The sun dipped early on October 31, 2002, and Halloween night became hopelessly frosty.
Given the icy temperature, Taso and I dressed as winter wear models and walked our bundled but bluing bodies up and down Franklin Street only once-hoping to find some warmth within the undulating ocean of feathered, aluminum and vinyl costumes.
But having failed to steal sufficient body heat from strangers, and now fearing frostbite, we shouldered our way toward the car through BeetleJuices and Scooby Doos until we unexpectedly broke through a rare breach in the crowd and landed squarely in front of a lone, bare-chested Cupid.
Elvises, Ms. Americas, and blue Smurfs watched dumbly as Cupid, God of Love passed by. The dense crowd broke easily around him, leaving Cupid center stage on the otherwise crowded streets of Chapel Hill.
Around his waist Cupid, God of Love wore the only tiniest ivory swathing. Around his head he donned a gilded crown of laurel and black cherubic curls fell low on his pale brow. A pair of golden-tipped wings hugged his tiny, naked shoulders, and in his hand he carried a plush, heart-shaped wand.
Taso and I looked at each other, surprised that someone would be so bold as to wear so little on that cold Halloween night. And, as we had done many times earlier that evening, we chuckled to ourselves as we admired his brash choice in costume.
But deep, slurred catcalls cut through the crowd in Cupid's wake. And quickly, the whistles, laughter and pointing fingers deteriorated into threatening, hateful and bitter insults.
Soon enough, groups of costumed men much bigger than Cupid marshaled themselves into a tight pack and skulked just a few yards behind the little winged cherub.
"FAG!"
"QUEER!"
The hecklers grew crueler and bolder-their bravado bolstered by the swelling numbers of other men who were drawn into the melee. The looming pack seemed angered and even personally offended by the notion that this tiny Cupid-to them, a total stranger-might be gay.
In response, Cupid swayed his hips and flung his arms high above his head extending both middle fingers. His dark curls and angel wings jostled as he dramatically strutted down an imaginary runway.
After launching a few more homophobic insults at the cherub's winged back, the costumed gang grew disinterested and dispersed, applauding their own machismo and only occasionally casting tickled glances back towards Cupid, God of Love.
Mortified, I stood in silence next to Taso and watched as Cupid bounded through the parting crowd on Franklin Street. When the tips of his wings receded from sight and the catcalls and gay jokes finally drowned in the din, Taso and I bowed out from Franklin Street and returned home.
In the car, it dawned on me that even though it was Halloween, there were still some social and gender lines that few individuals could cross.
It was one thing to parody a social role or fictional figure (cop, Captain Morgan or the creepy guy with the camera and plastic bag from American Beauty); an object (taco, toilet, Twinkie); or a public figure (Bin Laden, Bush, or Right Said Fred).
But it was another thing entirely to be something too edgy, or something too real.
In fact, thinking back to Cupid's tormenters, I remembered seeing guys in skirts, makeup and platform shoes gawking and laughing at him. And I remembered beefy, hairy-chested men dressed as Hooters' Girls donning enormous breasts while their bare, distended beer bellies spilled over the elastic waistbands of tiny orange spandex shorts. Between taunts they all adjusted their awkward, ballooning bosoms, and yet no one hatefully accosted them for being gay. Why not?
A masculine parody of femininity is undoubtedly acceptable. Laughable. Macho, even. Men who dress as pop stars, Hooters' Girls or "Dook Girls" do it to poke fun at themselves and at the women they go dressed as. To them, the costuming fantasy is way of getting attention and playfully having a laugh.
Conversely, a masculine embodiment of femininity, it would seem, is downright unacceptable. Threatening. And queer. Cupid, God of Love, I would venture, was just too ostensibly comfortable in his particular costuming fantasy, and the more comfortable he was with himself, the more uncomfortable he made other men.
Cupid, God of Love, bent traditional gender roles and gender rules until he shattered them on the frozen streets of Chapel Hill. And Cupid's plucky boldness made me wonder how many other people would ever be brave enough to do the same.
Boston Cote is a Trinity senior. Her column runs every Friday.
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