I Had Lunch with MAGA Gays

In my late teens and early twenties, I spent a good deal of time in gay bars, on gay beaches, and throughout the wider archipelago of gay life.

I was not gay.

Am not gay.

Then again, I have never found the available categories especially satisfactory. Sexuality strikes me as a spectrum, not a set of mutually exclusive boxes to check.

My immersion in this world came about for two reasons.

The first was Greg, my best friend. We attended the same college, made pizzas together at the same pizza place, and had been friends for a couple of years before it occurred to me to ask him.

“Are you gay?”

“Yes, I’m a gay man,” he replied with a straightforwardness and confidence that I have never forgotten.

The second reason was geography.

We lived near Laguna Beach, the once-sleepy artists’ colony that, in the 1970s and early 1980s, boasted one of the largest gay populations on the West Coast outside San Francisco. It functioned as the undisputed capital of gay Orange County—a place not otherwise known for its social liberalism. There was always something happening, and the scene was welcoming, vibrant, and genuinely fun to be around. For anyone growing up nearby, it was difficult not to be drawn into its orbit.

I look back on those days—the crowded bars and dance floors, the sunburned afternoons on the beach, the house parties overlooking the Pacific, and the seemingly endless calendar of occasions to eat, drink, laugh, and stay out too late—with tremendous affection. Those were among the happiest and most carefree days of my life.

Then came AIDS.

It is difficult to convey to younger generations how abruptly the mood changed. A community that had seemed perpetually in motion suddenly found itself keeping vigil at hospital bedsides and attending funerals. The epidemic was devastating enough. It became more devastating still when it was met with indifference, stigma, and political neglect. The Reagan administration's slow and inadequate response remains one of the great moral failures of the era.

Not long after college ended, Greg moved to San Francisco and I moved to Japan. We lost touch.

When I eventually returned to the United States, I settled in New York, where I spent more than twenty years building a career and raising a family. A few years ago, life carried me back to Southern California, where I walk the same beaches and wander the same streets I knew decades ago.

I still love Laguna Beach, but it is not the same place. The gay community is largely gone. The town is more crowded now, and the once-sleepy artists' colony has, in turn, been colonized by aspiring social media influencers, all of them seemingly engaged in the urgent business of photographing themselves.

It was there, amid the boutiques, tourists, and selfie-taking pilgrims, that I met two leaders of the Log Cabin Republicans.

Founded in 1977 and named in honor of Abraham Lincoln’s humble origins, the Log Cabin Republicans were created to advance gay equality from within the Republican Party. Their founders believed the GOP could be persuaded to become more accepting of gay Americans.

That project failed.

If anything, the modern Republican Party has moved in the opposite direction. As the party has become increasingly shaped by Trumpism, Christian nationalism, and culture-war politics, the Log Cabin Republicans have changed as well. A group once dedicated to reforming the Republican Party now spends much of its time defending it.

What began as an effort to make the Republican Party more accepting of gay people has, in many respects, become an effort to make gay people more accepting of the Republican Party.

I met the two men, whom I will call Anthony and William, at a middling Mexican restaurant in Laguna Beach. Anthony had sandy blond hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and the relaxed, upbeat demeanor of a young professional. William, older and more conventionally polished, wore a burgundy blazer and carried himself with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to working a room.

Decades earlier, the same building had housed one of the town’s most famous gay clubs. When I mentioned the building’s history, neither had heard of it. They were simply too young to remember the world that had existed there before.

In the email proposing the meeting, I explained that many of my readers found the Log Cabin Republicans difficult to understand. They viewed Trumpism and the modern Republican Party as fundamentally at odds with LGBTQ equality and wanted to understand how gay conservatives saw things differently. Where did they feel at home within the movement? What did they believe their critics were missing? And how did they navigate the obvious tensions between their identity and their politics?

I had promised there would be no gotcha questions. Unfortunately, my opening question turned out to be more difficult to answer than I had anticipated.

“Your organization takes its name from the humble origins of Abraham Lincoln. What do you think Lincoln would make of today’s Republican Party?”

William adjusted his blazer and sat up straighter.

“That’s... a really good question,” he said after a pause.

“I mean, obviously none of us can know what Lincoln would think about modern politics. A lot has changed. The parties have changed. The country has changed.”

He glanced at Anthony.

“But I think he’d still recognize a commitment to individual liberty. To... equality under the law. To opportunity. I think those are values that are still very much present in the Republican Party.”

The answer seemed sincere. It was also incomplete and oddly ahistorical.

The Republican Party has reinvented itself several times since Lincoln's death. The party of abolition became the party of Gilded Age industrialists. Later it embraced the Southern Strategy and built a coalition that included many of the fiercest opponents of the civil rights movement. Today it is increasingly defined by nationalism, cultural grievance, and a politics of exclusion that Lincoln would likely find difficult to recognize.

The Log Cabin Republicans still invoke Lincoln, though more as mascot than mentor.

In an effort to establish my LGBTQ bona fides with them (not that I really had to), I told them that during college I joined what was then called the Gay-Straight Alliance—a coalition of LGBTQ students and what we’d now call allies. We raised money for gay causes and pushed for equal treatment and practical rights on campus, such as allowing same-sex couples access to married faculty housing years before marriage equality existed. We opposed anti-gay legislation, including efforts to bar gay and lesbian people from teaching in public schools.

They reacted favorably enough, but it felt dutiful rather than heartfelt. The vanished world I was describing appeared to hold little significance for them.

Anthony, the younger of the two, interjected with a comment that neatly captured their worldview.

"We're accepted by most Republicans," he said. "We want the same things everybody else wants. We want to build careers, support our families, live our lives. We just want to be left alone. And Republicans are completely fine with that."

I had heard variations of this argument before. It rested on a simple premise: the fight had been won.

“If Republicans were as welcoming as he believed, why had LGBTQ voters overwhelmingly rejected Trump at the ballot box,” I asked.

Over the next several minutes, Anthony and William elaborated on a point that would surface repeatedly throughout our conversation. Conservative gays, they argued, feel sufficiently secure in their rights under Trump that their sexuality no longer occupies a central place in their political decision-making.

“We already have marriage,” Anthony said. “We can have families. We can work wherever we want. Nobody’s stopping us from living our lives.”

William agreed. “A lot of people don’t wake up every morning thinking about being gay,” he said. “They’re thinking about their jobs, their mortgages, their retirement accounts. They vote on the issues that affect them day to day.”

The same logic extended to transgender issues.

“Not every issue under the LGBTQ umbrella is the same,” Anthony said. “A lot of people feel those debates don't really involve them.”

As I listened, I realized that neither man viewed politics through the lens of solidarity. They viewed it through the lens of self-interest. The rights they personally enjoyed felt secure. The battles that remained were someone else's battles.

What surprised me was not merely their confidence, but their apparent lack of historical perspective.

Both men had come of age in a world where many of the major fights had already been won. They had never known a time when gay people could be fired for being gay, excluded from military service, denied housing, or forced to hide their relationships from employers, neighbors, and family members. They had not lived through the AIDS crisis, the struggle for marriage equality, or the long fight for basic social acceptance.

To them, these victories appeared less like hard-won achievements than the natural state of affairs. They had inherited the destination without taking part in the journey.

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That history seemed relevant when the conversation turned to transgender people.

A great many conservative gays distance themselves from transgender people, a group fighting many of the same battles for recognition, dignity, and legal protection. But this did not appear to inspire much sympathy. If anything, the subject seemed to produce irritation. The struggles of others were viewed less as a continuation of a shared civil-rights project than as an unwelcome distraction from issues they considered more important.

“Don't gay men feel some solidarity with trans people?” I asked Anthony. “A lot of the arguments being made against trans people today were once made against gay people. The accusations. Groomers. Threats to children. Dangers to society. Doesn't that all sound awfully familiar?”

Anthony took a sip of his margarita and glanced at William.

“I think a lot of gay conservatives don’t want to be lumped together with the TQ+ side of the community,” William said. “For a lot of us, those are separate issues. I’m a gay man. I’m comfortable in my biological sex. What they’re talking about doesn’t really have anything to do with my life.”

There it was. The same argument, stripped to its essence. The attacks were different because they were aimed at someone else. It was difficult to escape the conclusion that, having climbed the ladder, they saw little reason to keep it standing for those still below.

Then Anthony used a phrase that earned him a look from William.

“We represent the normal gay guy,” he said. “We’re the normal ones.”

William laughed—the sort of laugh one deploys when attempting to gently steer a colleague away from dangerous terrain. “We care about a broad range of issues,” he said, quickly changing course. “Crime, immigration, taxes, gun rights—”

“None of the crazy stuff,” Anthony interjected, apparently oblivious to William’s attempt at damage control.

The exchange lasted only a few seconds, but it was revealing. Anthony seemed eager to distinguish himself from other members of the LGBTQ community (one assumes the T and perhaps the Q), particularly those whose politics, activism, or gender identities might make conservatives uncomfortable. William, by contrast, appeared to understand that saying the quiet part out loud was unlikely to help their cause.

Up to this point, I had mostly listened. I had come to understand, not to argue. But this was where I felt compelled to push back.

"It seems to me," I said, "that once you establish that one group of LGBTQ people is undeserving of equal treatment, it's much easier to revisit the rights of everyone else."

I mentioned the latest Gallup poll. After decades of steadily rising acceptance, support for same-sex marriage and the moral acceptability of same-sex relationships had begun moving in the opposite direction. The decline was concentrated almost entirely among Republicans and had accelerated further during the Trump years.

Today, roughly two-thirds of Republicans oppose same-sex marriage and believe same-sex relationships are morally wrong. In other words, only a small minority of Republicans support the central legal and social gains of the modern gay rights movement. Those are not the numbers of a party that has made peace with gay people. They are the numbers of a party growing increasingly uncomfortable with them.

“Honestly, I think a lot of those poll responses are about religion more than gay people,” William said. “Someone can check a box saying they don’t think same-sex relationships are morally ideal and still have gay friends, gay coworkers, even gay family members they love.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But if someone believes my marriage shouldn’t exist and my relationship is morally wrong, I’m not sure how much comfort I’m supposed to take from the fact that they’re polite about it.”

“Touché,” Anthony conceded, lifting his margarita.

William, employing his committee-presentation voice once again, leaned forward and began itemizing what he saw as evidence of Trump’s support for gay Americans. He ticked off examples on his fingers.

“Scott Bessent. Ric Grenell.”

Bessent is Trump’s Treasury Secretary. Grenell served as Acting Director of National Intelligence during Trump’s first term and currently serves as a presidential envoy. Both men are openly gay and are frequently cited by the Log Cabin Republicans as evidence that gay conservatives have found a home within the modern Republican Party.

"But look at the judges he appointed," I said. "Look at the activists, media personalities, and culture warriors he elevated. Look at the people surrounding him."

I pointed to the Supreme Court, where conservative justices have made little secret of their desire to revisit the legal foundations of modern gay rights. Justice Clarence Thomas has openly invited challenges to Obergefell, the decision that legalized same-sex marriage. Across the country, Republican lawmakers continue searching for ways to roll back LGBTQ protections one exception, exemption, and loophole at a time.

I mentioned Pete Hegseth, who has railed against the integration of openly gay service members into the military and attached himself to a brand of Christian nationalism that views much of modern LGBTQ equality as a mistake.

Beyond any one individual, I saw an administration crowded with Christian nationalists, culture warriors, anti-LGBTQ activists, and politicians who had spent years opposing gay rights, questioning marriage equality, or treating LGBTQ people as a useful political target.

“These are not people who think the fight is over,” I said. “They’re people who think they lost the last round.”

Until this point, much of our conversation had focused on rights, laws, and political threats. But those topics alone did not explain the attraction. They explained why Anthony and William were not alarmed by the Republican Party. They did not explain why they were drawn to it.

The answer, it turned out, had less to do with policy than culture.

William, dispensing with his committee-presentation voice, leaned forward and lowered his own. He waited for a middle-aged heterosexual couple to pass our table and be seated before continuing.

“Can I be really honest?” he asked.

I assured him he could.

“I think a lot of gay men actually like traditional masculinity.”

Anthony nodded vigorously. “Absolutely.”

“The left just seems to have a problem with masculinity,” William continued. “A lot of us don't see it that way. We admire it. The idea that a man should be strong, dependable, take responsibility. Have a family. Build something. Be the person others can rely on.”

He paused. “I think that’s why we like Trump. He brought back masculinity. The protector. The guy who takes charge. The guy who doesn’t apologize for being a man.”

“Everything on the left is about toxic masculinity,” Anthony chimed in. “Any gay person who is threatened by Trump has been brainwashed by left-wing propaganda.”

William inhaled slowly through his nose.

“If you look at the gay MAGA movement, a lot of these guys are drawn to traditional masculinity,” William said. “They admire manliness. They’re attracted to it, and a lot of them want to embody it too.”

The right's fascination with traditional masculinity and conventional gender roles was not something they tolerated despite being gay. It was part of the appeal. That observation helped explain much of what had previously puzzled me. Progressives often assume that gay men will be natural critics of traditional masculinity. Anthony and William saw things very differently. To them, masculinity was not a social problem to be solved. It was something to be admired, desired, and, where possible, emulated.

When we stood to leave, I found myself thinking about the history of the building. Decades earlier it had been one of Laguna Beach’s most famous gay clubs. Neither Anthony nor William had known that. That small exchange lingered with me.

The vanished world the building represented contained multitudes: the music, the packed dance floors, the chosen families, the friendships and romances, and the exhilaration of finding one’s people; then came the grief of the AIDS years, the protests, the political battles, and the long struggle for equality. Much of that history felt strangely absent from the conversation we had just had.

Anthony and William inherited the fruits of those struggles. What I could never quite determine was whether they understood how recently they had been won.

Or how easily they might be lost.

After we said our goodbyes, I walked to the beach and sat for a while watching the waves. I found myself thinking not about Anthony or William, but about my daughter.

She is a transgender woman.

In many respects, her life resembles that of countless other young adults, with all the same hopes, ambitions, and uncertainties that tend to accompany one’s twenties. She’s building a career, hoping to find companionship, and trying to determine what kind of life will ultimately feel meaningful and fulfilling.

But there is another layer to her experience that most young adults do not have to navigate.

A substantial portion of the country regards people like her with suspicion, fear, or outright hostility. Politicians build careers attacking people like her. Media personalities turn them into threats, predators, or cultural villains. At an age when most young adults are already struggling to figure out who they are and where they belong, she must also carry the knowledge that millions of strangers have been encouraged to question her identity, dismiss her dignity, and even deny her right to exist as herself.

She lives in another city now, one far more accepting than many places in America. Even so, I worry about her every day. I worry about violence. I worry about discrimination. I worry about the cumulative effects of stigma. Most of all, I worry about what it does to a person to spend a lifetime hearing—explicitly or implicitly—that who they are is somehow unacceptable.

Fortunately, I have someone with whom I can share those worries.

A few years ago, Greg and I reconnected after decades apart. He is married now and lives in Arizona with his husband. We speak regularly, and when concerns about my daughter begin to spiral in my mind, Greg is often the person I call. He understands things I never will, and there is comfort in that.

Watching the shadows lengthen across the beach, what troubled me was not merely Anthony and William's lack of historical memory or their apparent indifference to those now experiencing many of the same forces once directed at gay people.

It was the larger ecosystem in which that indifference has become a political virtue.

An ecosystem populated by religious zealots, culture warriors, opportunistic politicians, and professional grievance merchants, all of whom benefit when LGBTQ people are transformed from neighbors into enemies. Such movements do not succeed through hostility alone. They depend upon otherwise decent people convincing themselves that the hostility is exaggerated, justified, or someone else’s problem.

Anthony and William did not strike me as hateful men.

That was precisely what made the conversation so unsettling.

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