Real Housewives, and the Corruption of the “Gay Husband”

On Thursday, the Real Housewives of Atlanta, the southern belle of Bravo’s successful reality show franchise, raises the curtain on its second season. In what has become a hallmark of the series, the cast members return in exponentially rarer form than when we saw them last. But the first episode of Atlanta’s second act is stolen not by one of the show’s five famously tart Georgia peaches, but instead by its “sixth housewife”—who is, in fact, a man.

“I loooove me some Dwight,” trills NeNe Leakes, after opening the door for her friend, the stylist Dwight Eubanks, who, like Chekhov’s gun, receives conspicuous placement in the opening scene. “Dwight knows fashion, he knows style, he knows interior design.” Dwight also knows how to make an entrance, which he does clad in an atrocious fur coat with long-stemmed Pepto Bismol-colored lilies. Once inside, he begins offering exaggerated aesthetic commentary about every object in the room—the drapes are too short, the silk flowers have to go—as well as critical pedagogy about a host of societal challenges, like how we might overcome our fears of opening champagne bottles. He is also a source of entertainment, at one point actually crawling on the floor to the shrieking delight of his charge.

At least one lead cast member in every version of Real Housewives boasts a gay sidekick—or, in the eye-roll-inducing parlance of the reality-show universe, a “gay boyfriend.” (For the record, Eubanks does not consider himself gay or straight, and there are rumors that he is engaged to a woman, but NeNe refers to him as her “gay husband.”) These men are presented as little more than enhanced Chihuahuas, pets beckoned solely for fashion advice, tips on interior design, and bitchy comments about one’s rival du jour.

It’s a feature of the series that may go unnoticed because it is now a cultural norm. But it is notable, because it perverts a rich tradition in television history. For decades, the friendship between straight women and gay men was a small treasure of the small screen—a relatively vibrant, if slight, institution marked by uncommon empathy and authentic emotional connection. But now, driven by forces from beyond and within popular culture, it appears to be on its last (waxed, toned, perfectly-oiled) legs.

In real life, the convergence of the gay rights and women's movements in the late 1960s nurtured a solidarity that, for many straight women and gay men, gave rise to genuine friendships. At their best, these connections were liberating as well as fun—two groups traditionally consigned to the shadows of American society suddenly helping each other in self-exploration. There were shared politics and, more importantly, a shared personal agenda: the universal right to an identity of one's own making. Indeed, their bonds over even the frothiest-seeming things, like fashion and gossip, were also political weapons. "Women and gay men have long been considered second-class citizens by the dominant culture," noted comedian Margaret Cho. “How do we keep our strength? By talking shit about those who think they can oppress us.”