IN THE KEY OF Q

The Simple Act That Isn’t Simple

“Even living in New York, I had a hard time accepting that he wanted to hold my hand if we were out in public because there is a fear that someone will say something hurtful… or more so the fear that someone might physically harm you.”

During his In the Key of Q interview, Eric Terino’s confession about his hesitation to hold hands with his boyfriend—even in supposedly liberal New York—illuminates something many queer people understand viscerally: how the simplest gestures of affection can become fraught with anxiety, risk assessment, and internal negotiation.

For heterosexual couples, holding hands in public is unremarkable—so automatic it barely registers as a choice. For LGBTQ+ people, it remains an act that requires courage, calculation, and sometimes a willingness to become momentarily visible in ways that might attract unwanted attention or worse. For me – and I still can’t shake this – it is often meant as an act of defiance.

What does it mean that something so fundamental to human connection—the touch of fingers interlacing—remains, for many of us, an act of political defiance rather than casual intimacy?

Reading the Room Before Reaching Out

Most queer people develop a sixth sense—a constant background algorithm running threat assessments of our surroundings. Before reaching for a partner’s hand, we scan the street, evaluate nearby groups, consider the neighbourhood, the time of day, whether we’re near public transport or far from potential exits.

This hypervigilance isn’t paranoia; it’s learned behaviour based on collective and personal experience. As Eric notes: “For all of my youth, that sense of not feeling like it was a wise choice to be openly affectionate with the same sex partner.”

Even in supposedly progressive cities or neighbourhoods, this calculation continues. Sarah Schulman, in her book “The Gentrification of the Mind,” observes how gentrification in places like New York created enclaves where queer visibility was tolerated within specific boundaries—geographical, aesthetic, and behavioural. But step outside those invisible borders, and acceptance evaporates quickly.

For those living outside urban centres or in conservative regions, these calculations become even more complex.

The Gaslit Response

When queer people express these concerns, a common response echoes what Dan Hall posed to Eric during the interview: “What do you feel about people who would say to you, ‘Eric, if you don’t want to be hurt, if you don’t want to put yourself in danger, then why don’t you just not be openly affectionate?’”

This logic—that we should conceal our affection to avoid violence—parallels other forms of victim-blaming. As Eric and Dan discuss, it’s the same reasoning that suggests women should avoid short skirts to prevent assault: it places responsibility on potential victims rather than perpetrators.

“Short skirts and dark alleys don’t rape women. Men rape women,” Dan observes. Eric agrees: “We’re kind of conditioned to think that people are going to do the worst thing, you know. So if you’re a woman and you’re wearing a short skirt, you’re asking for it in the same way that if you’re a gay man and you’re being affectionate in public, you’re asking for it.”

This gaslighting doubles the burden—not only must we navigate potential external threats, but we’re made to feel responsible should those threats materialise. The suggestion becomes that our visibility itself is the provocation, rather than others’ bigotry.

The Cost of Calculation

This constant negotiation exacts a toll that straight people rarely comprehend. Every casual touch becomes a political decision; every spontaneous gesture of affection requires premeditation. The mental energy diverted to these calculations—energy that could be directed toward the actual relationship—is itself a form of minority stress.

For some, like Eric, this stress can contribute to mental health challenges like agoraphobia: “A big part of my fear of feeling unsafe out in the world is rooted in feeling homophobia from people when I’ve been out in the world”.

While not all queer people develop clinical anxiety, many experience a milder version of this hypervigilance—a constant background awareness that public space is conditionally available to us, based on how well we conform to heteronormative expectations.

This doesn’t mean queer people aren’t holding hands in public—many are, with increasing frequency. But it does mean that each instance represents a negotiation and potential risk many heterosexuals never consider.

Touch in a Time of Distance

The COVID pandemic introduced new dimensions to this conversation. As physical distance became mandatory for everyone, the privilege of casual touch—once taken for granted by heterosexual couples—was temporarily suspended.

For many queer people, this created a strange equalising effect: suddenly, all couples faced restrictions on public affection.

As we emerge from the pandemic into an increasingly polarised political landscape, the question of queer visibility in public space takes on renewed urgency. While some regions have seen progress toward acceptance, others have experienced backlash, with new legislation targeting LGBTQ+ expression.

In this context, the simple act of holding hands retains its dual nature—both ordinary affection and extraordinary resistance. Each couple making that choice continues a tradition of visibility that has slowly transformed public space, making it more habitable for those who follow.

For those who still hesitate, like Eric once did in New York, there’s no shame in calculation or caution. The decision to hold hands—or not—remains deeply personal, shaped by individual circumstances, comfort levels, and safety considerations.

But for those who do reach out, fingers intertwining in daylight, there’s power in that connection. And power for others to SEE it. It’s not just a gesture between lovers but a thread in a larger tapestry of queer visibility—one that continues to transform public space through the simplest and most human acts of affection.

Listen to Eric’s episode here.

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