Our household is being forced to clean because of the impending visit of my mother-in-law. (We are not among the gays who keep an immaculate house. I long ago discovered the dark secret the Swiffer folks never reveal—it just gets dirty again!) As part of the process, my husband started going through the inevitable box of old pictures, a chore of which no one born after 2000 will ever know the joy.
My husband was born in 1961, and the box was full of photos of his gay life in Boston during his twenties. I love these pictures—shot after shot of skinny gay men in tight Levi’s, snug-fitting Lacoste shirts, and the ubiquitous fuzzy caterpillar crawling across their upper lip: the pornstache. Of course, facial hair among gay men over twenty-five is virtually de rigueur today, but lately it’s mostly been beards, ranging from the three-day bender look to full Smith Brothers. But, to my delight, I’m once again seeing more clean-shaven chins and luxuriously covered upper lips.
I was born at a time when facial hair in general and moustaches in particular were not only suspect, but virtually illegal. Who had a moustache? Snidely Whiplash, Boris Badenov, and maybe your grandmother, but that was about it. You might see something on the late show, but somehow those highly trimmed numbers from the 1930s could make even Clark Gable and Errol Flynn look a little effete and suspect—like a rude French waiter or a slightly too-friendly high school chorus teacher.
The late sixties brought facial hair, but it was designed to be less erotic and more revolutionary—I’ve always had difficulty picturing Marx in a three-way (Karl, not Groucho). But then came the seventies and the peacock—disco pants so tight no wallet could survive, open shirt fronts with more gold than Donald Trump’s bidet, and moustaches! By the eighties, some of the most iconic moustaches were in full flower. Tom Selleck and Burt Reynolds. Freddie Mercury and John Oates. There was a pornstache for every taste: Billy Dee Williams, smooth and romantic. Keith Hernandez for the sporty set. Alex Trebek for the pseudointellectual (remember, he didn’t answer the questions, he just read them). And Wilford Brimley, for those whose heart belonged to daddy—and Quaker Oats.
Of course, they’re just moustaches—why call them pornstaches? It’s an homage to the porn “stars” of the seventies and eighties, when adding a moustache was supposed to juice up the performer’s virility and rugged masculinity. (Yeah, remember Rip Taylor?) I assume many of you have fond memories of moustaches on icons like Steve Kelso, Al Parker, or Nick Chase. Perhaps I’m prejudiced, but somehow they seem to have aged better than the ’staches on straight “stars” like Harry Reems or Ron Jeremy. When I come across pictures of them today, all I can imagine is a sweaty guy in a plaid sports coat trying to unload a 1972 Chevy Vega with “incredibly low miles.”
Of course, unlike any red-state legislature, today’s ’stache culture thrives on diversity. I refuse to discriminate and consider any and all facial hair solely above the lip as a pornstache, because it gives more faces a titillating sexual appeal, whether it’s on your mail carrier or your second cousin. (Don’t judge—it’s legal in all fifty states.) For example, no one can argue with the classic bushy pornstache, one that sprouts lushly from just under the nose and leaves the public uncertain whether there’s any upper lip there at all. The classic examples are Jason Sudeikis in Ted Lasso or Nick Offerman in Parks and Recreation. I don’t care whether the wearer is operating a backhoe or sporting French tips and a strapless bustier, this pornstache exudes strength and stability. During sex, it’s like the restraint bar on a roller-coaster seat—something you can grab onto and scream.
Not every man can—nor should—sport the walrus-like cookie-duster described above. Style must be personal and unique. For example, though an orange jumpsuit might be very slimming for certain North American heads of state, it’s not for everyone. Pedro Pascal’s delicious pornstache is somewhat of an everyman style. It’s relaxed and sporty, with nothing to prove. Like a friendly golden retriever on an upper lip, it begs to be petted and tempted with treats.
Then, there is the guilty pleasure of an incipient pornstache—a wisp of a thing clinging to a baby face, a shadow that might just disappear with a mother’s spit and a determined thumb. I’m thinking of that kind of impishly sexy ’stache you see on someone like Timothée Chalamet—is this a valiant attempt, or did he just forget to shave? Here is a moustache that’s like a little salt in your cocoa—it cuts the sweetness. Plus, it makes a fascination with someone like Benson Boone a bit less creepy—if he’s got a moustache, he must be at least old enough for a learner’s permit.
Everyone, of course, to their individual tastes. To me, the John Waters ’stache seems appropriate only to leading actors in school films reminding you of the dangers of random men in windowless vans. On the other hand, the newscaster moustache can be reassuring, but only if it’s more Walter Cronkite and less Will Ferrell. Some may find it odd that the Lorax sprouts a luxurious pornstache, but I think that simply gives him more gravitas as he speaks for the trees.
