By Haoran Xia
June 5, 2022
Oscar Wilde once said, “It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.”
Wilde loved beauty, and he loved beautiful men. He understood that aesthetic pleasure does more than delight the eye—it sharpens one’s capacity to contemplate the tragic human condition. He also knew that the nobility hidden within beauty is a quality unto itself, something uniquely human, perhaps even a sacred object bestowed by God’s hand—like ether in the air: opaque, curiosity-inducing, and quietly exhilarating. Of course, as a gay man, beauty was not merely an idea for Wilde; it was a life pursuit. Unsurprisingly, over a century ago, Wilde had already paved a path for the homosexual community—placing beauty as the foundation of both himself and the world around him. This principle has since been internalized by contemporary gay men, embedded like a microchip and etched directly into the brain.
On June 3, 2022—the third day after Shanghai lifted lockdown—I excitedly made plans with friends. Even under the blazing sun, we were determined to visit a second-tier “internet-famous” street, Wuyuan Road, to find a café that would allow indoor seating. We wanted to sit down, feel the air conditioning, drink a latte, and have a conversation. Though it wasn’t yet peak summer, the sudden arrival of the plum rain season forced the city’s Xiaohongshu* men and women alike to expose their pale skin and toned, muscled bodies.
After a few detours, we finally sat down in a café. A few exchanges later, three men and one woman took the table next to us.
“Are those three guys gay?” my friend asked, curiosity barely concealed as she lowered her voice.
I tilted my head slightly, scanning them with my peripheral vision. “Impressive,” I said. “Your gaydar’s getting sharp.” I took a sip of my hot latte and continued, “Honestly, after wandering around with you so many times and gossiping this much, I think I’ve figured out the pattern. It’s always just those few things.” my friend replied.
Just those few things.
Once patterns become definable, once planetary orbits are sketched onto paper with an unsteady compass, the intrigue embedded in plurality diminishes. What was once complex, unfathomable, and difficult to categorize is replaced by banality and boredom. I don’t know when it started, but at some point, the trajectories of gay men in Shanghai became strikingly predictable—especially on a day like this, when flamboyance itself became excessively transparent.
Buzzcut hairstyles, full beards (or at least mustaches), bulging biceps—these traits, carved atop heads, hung on faces, and pasted onto arms, are now ubiquitous on Wukang Road, Anfu Road, and Donghu Road. One doesn’t even need to look closely; a casual sideways glance is enough to know that one—or several—Shanghai gay men are walking straight toward you. Of course, the white tank top has triumphed over all summer clothing. Gucci and Balenciaga have been rendered obsolete; only the small, tight, nipple-revealing white tank top reigns supreme. And we must not forget Nike’s white socks. After all, the athlete archetype enjoys universal adoration.
No matter where these men come from, no matter when they first summoned the courage to be come out, fighting their internalized patriarchal demons, telling themselves I will be different, or singing Leslie Cheung’s “I Am What I Am” into a hairdryer in front of a mirror—once they arrive in Shanghai, their former creeds are eroded by an overwhelming flood of labels. They become replicas. Uniform dress makes Shanghai’s gay men both hyper-visible and utterly ordinary. A century ago, Wilde emphasized the singularity of beauty. A century later, Shanghai’s gay men perform the uniformity of beauty.
Perhaps buzzcuts, beards, biceps, and white tank tops align with contemporary gay aesthetics. Perhaps fashion is cyclical, and the dress codes and aesthetic dogmas of the 2020s were written into history long ago. Perhaps Shanghai’s gay men are merely complying with historical rules, and aesthetic uniformity is not their desire. But what about love?
“Everyone likes watching gay couples fall in love on Bilibili now,” my friend said as we watched videos together at her place on the first day after lockdown ended. With the rise of smartphones and social media the internet has become the modern Budda of romance—benevolent, forgiving, observing from afar as couples display affection. It cares for them, and it absolves them.
Gay love, however, ferments dangerously. Wherever data reaches, disaster follows.
Every time I open Xiaohongshu—hoping to learn a recipe or check fitness supplement recommendations—the algorithm floods me with gay couples living their “beautiful lives”: buying apartments, kissing, vacationing, getting married. The algorithm seems more anxious than my parents, urging me daily to find a boyfriend and live a smooth, data-blessed gay life. These syrupy romances are nothing more than processed fragments of life. Awkward first meetings, unspeakable hookup histories, painful sexual encounters that end in tears, countless lies told before video calls with parents—all these impure, messy elements are meticulously cut out in editing. What remains is a five-minute video of purified meth: dazzling, crystalline, and lethally unpredictable. What terrifies me most is whether the love behind these videos is an extension of genuine affection—or merely scrambled code designed to crack the algorithm.
Socrates cherished Alcibiades for his beauty and potential; Alcibiades adored Socrates because his wisdom dispelled the fog of life. They loved and desired each other, teacher and student, lovers and mirrors, generating intellectual resonance as if enclosed within a sealed geometric space—every word answered. Andy Warhol’s lovers were either his muses or the forces that dragged him from ecstasy into hell, granting sexual climax while inflicting creative torment. Michael Cunningham once said after a breakup, “I can’t go on any more bad dates. No matter how cute the boy is, if there’s no intellectual connection, I’d rather be single forever.” In Sorry Angel—writer Pierre falls for the young Vincent. Living under the shadow of AIDS, Pierre embraces his “blond mistake” before death arrives, saying death is not frightening; what is frightening is failing to embrace the one you love before life vanishes—whether he is near or far, whether love is fleeting illusion or conjured desire.
Intellectual resonance, moral clarity, artistic inspirations, love in all its forms—gay love has followed countless scripts across time and geography, staging tragedies and comedies alike. Some are as great as Shakespeare, worthy of historical transmission. Others are as gentle and profound as Tagore’s poetry, slowly articulating love’s cadences. Yet in present-day Shanghai, a city with infinite possibility, gay love stories have been copy-pasted by countless creators. Narrative power has fallen into the hands of aesthetically “white tank top” gay men. The boys who participate in these narratives are as exquisite as Louvre artifacts—meant to be admired, not touched. They devote everything to becoming elite within Shanghai’s gay hierarchy, believing sculpted bodies and delicate faces grant them authority over love itself.
Their monotonous, fragile, decaying gay aesthetics flood the internet, declaring to newly arrived post-2000 gay boys—still dreaming of refuge—that this is the only path to happiness, recognition, and love. Their romances hover between “We went to that vintage flea market today” and “Tomorrow we’re watching fireworks at Disneyland.” These absurd realities resemble peacock feathers—glorious in the heterosexual world, but in the broader universe, erased by a single breeze.
Last October, I went to a Shanghai gay bar for the first time—more accurately, a nightclub called Potent. New to the scene, I entered with wide eyes, eager to see what made Shanghai’s gay nightlife different. After showing my health code to security, I pushed through the crowd.
Dua Lipa’s Levitating pierced my eardrums from all directions. I stood near the center of the dance floor, one arm raising in the air following the rhythm, the other gripping my plastic cup to keep it from being knocked over by toher boys dancing wildly around me.
“I need you all night…”
The song reached its climax. Boys sang along, the crowd ignited. Some danced more fiercely, grabbing strangers’ hands without hesitation. The crowd surged forward, arms raised, moving in unison toward the DJ.
Suddenly, I became still. Pushed to the back, I found myself alone at the edge of the crowd, quietly observing the revelry. The familiar white tank tops, buzzcuts, mustaches—under the blood-red lights, appearances dissolved into sameness.
Boundaries vanished.
I could no longer tell who was who, or who belonged to whom. The agitation, the colors, the pounding sound induced hallucination. I felt as though I were standing in a sea of magma—blood-orange waves rolling toward me. Terrified of being swallowed, I ran away, trying to escape.
Levitating ended. Sapphire-blue light washed over the club. Arms fell. I lowered mine, lifted my plastic cup, and calmly took a sip of soda water—as if it were a sedative, soothing me after a nightmare of sameness.
*Xiaohongshu, known as Red in the Western society, is a digital platform where users could share videos, photos, texts for exposure. Its strong algorithm makes it accessible and easy to use.
作者：夏浩然
二零二二 六月五日
王尔德曾说：“惟浅薄之人才不以外表来判断。世界之隐秘是可见之物，而非不可见之物”。
王尔德爱美，也爱美男子。他懂得美丽外表所带来的赏心悦目不仅利于他更好地审视悲苦人世，他也知道美所蕴藏的高洁是一种特质，是一种人世间独有，或许赐之于上帝之手的圣洁物体，犹如空中以太，看不透，激发好奇，令人心旷神怡。当然了，作为同性恋的王尔德，美自然而然也是他人生所追求的一种品质。果不其然，一百年前的王尔德早已为同性恋群体铺好前路——自己和身边所接触的，都以美作底，而这个道理，当代同性恋也早已将其做成芯片，刻进大脑里。
公立2022年6月3日，上海解禁第三天，我兴高采烈地与朋友约好，就算顶着烈日，也要一同前往次等级网红街——五原路，找一家允许进店的咖啡厅，坐下来，吹吹空调，喝杯拿铁，与对方“零”距离对话。虽然没到三伏天，梅雨季节的突然袭击，也迫使上海的各路小红书男男女女外露白皙皮肤和小麦色薄肌。几经转折，我们坐在一家咖啡厅里。
三五对话后，三个男生和一个女生进店坐在我们旁桌。
“那三个男的是姐妹吧？”我朋友满心好奇又尽量压低声音问着我，我往左撇头用余光迅速扫了一下，“厉害啊，现在辨别能力这么强了”，说完我拿起杯子，喝了口热拿铁，“其实和你在外面溜达这么多次，也和你八卦这么多次，我大概总结出规律了，无非就那几样嘛”。
无非就那几样嘛。
当规律被逐渐定义，星球的运行轨道被不规则圆规画在草稿纸上时，事物多元里的有趣则少了一度，而自带多元、深不可测，难以判定的性质当然也被平庸和无聊取而代之。也不知从何时开始，上海男同性恋的轨迹变得如此有迹可循，特别是在芒种之日，过分艳丽的男同性恋的轨迹也变得过分透明。
飞机头、络腮胡（或者小胡子）、肱二头肌，早已见怪不怪，这三样刻在头顶，挂在脸上，贴在臂旁的特质在武康路，安福路和东湖路随处可见，都不用你抬起头仔细观察，只需要用轻微的余光一瞥便知道，一位或者几位上海同性恋佳丽正迎面向你走来。当然，白色背心已打败所有夏季单品，Gucci和Balenciaga都成了劣品，只有小小号，紧的贴身，让奶头激凸的白背心才是上海男同性恋的最爱。哦，还不能忘了Nike的白色长袜。毕竟体育生集万千宠爱于一身。
无论这些人来自哪里，在什么时候勇敢做自己，使出浑身解数抗衡内心父权撒旦，告诉自己我会与众不同，或者对着镜子，拿着吹风机，沉醉唱着张国荣的“我就是我，是颜色不一样的烟火”，但他们一旦到了上海，过去自我的信条被海量标签侵蚀，沦为其他人的复制品，千篇一律的着装让上海男同既显眼又普通。一百年前的王尔德强调美的唯一，一百年后的上海男同性恋喜欢美的同一。
或许飞机头、络腮胡、充血的肱二头肌和白色背心符合当代男同性恋美学，也或许时尚轮回，21世纪20年代的穿衣标准和审美教条已被历史提前写好，上海男同们只在遵守历史规则，审美同一并非他们心之所向，但恋情呢？“现在大家都喜欢在b站上看gay们谈恋爱”，解封第一天，我和我姐妹在她家边看b站内容边讨论着。伴随着智能手机、社交媒体和4G网的到来，互联网成了当代年轻人的恋爱观音，它慈悲怜悯，从远处注视着所有秀恩爱的男男女女，既关怀他们也原谅他们。而男同们的恋爱，发酵得可怕，流量所达之地，皆成灾。
每当我打开小红书，想学做一个菜或者看看健身博主推荐的补给品，大数据总会向我推荐无数对男同的美好生活，有的买房，有的接吻，有的度假，有的结婚，大数据似乎比我父母还心急，每天在小红书页面催着我也找个男友，顺心如意地过上流量下的男同美丽人生。看似如胶似漆的甜蜜爱恋只不过是生活碎片的加工品，尴尬的第一次见面，双方难以启齿的约炮回忆，疼的眼泪直流的性交经历，和数不清的在与双方父母视频对话前的撒谎和圆谎，这些不干净、不纯粹的元素在视频剪辑软件中被一一踢出，最后提炼出五分钟视频只是纯净冰毒，看似艳丽非凡，实际毒性难测。而更让我心惊胆战的是，这些视频背后的恋爱究竟是爱情的延展，还是一串破解流量密码的乱码。
苏格拉底宠爱阿尔西比亚德斯，因为他垂涎阿尔西比亚德斯的美貌和潜力，阿尔西比亚德斯也爱慕着苏格拉底，因为在他这一生中，苏格拉底的智慧和判断力替他抹去生活中的层层云雾。他们双方既爱慕，也爱欲，彼此是对方的老师，学徒，也是爱人，他们在精神上生发回音，仿佛两个人一直活在一个密闭的四方形里，你言我必答。安迪·沃霍尔的男友要么是他的艺术缪斯，要么将他从极乐带向地狱，给他带来性爱高潮也给他带来创作的痛苦根源。迈克尔·坎宁安在与恋人分手后说道，“我不能再去任何一个糟糕的约会了，无论那个男孩有多可爱，如果精神上无法共鸣，我宁愿单着一辈子”。《喜欢，轻吻，快跑》里的作家皮埃尔爱上了年轻的文森特，即使成天活在艾滋梦魇里的皮埃尔，在死神降临前，拥抱了自己的“金发错爱”，他说死亡不可怕，可怕的是没在生命彻底消逝前拥抱你所爱的那一个人，无论他在眼前，还是在天边，无论他只是感觉的昙花一现，还是恋欲的无中生有。
智慧回音，道德光明，艺术泉眼，爱的一切。男同的爱情从古至今有许多脚本，一出又一出穿越各个时代和地域上演着共同的悲剧和喜剧，他们有的伟大如莎士比亚的经典戏剧，值得跨越历史山河流传至今，有的温柔深刻如泰戈尔的诗，缓慢吞吐着爱情诗歌里的每一个抑扬顿挫。而到了当下最富有无数可能性的上海，男同们的爱情故事被成千上万的创作者们复制粘贴，爱情故事叙述的权力被掌握在美学同一的“白背心“男手里。参与叙述的男孩个个精致如卢浮宫里的艺术品，只能远观，不能亵玩。
他们花尽所有心思和力气成为上海男同里的佼佼者，凭借娇贵脸蛋和健硕身材就想主导群体的爱情叙事。他们单调、薄弱、陈腐、枯枝乏味的男同性恋美学排山倒海般侵略着互联网一个又一个角落，告诉才到上海不久，幻想可以在这里找到栖息之地的00后男同男孩们，这才是你作为男同，获得幸福，获得认可，获得爱情的唯一法则。他们爱情故事的你侬我侬悬停在“今天我们去了那个二手古着市集”或者“明天我们要去迪士尼看烟花”之间，这些可笑现实好比孔雀羽毛，在异性恋的世界华丽得无与伦比，而在万物世界里，一阵微风挂过，便销声匿迹，不值一提。
去年国庆节，我第一次去上海的gay吧，准确的说应该是个夜店，叫potent。初来乍到的我想睁大眼睛看看上海的gay吧到底有什么与众不同，抱着无比好奇的心态，给保安看了健康码后，我便大步跨步穿过人群，挤进了potent。
Dua Lipa的‘Levitating’从四面八方穿透我的耳膜。我站在舞台中心，一只手跟着人流在空中触摸着空气，打着节拍，另一只手紧紧拿着我的塑料杯，避免它被旁边群魔乱舞的男孩们撞翻在地。‘I need you all night…’，歌曲逐渐进入高潮，夜店里的男孩纷纷放声跟着音响唱着，人群气氛火烈，有的男孩越跳越激烈，也不管是否认识身边的人，拉着手便开始和他们一起跳舞。
人群逐渐往前走，大家在空中挥舞着双手，朝DJ的方向共同打着节拍。我突然变得呆滞，被人群推到后排，慢慢地，只有我一个人站在人群尾部，我宁静地看着眼前所有狂欢的男孩——还是熟悉的白背心，飞机头和小胡子，但在夜店血红的灯光下，所有人的衣服和外貌逐渐趋同，每个人之间的边界逐渐消失，我更加无法判别谁是谁，或者谁是谁的谁。
人群的躁动，色彩的迷幻和音乐的震响使我产生幻觉，我忽然感觉我仿佛身处在一片岩浆里，血橙色滚滚而来，我胆战心惊，害怕被这股力量吞噬，我努力往岩浆下游奔跑着，想躲过这劫难。
‘Levitating’结束。
夜店被宝蓝色的灯光包裹。眼前的双手纷纷落下。我也将拍打空气的那只手放下来，端着塑料杯，平稳地喝了一口苏打水，仿佛这口苏打水是镇定剂，安抚我被同一的梦魇。