A music industry
insider explains how hip-hop helped him grow from
traumatized teen to proud gay man.
Growing up in
Detroit, I was raped by an adult male next-door neighbor.
The incident left me emotionally and mentally paralyzed. But
it started a craving and yearning for other teenage
boys. I figured it was a phase. Something I would grow
out of. I felt lost.
Then something
happened out of the depths of New York City in 1979. A
movement was being born, and it helped me discover a voice I
felt had left me. I came across a song called
“Rapper’s Delight” by the Sugarhill
Gang in my aunt’s living room, and it sparked
something in me. The voice was relatable and the
message was timely. I fell in love with this new
movement and its creators: Run-DMC, Big Daddy Kane, Eric B.
and Rakim, Afrika Bambaataa, MC Lyte, and Whodini.
In 1985 a young
teenage rapper from the Hollis neighborhood of Queens had
everyone listening to his Radio. His name was LL Cool
J—short for “Ladies Love Cool
James.” This breakout sensation was energetic,
masculine, and sexy. When I saw his sweaty, muscular
body gyrating in his video “Rock the
Bells,” I fell in love with the genre all over
again—and he was the reason. LL became my new
fascination. This new sound not only spoke to a
generation of young people across the country but also had
young girls and boys lusting after its stars.
When they sported
their Adidas, Kangol hats, and skin-tight Levi’s, I
couldn’t get enough of the eye candy. Was this a ploy
to spike the hormones of young men questioning their
sexuality? If so, the movement grabbed me so
ferociously I couldn’t breathe. Long before
“leaked” sex videos and naked pictures
of celebrities became the popular marketing ploy,
Father MC became the first to bare all—for Playgirl.
I rushed out to get my copy. I constantly stared at
his naked, dark body.
The messages in
the songs were equally satisfying to my soul. The music
gave me a reason to understand the power of words, of being
confident, strong, black, and proud. It also gave
America another reason to acknowledge the power of
black youths.
As the years went
by and record labels got involved, hip-hop went from
powerful voices, fun times, and party anthems to gangster
thugs, killing machines, and beef rivalries. Yet the
homoeroticism remained in the videos, magazines, and
CD covers. These hard-core thug rappers were more than
happy to display their chiseled, worked-out
bodies—bulky chests, ripped abs, huge biceps,
and sagging pants. I and many gay men across America
wanted a thug—as Luther Vandross sang so
eloquently—“if only for one
night.”
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Dean is the author of Hiding in Hip-hop: On the
Down Low in the Entertainment Industry—From Music to
Hollywood. Photo by Michael Scott Jones