The title of Lauren Olster’s new book of essays, No Judgement, is wagging-tongue-in-cheek, because, of course, the book is full of judgement: it’s a book of essays. If she weren’t judging, it would be quite dull.
That goal of polarization is why I reacted to one particular paragraph with: oh, this bitch.
(Sorry, Lauren.)
The paragraph in question is in a piece exploring how Gawker came to be, and how it published a 2007 post titled “Peter Thiel is totally gay, people.” In the Valley, it was an open secret, but no matter, a secret still, and Peter came down from his mountain of billions of dollars and got angry. So angry that he backed a lawsuit against them by Hulk Hogan (it really is a wild story) that ultimately led to their closure.
The line in particular that ruffled me was about how she – Lauren, the author – still argues for the freedom to question (gossip about) people’s (private) sexual identities among (private, but actually public) friends.
This pissed me off. I love Lauren’s writing and one of my favorite things about this essay, and her writing in general, is she’s not afraid to show the ugly. Her work reminds me of that other millennial back-of-the-classroom goddess, Lena Dunham, who did the same thing on Girls – not only showed the warts, but led with them, making the face (and the body, of course) three-dimensional.
Lauren explores how we all, of course, are the topic of gossip but rarely see it, an unsettling yet undeniable truth. This is what makes her argument of talking about other’s sex lives so painful. When I was 18 and 19 years old, just starting to understand my sexuality, as fluid and confusing as it was/is, there were very specific moments where I learned – knew – that I was the topic of gossip. Acquaintances would approach me with information about a guy I had hooked up with and then ignored. Close friends would hint that they knew about late night escapes to other dorm rooms, providing an opening that I ignored.
One day, early in college, I was in the cafeteria with friends when two (Mean™) gays approached me and asked me, point blank, if I was gay. I remember standing there, burning, stammering through an answer. I finally said (I think?), no. Yet they called my dorm phone later and asked to hang out, which I did not do, in part because I sensed the gossip that would surge.
That whole scene in the cafeteria was, I’m sure, fueled by gossip beforehand; it likely prompted further gossip afterward. It was a painful time for me, trying to navigate and understand these very confusing feelings and what it meant for my future, my family. These conversations and signals shifted my decision-making to the external; rather than listening to myself, I listened to other people and guided my life based on foggy, unpredictable gossip.
This was the mid-aughts (the fraughts?). In 2003 it was not as common to openly explore these topics, at least in the environments where I spent my time. In her essay, Lauren highlights that we rarely learn we’re the topic of discussion – that’s not how it felt then, as if the discussions themselves existed for me to know. In some cases, they did.
When I thought more on it, though, I realized that I talk about others’ (gay) sex lives all the time, in 2024. Whenever a man, sometimes around our age, sometimes handsome, comes into our world view, the first fucking question Brad and I ask each other is: “Gay or …?” The other night I was out to dinner with (straight) friends, catching up on folks we knew in common, and they mentioned someone in the group they’re still “waiting to come out,” which of course prompted me to lurk on their social media later for clues.
There’s a world where I could argue that this is just me trying to find connection and celebration with others like me. But, at its most basic level, it’s gossip. Gossip that I not only take part in, but at times, begin. (Gay or …?)
When I read Lauren’s defense of discussing others’ sex lives, my initial reaction wasn’t a protection of those people (me), but another powerful emotion: shame. It’s that same heavy blanket that shrouded over me as I stood in that cafeteria, trying to define and defend a sexuality I didn’t know or understand.
If grieving and forgiving myself for that time weren’t so challenging – or, more terrifying, if identifying as gay weren’t something that I still wrestle with – perhaps I wouldn’t be as insulted by someone having an interest in it. Or, enough of an interest to discuss it with someone behind my back.
It’s a heavy thought to consider and one that feels antiquated typing out. (The fraughts were so long ago! How did this happen?!)
Yet, it’s there.
And how do we battle shame, and ban it from our psyche?
By talking about it.
Dammit.