I’ve Covered Myself in Rainbow Tattoos to Look More Gay

It might come off as cliché to say that I’ve always known I was “different.” But for me, it’s even more than that. I not only knew I was different from early childhood; I felt the need for those differences to be permanently marked upon my body so that others could know too.

Growing up in the ’80s in rural Massachusetts—as a racially ambiguous, not-yet-diagnosed-as-autistic, very gay kid who conformed to all cisgender standards of physical expression—it was bound to take me decades to unpack my varied identities. As I discovered them, I began putting them on my body in the form of tattoos. I know who I am, but I thought the tattoos could help make my identity more clear to others. That mission has been a disappointing one.

I got my first tattoo the day I turned 18, then my first pride tattoo at age 20, after being out for just a few months. The choice for a big rainbow pinwheel flower around my belly button felt like a great option (I’ve always been a fan of wearing midriff shirts). But when men in public commented on how much they loved it, I began to suspect it was not working as planned. I learned that it’s part of a phenomenon known as femme invisibility—and that I’m a walking billboard for it.

My second pride tattoo was two years later in a more obvious place, on my bicep: A cat in green, blue, pink, and purple that said “pussy power” in big letters. That got attention, all right! But it still didn’t lead anyone to think I was queer—just a feminist.

As my 20s progressed, I tried looking “more gay” through my style, and some things stuck: I’m still more likely to wear a dress with platform Docs than with stilettos, and at least half my jeans are intensely ripped up. But I have a standardly feminine, curvy figure, typical “girly” facial features, and just generally appear physically cis-normative. I don’t “look gay” no matter what I do, which included shaving my head in solidarity at 27 when my mom lost her hair to chemo.

So I went the only route that, for some quirky neurodivergent reason, felt the most natural to me: I got more and more rainbow-y, prideful tattoos. I dyed my hair rainbow color combos, gave myself box braids in similar color schemes, and basically made it look like a rainbow threw up on me. In addition to that first pinwheel flower on my stomach and the cat on my arm, I now have:

A watercolor heart on my forearm dripping rainbow colors; the quote “city light painted grrl” (a line from a Laura Brannigan song, made riot-esque) with a pink/blue/purple backsplash; two sets of unlikely animals kissing that take up the upper half of one arm; a watercolor, rainbow-colored deer on the pussy power bicep; a half sleeve of produce in every possible color that extends to spices and pea shoots on my hand; a lower leg of cross stitch animals in rainbow colors; an Augusten Burroughs quote on one thigh wrapped in vibrant flowers; a huge back tattoo of a goddess encircled with colorful flowers; and, last year, I tattooed the word “dyke” on the front of my bicep. (I liked that artist’s watercolor work so much that I had her work it into a sleeve.)

So, yeah…it’s a lot. And yet, it still hasn’t worked. Unless I’m actively making out with my girlfriend, people still think I’m straight. Last summer—with my tattoos on full display in a tank top—I took a trip to the doctor with my girlfriend over a case of strep throat. When I asked the physician about kissing—while pointing to my girlfriend across the room—the doctor’s response was: “I’m sure you don’t do that with her.” That was in Echo Park, a notoriously queer-friendly neighborhood on the East Side of Los Angeles. If I can’t even look gay as I discuss kissing my girlfriend in one of the most progressive parts of a major metropolis, there isn’t much hope left for me.

When I got diagnosed as autistic last year, I learned that it’s pretty common for autistic women to have a personal style that involves lots of bright colors. For me, I think it’s a combination of sensory seeking and the need to make others aware that I *know* I’m not like them (before they get the chance to tell me). With facial features and hair texture that reads “mixed race” quite loudly and the confident way I carry myself (I’m a former commercial model), I tend to “invite” questions. I get ahead of all that by making it clear that I know I’m different before anyone can point it out, even if one of those obvious differences isn’t my sexuality.

I’ve settled into the fact that I’ll never read as queer by most people, let alone as a lesbian. It’s not my favorite thing, just like being asked about my race by strangers isn’t, but I’m pretty deep into middle age so I’ve come to accept it. But nevertheless, I persist! I’ve still got some fleshy real estate left, and I have exciting plans for it. I want a long quote from Station Eleven above the Burroughs quote, ringed in bright flowers, which will take up the whole upper half of my leg. I also plan to add lots more color on my street art-themed lower leg, and many more. At this point, getting more colorful work done isn’t to try and look gay. It’s because my tattoos make me really, really happy.

Sure, sometimes I get a little surprised by a mirror in public. But to me, that’s a whole lot better than being bored by my reflection. What began as a quest for visibility morphed into one centered in self-expression somewhere along the way, and I love that you can take one look at me in a bathing suit and know at least a dozen of my interests. That’s pretty rare, and it brings me endless joy.