When Safety Training Becomes the Threat
Why gay men can handle crisis intimacy but fall apart when someone sees them on a Tuesday morning.
Big thanks to new subscribers since the last post. If you’re new: Hi, I’m Gino, a psychotherapist working with gay men in the EU and UK.
This newsletter is for gay men and allies seeking genuine connection over performance. Weekly, you’ll get a thoughtful letter and a 1-minute voiceover. Happy you’re here :)
His jaw does this thing. Tightens mid-sentence, like a door slamming on whatever he was about to say. We were talking about the guy he’s been seeing for three months. Good guy, apparently. Stable job, likes hiking, texts back. All the green flags everyone says to look for.
“So what happened?” I ask.
“Nothing happened. That’s the problem.” He shifts in his chair. “Last week he said he loved me and I…picked a fight about how he loads the dishwasher.”
I wait.
“I know what you’re thinking. Classic sabotage. But it wasn’t—” He stops. Starts again. “When he said he loved me, all I could think was: he’s going to keep seeing me. Including the parts that aren’t impressive. The days I don’t do anything worth mentioning. When I’m just…regular.”
He looks at me like he’s confessing something shameful.
“I panicked.”
Crisis Intimacy vs. Maintenance Intimacy
Here’s the pattern I keep seeing: Gay men can do crisis intimacy brilliantly. Coming-out stories, shared trauma, 2 am conversations about existence, political solidarity, and chosen family drama.
That kind of depth actually feels safe because you’re performing something. You’re spectacular. You’re earning your place.
But maintenance intimacy? The intimacy of Tuesday morning? Whose turn is it to buy toilet paper? Should we get your mom a birthday card? Can you pick up milk on the way home?
That’s where it breaks.
Because maintenance intimacy requires being ordinary. Being seen when you’re not impressive. Not performing anything. Just existing in your regular human mess.
And gay men learned that ordinary visibility could get you killed.
Being the funny gay friend was sometimes protective. Being accomplished earned conditional safety. But being regular? Being the gay kid who just wanted to exist without commentary? That’s what got you hurt.
So when his boyfriend said “I love you,” his body didn’t hear romance. It heard threat.
Someone was going to witness him unshowered. Picking up socks. Having nothing interesting to say. Being human in ways that don’t justify taking up space.
The dishwasher fight wasn’t about love or commitment.
It was about manufacturing an exit before his ordinariness became evidence he wasn’t worth keeping.
The Three Things Gay Men Weren’t Allowed to Learn
Maintenance intimacy requires specific skills. Not grand gestures or emotional depth. Smaller, stranger things. The kind of things straight people develop without noticing because their existence was never conditional.
1. Taking up space without earning it
Gay kids learned: If you’re not funny, smart, helpful, or exceptional, you’re a burden. You don’t get to just exist. You have to earn your right to take up space. Every single day.
Adult partnership means someone sees you on days you’re contributing nothing. When you’re tired and boring and forgot to be charming. When you have no stories worth telling and nothing clever to offer.
A client once told me he deep-cleans the apartment every time his boyfriend comes over, even though they’ve been together for two years. “If the place looks like I’ve been lazy, he’ll realize he could do better.”
2. Disappointing someone without triggering abandonment panic
Maintenance intimacy involves constant minor disappointments. Forgot the milk. Too tired for sex. Need alone time. Can’t be emotionally available tonight. Would rather watch TV than talk.
When you disappointed straight people, you could blame homophobia. When you disappoint other gay people, especially a partner who chose you, it confirms the thing you’ve always feared.
You’re the problem.
3. Making requests without building a case first
Partnership requires making requests without the preamble.
“I need quiet tonight” without explaining why you’re worthy of having that need met. “I’m not up for your family’s thing” without performing sufficient gratitude for being included in the first place.
When you’ve spent decades justifying your right to exist, asking for things feels like risking everything.
Why Community Works But Partnership Doesn’t
Gay men have community everywhere. Friend groups, chosen families, activist networks, and hookup culture where everyone knows everyone. They can do that intimacy without breaking.
Because community lets you stay in motion.
You can be different versions of yourself across different spaces. You can exit when it gets too close. You can curate who sees what. The friend who gets your political rage doesn’t have to see your domestic mundanity. The hookup who witnesses your body doesn’t witness your grocery list.
Partnership removes that option.
Someone sees everything. The boring, the petty, the days you’re not likeable. The morning breath and the mood you can’t explain, and the fact that sometimes you just want to scroll your phone in silence.
That total visibility feels like standing naked under fluorescent lights. Exposed in ways that crisis intimacy never required.
Crisis intimacy had narrative shape. Maintenance intimacy is just…existence. And for gay men who learned that existing without justification was dangerous, that’s terrifying.
The Wound No One Prepared You For
Straight men struggle to be vulnerable because masculinity punishes softness.
Gay men struggle to believe they’re allowed to be unremarkable.
Different wound.
You came out expecting that being seen would solve everything. And in some ways it did. You got to stop hiding your attractions, your relationships, your whole orientation toward the world.
But you didn’t get to stop hiding the parts of yourself that aren’t impressive.
Because the bargain gay men made with the world was: I’ll be exceptional and you’ll tolerate me. I’ll be funny, successful, culturally valuable, politically aware, always emotionally available, never too much, never boring.
That bargain doesn’t have an off switch. Your body still believes that ordinariness equals disposability.
So partnership, where someone commits to you, including the boring parts, feels impossible. Not because you can’t do commitment. Because you can’t believe anyone would stay once the performance stops.
What Actually Needs to Happen
If you’re a gay man who can handle crisis but falls apart at “did you take out the trash,” you’re not broken.
You’re responding to accurate information your body learned when you were young: that ordinary visibility was dangerous, that you had to earn your space, that being unremarkable meant being erased.
That was true then. It’s not true with the person you’re with now.
The work isn’t learning to trust faster. It’s learning to separate past danger from present reality.
Maintenance intimacy doesn’t require you to be spectacular. It requires you to exist. To be tired some days. To need things without deserving them. To disappoint someone and survive it.
The hard part? Learning that you can be boring on a Tuesday and still matter on Wednesday.
Love,
Gino 💙
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This newsletter is for educational and informational purposes only. It does not replace therapy, diagnose, treat, or prevent any mental health condition. Client examples are composites created to protect confidentiality.
This resonates deeply, even from a slightly different angle.
I’m coming out of addiction and a dynamic that never allowed real mutuality. What I’m rebuilding now isn’t an identity, but the capacity for genuine closeness without performance, without urgency to label myself or my desires.
For me, this text names something essential: that intimacy doesn’t begin with defining who we are, but with allowing ourselves to exist ordinary, undecided, and still worthy of staying.
Thank you for articulating that so clearly.
This is great Gino. So true. I feel at work that I have to overperform and outdo myself at every step just to be adequate—equal to my straight colleagues. At home, I cave in arguments out of fear of him leaving me. Standing up for myself is something I’m not used to. I’m not sure where to start, but, once again, you’ve given me a heart thing to think about. Thank you Gino! ❤️❤️❤️