (3). He further suggests that quare theory must be extended beyond academic discourse to improve the political realities of communities of color through a sustained critique of oppressive systems, alluding to its “bi-directional nature” (19): between theory and practice, between empowerment and self-reflection.

By allowing for the deliberation of other identity factors such as class, gender, and racial differences among queer individuals, quare theory furthers the discourse on how queerness in hip-hop challenges the political, economic, and historical power structures that reinforce Black heteronormative hypermasculinity. Feminist scholar bell hooks in her book Yearning writes about the possibility of marginality as a space for the production of radical and transformative discourse, “a space of resistance” (149) where Black people can freely confront and critique the issues of racial domination. This paper seeks to construct hip-hop as such a space and to invoke Johnson’s proposal to apply quare theory to address oppression within the margin. Although hip-hop has emerged as a prominent field for portraying black experiences, its loyalty to patriarchal narratives has led to the perpetuation of hypermasculine depictions of Black men. As hooks aptly puts it, “Black liberation struggle must be re-visioned so that it is no longer equated with maleness” (64).

In hip-hop, popular artists repeatedly evoke sexist and homophobic sentiments in their music to maintain their masculine narratives, resulting in the discrimination and further marginalization of queer people in society. As Temple University professor Marc Lamont Hill affirms, predominantly heterosexual attitudes are prevalent in all music genres, but “rap music operate[s] as one of the most prominent and accessible sites for transmitting antigay beliefs and values” (32). Even at the height of the political rap era in the 1980s and 90s, progressive hip-hop artists such as Public Enemy, X-Clan, Paris, and Sista Soulja were strongly influenced by “radical Afrocentric, Black Islamic, and crude Black Nationalist ideologies” (Hill 33) that were explicitly hostile to queer identities.

Employing quare theory in understanding hip-hop allows for a more in-depth reading of contemporary queer expressions that have changed the trajectory of traditional hip-hop. As previously mentioned, hip-hop is not simply a stylistic element in music but has expanded into a culture with its distinct characteristics where individuals are able to familiarize or potentially identify themselves with artists and songs. Precisely because hip-hop is such an influential music genre, it is important to understand the political and social effects of how it portrays or creates space for queer identities.

The Trajectory of Hypermasculinity and Homophobia in Hip-Hop

While acknowledging the emancipatory power of hip-hop in how it has created means for the Black community to possess agency over their narratives and confront racial injustices, it is indisputable that mainstream hip-hop has reinforced patriarchal norms of masculinity. What is most troubling is that these ideals stem from Euro-American conceptions — that is, to be a man is to have power — that wouldn’t have crystallized among Black societies if it weren’t for slavery and colonization. As feminist scholar bell hooks wrote in her book We Real Cool, “The gender politics of slavery and white-supremacist domination of free black men was the school where black men from different African tribes, with different languages and value systems, learned in the ‘new world,’ patriarchal masculinity” (2). Thus, in order to be considered “real men,” Black men conformed to the gender norms conceived by Western worldviews while trying to resist the politics of domination. The problem with hip-hop is not that it diverges sharply from conventional normative standards, but that it aligns too closely with patriarchal values — namely, the norming or exclusion of femininity, as well as the objectification, devaluation, and commodification of women. Moreover, as LGBTQ+ individuals, particularly gay men, are stereotypically associated with femininity, discriminations against such communities are intrinsically related to gender norms that favor men over women. Through employing homophobic and misogynistic attitudes and lyrics, many hip-hop artists assert their social superiority, a phenomenon hooks notes as “black men declar[ing] that they were connected to white men, brothers under the skin, bound by masculinity, by a shared allegiance to patriarchy” (14).

A content analysis study done by scholars Weitzer and Kubrin at George Washington University found that in a sample of 403 rap songs from 1992 through 2000, 67% of the lyrics pertained to the sexual objectification of women, 49% included some sort of name-calling and shaming such as calling women “bitches” and “hoes,” and 18% explicitly talked about and glorified violence against women (12). Weitzer and Kubrin reference multiple ethnographic studies on how men in racially and economically disadvantaged communities have a tendency to take pride in their dominance over women in order to affirm their masculinity (20). Music genres like hip-hop seem to reflect such beliefs, while simultaneously circulating misogynistic beliefs to their young audiences.

Specifically, this has manifested in the surge of “thug” and “gangsta” rappers in the 1990s accentuating their masculinity through aggression, toughness, and sexual promiscuity. Artists such as Snoop Dogg and hip-hop group N.W.A. are notoriously known to employ “tough” and provocative language that embody masculine norms. In one of their most well-known songs “Gangsta Gangsta,” former N.W.A. member Ice Cube raps “To a kid lookin’ up to me / Life ain’t nothin’ but bitches and money” (1:06-1:10) followed up with the line “See, I don’t give a fuck” (1:15).

In fact, this “I don’t give a damn” attitude not only signals Black men’s aloof and defiant posture towards a society that oppresses and antagonizes them but is used to bolster their masculinity. University of North Carolina professor C.P. Gause commented on hip-hop artists’ need to preserve a “cool” and unbothered exterior:

Compensating for feelings of insecurity in a Eurocentric world has led the African American male, particularly the youth, to redefine what it means to be a man in the present world. For most, this includes risk-taking, machismo, aggressive social skills, and sexual promiscuity. To be bad is to be cool and to be cool is a sign of power, strength, and protection. (49)

In addition, proclamations of masculinity also came in forms of homophobia, rappers continuously using phrases such as “no homo” or “gay” and “f*g” as an insult towards other straight men, disparaging queer identities while further sustaining heteronormative patriarchal gender norms. Hill writes that speculation over an artist’s sexuality is a “professional death sentence” (31) in the industry, homosexuality being considered “soft, weak, and effeminate” (48) — a direct, and borderline threatening, contrast to the cool, tough, and masculine dispositions of hip-hop. DMX’s infamous feud with rival rapper Ja Rule was littered with attempts to emasculate one another through homophobic language; DMX’s wildly popular track “Where the Hood At?” echoes such sentiments in his lyrics as “Last I heard, y’all n****z was having sex, with the same-sex / I show no love, to homo thugs” (Hill 42). Ja Rule’s career never recovered from this incident.

Such practices weren’t just a jab at fellow rappers’ masculinity but stand as a reflection of the culture’s rejection of and disdain towards queerness. Queer male hip-hop artists are constantly faced with discrimination that tries to alienate them from the industry, regardless of whether they display elements of patriarchal masculinity.

In the absence of a space to comfortably express their sexualities, queer rappers in the 1990s birthed the era of “homothug” hip-hop, one where the artists could possess traditionally masculine features while identifying as gay or bisexual. The hip-hop crew Deep Dickollective frequently talked about their queerness while maintaining qualities of “a real man”, with verses such as “Honey, I am more man than you’ll ever be / and more women than you’ll ever get” (0:27-0:32) in their song “Butchqueen”. Homothug hip-hop artists and groups like Deep Dickollective “received scant attention from major radio stations and news outlets” (Hill 33), revealing mainstream hip-hop’s unwillingness to support or welcome queerness in the industry. Accompanying this exclusion was the perception of the homothug as a “gay man in denial” (Hill 48), further showcasing the belief that hip-hop and queerness are two irreconcilable concepts.

While homophobic sentiments still linger throughout the industry today (as seen with the DaBaby’s crass comments at the Rolling Loud festival), hip-hop fans and artists in other music spheres have become much more reluctant to put up with ignorance and discrimination against the LGBTQ+ community. In 2017, hip-hop group Migos’ member Offset came under fire for rapping “I don’t vibe with queers” in a feature, listeners questioning his explanation that he used “queer” as its dictionary definition of “strange” or “odd” (Rhodes). Especially as another Migos member Quavo has been previously called out for homophobia towards queer hip-hop artists (Rhodes), it most likely comes off as a feeble attempt to dodge criticism. In retrospect, with an industry that quite literally hinges on audience approval for profit, artists getting called out for their queerphobia seem to be a step in the right direction.

Hypermasculine norms, misogyny, and homophobia all go hand-in-hand in shaping Black masculinity, and these beliefs are further reinforced through hip-hop music. With the mainstream popularity of gangsta rap in the 1990s, hip-hop artists began to utilize patriarchal masculinity that emphasizes the need to be tough, rebellious, and heterosexual to build an image that romanticizes violence, thinks being feminine is the worst thing a man could be, and actively discriminates against women and queer people.

A Changing Landscape: Lyrical Analysis of the Works of Frank Ocean and Lil Nas X

In the confines of a music genre historically associated with the subjugation of women and normalized homophobia, queer men stand as “challengers” to the standards of hypermasculinity and “toughness” in the industry. Noteworthy for defying gender norms and heteronormativity, Frank Ocean and Lil Nas X finding mainstream success show how it is possible for hip-hop to be inclusive, and in fact, more “real” and cooler than ever.

Shortly before the release of his Grammy-winning debut album channel ORANGE in 2012, hip-hop/R&B artist Frank Ocean published a post on the social media network Tumblr where he recalled his romantic experience with a man. Since then, his musical projects have often alluded to his queerness, thus, analysis of his work is important in how he defies heteronormative concepts of masculinity and highlights the fluidity of sexuality.

Though songs like “Thinkin’ ‘Bout You” and “Forrest Gump” are most often recognized as a nod towards his queer sexuality, one of Ocean’s most eloquent and honest narrations comes with his first album’s 14th track “Bad Religion”, where he is talking to a taxi driver about his personal life almost in a religious confession manner. Ocean establishes himself as a vulnerable and introspective narrator, seeking solace and comfort from someone who is, essentially, a stranger. In the second verse of the song, he declares “I can’t tell you the truth about my disguise, I can’t trust no one” (1:36). The level of isolation and loneliness that drives him to confide to a stranger with his deepest secret offers a glimpse into the struggles faced by many queer individuals to find acceptance in a world that often rejects them.

He brings up the theme of religious condemnation of homosexuality by singing “I can never make him love me” (1:10). Likely inspired by the man in his Tumblr letter who didn’t reciprocate Ocean’s romantic feelings, “Him” could also be interpreted as a reference to God. Since many world religions preach anti-LGBTQ theology and consider homosexuality a sin (Massie), the song hints at Ocean’s struggle to reconcile his religion with his sexual identity, fearing that God may not love him because he is queer. Double/triple entendre is a key trait of Ocean’s lyricism and is repeatedly utilized in the song to imbue the phrase “bad religion” with multiple connotations and dimensions. The chorus features the line “If it brings me to my knees, it’s a bad religion” (0:45), articulating the struggle between his sexuality being bad in the eyes of religious doctrines, simultaneously referring to the emotional pain and personal turmoil caused by his unrequited love. The phrase “brings me to my knees” can be interpreted as a reference to the ritual of prayer, the act of performing oral sex, or a metaphor for the intense emotional distress that can result from loving someone who doesn’t reciprocate those feelings. By assigning multiple meanings to this phrase, Ocean creates a sense of ambiguity and intricacy in his lyrics that underscore the vulnerability and emotional complexity of his experiences.

The most explicit exclamation of his sexuality comes from his 2017 single “Chanel,” with Ocean using the double C emblem of the designer brand Chanel to allude to his sexuality. The song begins with the ironic proclamation “My guy pretty like a girl, and he got fight stories to tell” (0:17-0:21) where the artist intentionally subverts gender norms by pointing out the feminine physical characteristics of his love interest. At the same time, Ocean is highlighting his love interests’ characterizations of patriarchal masculinity (violence, aggression, and toughness) by saying he engages in fights. This line serves as an elucidation of his own sexuality, as he acknowledges his attraction to someone who embodies both traditionally masculine and feminine traits.

He continues to sing  “I see (C) both sides like Chanel,” (0:22) referring to his sexual attraction to both men and women through the two C’s of the Chanel logo. In the outro, Ocean is heard repeating “I mean my baby bi” (2:40). Although he is openly referring to his queer relationship, it can also be interpreted as a way of avoiding categorization of his own sexuality by describing his partner’s. As previously noted, deliberate ambiguity is a hallmark of Ocean’s musical style (and personal identity) that allows him to explore complex themes and ideas without being limited by traditional labels or expectations. Even throughout the rest of his discography, Frank Ocean never classifies himself into one sexual orientation or another but makes subtle connotations that imply his attraction towards men. Journalist Jason Lamphier skillfully articulates the significance of Ocean’s works in a Rolling Stone article: “[Ocean’s album] Blonde is queer in the word’s truest sense: nonconforming, elusive, boundless. It celebrates the intangible, the strange. It doesn’t play by the rules.” On the other hand, Ocean’s subversion of categorization has raised skepticism over how influential his music is to the community, pointing out the “exaggerated praise” (Arceneaux) he receives as a queer artist. Indeed, Ocean’s subtle remarks and wilful rejection of sexual labels stand as a noticeable contrast to Lil Nas X’s bold and vivid illustrations of his queerness.

In recent years, Lil Nas X has seen exponential growth in his popularity, scoring three songs in the Billboard Top 10, and making history as the longest-running number-one hit with his song “Old Town Road” (Bowenback). In the midst of the success of his record-breaking song, he publicized his sexuality on the social media network Twitter, inviting his followers to “listen closely to c7osure” — the 7th track on his debut EP album. “c7osure”, with its title suggesting a sense of finality that reflects the artist’s quest for closure or resolution in his life, reveals X’s yearning for honesty about his identity. Lines such as “Ain’t no more actin’, man that forecast say I should just let me grow” (0:42) demonstrate his wanting for self-liberation and authenticity, paralleling Frank Ocean’s exploration of identity and emotional vulnerability in “Bad Religion.” Two years after his coming out, he released his debut album MONTERO, a bold and unapologetic expression of his queer identity.

From chanting “I don’t fuck bitches, I’m queer” (1:06) in the album’s second single “INDUSTRY BABY,” to moments of vulnerability in “SUN GOES DOWN,” Lil Nas X has taken on the responsibility to change the course of hip-hop’s homophobic and hypermasculine nature with his music. Similar to how Frank Ocean employs themes of religion, “SUN GOES DOWN” reveals Lil Nas’ internal struggles that many queer people can empathize with through lines such as “These gay thoughts would haunt me / I prayed God would take it from me” (1:06-1:11). What is important to note in the song is that X’s complex relationships to race and gender expectations do not exist in isolation from one another. As he jumps from “Are my lips too big / Is my skin too dark?” (1:01), to opening up about his sexuality, the song in itself is X’s exclamation of his intersectional identity. He affirms that his Blackness constantly goes hand-in-hand with his queerness, and by doing so, sheds light on the multi-faceted experiences that queer Black men face and underscores the importance of recognizing the complexity of their realities.

In the fourth track of his debut album “THATS WHAT I WANT,” he opens with “Need a boy who can cuddle with me all night” (0:07) while the song’s verse repeats “I want (I), someone to love me” (0:37-0:43), a refreshing perspective in comparison to the pervasive braggadocious hypersexuality that has characterized hip-hop since its popularity in the 1990s. Such authentic expressions of the desire for queer men to love and be loved in the mainstream media are extremely important in order to dismantle the racial and sexual stereotypes surrounding queer Black men. Lil Nas X’s and Frank Ocean’s representations of queerness and masculinity both express a craving for something real — genuine, human emotions that are not bound by patriarchal gender norms.

What differentiates X from Frank Ocean, however, is his loud and proud approach to depicting his sexuality through his music. While Ocean often uses subtle, layered lyrics that hint at his queer identity without explicitly stating it, Lil Nas sings openly about his queerness without saturating his lyrics with hidden meanings. This transparency in his narration could possibly account for Lil Nas X’s widespread acclaim as a queer artist, and even the commercial success of his songs. Since mainstream music is a medium that thrives off of “controversy, spectacle, and experimentation” (Staples), perhaps X’s uncompromising queerness is exactly what the industry needed to witness to realize that representation and market success are not mutually exclusive goals.

Regardless of their degree of “outness” in the industry and to the public, one cannot deny the two artists’ similarity in how they challenge hegemonic masculinity, as well as the racial stereotypes that plague the queer Black community. It would be inaccurate to say no artist has done this before — groups such as Deep Dickollective have been speaking on similar themes since decades ago, creating a space for quare resistance in the margins of rap genre. What is noteworthy about Ocean and X, however, is their presence in the commercialized music industry that has catapulted the possibility of queer rap into mainstream discourse. Even outside of their music, Ocean and Lil Nas X have pursued endeavors that seek to defy the norms of Black masculinity; accompanying his second album Blonde, Ocean released a magazine titled “Boys Don’t Cry,” in which he had included personal poems about queer relationships and emotional vulnerability (Cliff). Lil Nas X has repeatedly invoked conversations about Black queerness during interviews, proclaiming that he “100% want[s] to represent the LGBT community” (Wheeler). Denying the empowering and daring impact Ocean and Lil Nas X has had on the queer community, as well as the music industry, would be a gross misunderstanding and a shallow take on their undertakings.

Keepin’ It Real

Commercialization and the need for mass-market appeal in the music industry make it extremely difficult for hip-hop artists to sing and rap about genuine social and economic concerns, and display authentic portrayals of Black masculinity. C.P. Gause writes that “one of the distinguishing features of late-capitalist culture has been the fusing of American culture’s latent and persistent desire for blackness with consumerist desire” (41). The “deeply contradictory nature of commercial Rap music” (Rashid 345) lies in that while it sheds light on the struggles and livelihoods of Black communities, it is still marketed towards a mostly-white audience who wants to vicariously live through tough “gangsta” rappers to satiate their curiosities. The reason why gangsta rap and homophobic hypermasculine artists like DMX have risen to success is because they reflected, and oftentimes exaggerated, the racial stereotypes invented by white patriarchy.

That doesn’t mean the rap industry is a lost cause, and it definitely does not negate the importance of recognizing and supporting artists like Frank Ocean and Lil Nas X who are consciously critiquing hegemonic masculinity while representing the queer Black community who hasn’t been given the space and opportunity for genuine representations in mainstream music. Hip-hop has immense progressive potential, echoing issues of education, poverty, racism, unemployment, oppression — and, with a new wave of queer, gender-fluid, and inclusive artists: sexism, misogyny, and homophobia. The innate desire for hip-hop to be authentic and provocative drives truth and transparency in lyrics and lifestyle. It may be time to realize: Queer is the most “hip-hop” thing hip-hop can be.

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1. Note: Given the lack of analysis on non-lyrical elements such as musical beats and rhythmic patterns in this paper, hip-hop and rap are used interchangeably to avoid any confusion surrounding these semantic nuances. ↩︎