Poptastic Danceability: Ianto Jones and Those Crazy Fictional Bisexuals

"Aww. When she found out about Jack?"

"When I was fourteen."

Gwen stopped again. "I dunno which scares me more - that your mam worked you out ten years before you did, or that the fourteen-year-old Ianto Jones used the phrase 'poptastic danceability' without getting beaten up."


I generally don't read television series novelizations. The reasons are many and varied, but I can list them with the skill of a list-serv ninja: the characterizations are often weak, the plots tend to be better suited to TV in the first place, the authors aren't necessarily familiar with the source material, et cetera, so on, and so forth. I can count on one hand the number of novelizations I've read and enjoyed: Planet X, an X-Men/Star Trek crossover novel (and proof that I should always take Lianne's book recs seriously), and The Twilight Streets, one of the new Torchwood novels.

For those of you who don't know Torchwood and have never suffered through my thirty-second plot synopsis, Torchwood is a BBC sci-fi series about a group of five individuals who are employed to find and obtain alien species and artifacts that come through a rift in time-space that runs through Cardiff, Wales. In the book The Twilight Streets, their leader is perplexed and frustrated by a section of the city he cannot physically enter (it makes him ill), and, as the strange happenings in this mostly-deserted section of blocks increases, involves his team in searching for an answer.

At one point in the book, Gwen and Ianto are walking together through this suspicious area, looking for one specific house, and they strike up a conversation. Gwen, who is to be married soon, dives into the conversation after a stream-of-consciousness train of thought about (and I am not making this up) IKEA, Abba, men who like Abba, and the relationship of men who like Abba to men who like women (inversely related). She turns to Ianto, and out of the blue, asks him his opinion about Abba.

This is not, in fact, a non sequitur. For some character background, Gwen is the every(wo)man of the group, the humanizing factor, the empathic, kind, grounded one who keeps the rest of them in check thanks to her emotional connection to other people. She's engaged to her long-time boyfriend and is the only one of the team to really have a life outside their jobs, something that--by the point the novel is written--she takes quite seriously.

Ianto's job is sort of team gopher. He runs the archives, liaises with other groups, and makes the coffee. In the first series of Torchwood, it's discovered that he is secretly keeping his girlfriend--who is half evil robot and half human (I told you it was a sci-fi series)--in their facility. She loses what little of her mind is left and tries to kill them all, and Ianto falls to pieces and is later suspended from duty. As time goes on, however, it is slowly revealed that he is embroiled in an affair with their team leader, Jack. By series two, it's clear that the affair is now a relationship, or at least hedging on the edges of one.

I'll give you a moment to process that statement.

Now, lest you think this is Kate's Big Gay Blog (everything is better with "Big Gay" in front of it), I will eventually talk about things other than sexuality in media. But one of the issues in media that I often discuss with others is the portrayal not of homosexuals or heterosexuals, but rather of bisexuals. The fact is, the list is short and a little shameful. In fact, some of the words that most often pop up on the Wikipedia list of bisexual characters, especially in the television section, include "confused", "primarily straight", "socially problematic", and "sociopath". I only wish I were joking.

There is a tendency in media, I've noticed, to gloss over even the concept of bisexual characters. The list is very short when compared to a list of homosexual characters (never mind straight characters), and much of the bisexuality is reserved for females who, at some point, end up in bed with another female. I realize the thousand and two stereotypes that play into the idea of a bisexual man, and how threatening it is to manhood, and the whatnot, but this doesn't change that simple fact. Moreover, there have been many characters in media in which bisexuality is suggested--Greg Sanders, Jordan Cavanaugh, Nigel Townsend, Tim Bayliss (arguably, not really suggested), Spike (from Buffy), and many more that I don't feel like naming (including the rest of the Torchwood characters)--but never explored or stated.

Ianto, then, is clearly something other than heterosexual, though it was never stated in the series proper. The series glossed over it and went simply from Ianto having a girlfriend who is hidden in the basement to Ianto bandying about innuendo with Jack, and the fans of the show speculated everything here and back again as to Ianto's "team membership": he was gay, he was straight, he was using Jack, he was bisexual but mostly wanted Jack, he was bisexual but insofar as Jack was the first and possibly only man he had been with, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. The show's creators at least had the sense not to dwell on it, and let viewers have the meat and potatoes of the interactions instead of stopping to garnish it with "and Ianto is bisexual."

(As a side note, Jack is from the future--the 51st century, if we're being honest--where pansexuality is the norm and there is absolutely no social eyebrow raised to sex with a man, woman, alien, two aliens, and probably robots as well.)

But then, after all of that, came Gwen's conversation with Ianto in The Twilight Streets. Here is the word-for-word conversation (starting with Ianto's response to the question):


"Fine. Then I admire the Andersson/Ulvaeus writing partnership as craftsmen and songsmiths. I believe 'One of Us' may be the best song written about relationship break-ups ever, and I have a soft spot for the fusion of witty lyrical content and poptastic danceability of 'Voulez-Vous,' but let me make this absolutely clear: I bloody loathe 'Dancing Queen.' All right?"

Gwen stopped walking and just looked at him.

"What?" he asked.

"You've had this conversation before, haven't you."

"Might have."

"Jack?"

"You honestly think Jack knows anything about music after 1948?"

"Who then?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Who?" She started walking again. "Come on. I might die tonight, never knowing."

"Me Mam."

"Aww. When she found out about Jack?"

"When I was fourteen."

Gwen stopped again. "I dunno which scares me more - that your mam worked you out ten years before you did, or that the fourteen-year-old Ianto Jones used the phrase 'poptastic danceability' without getting beaten up."

Ianto stopped suddenly. "She didn't work me out, Gwen. No one has. And if I ever do, I'll let you know."

Gwen smiled, nudged his arm. "Oh come on, smile. Lisa, Jack...being bisexual is hardly a crime. Best of both worlds, isn't it?"

And Ianto pushed her away. "No, Gwen. No, really it's bloody not. It's the worst of any world because you don't really belong anywhere, because you are never sure of yourself or those around you. You can't trust in anyone, their motives or their intentions. And because of that, you have, in a world that likes its nice shiny labels, no true identity. For Torchwood's 'Little Miss Sensitive', you don't half talk crap sometimes. So do me a favour and shut up about it, all right?"


I read this particular passage while administering the AIMS test at work (because it was either read my book or go slowly insane from pacing the room in slow circles and watching students fill in bubbles) and immediately marked the page. When I had a spare moment at home, I typed up the passage and sent to to my friend Gayle, with whom I often discuss these issues with. I believe her response was something along the lines of "YES."

When I saw the way the conversation was being steered, towards Ianto's sexuality, I will not deny the bolus of dread that formed in my stomach. I was absolutely convinced that it would become some light-hearted joking about how, yes, being bisexual meant all the sex in the world! and life would be a happy rainbow-themed fun fair.

Instead, we have, for the second time in my media searches for well-written, well-characterized, non-pigeon-holed bisexuals, honesty from a character. No dismissal, no clever joke, but a flat-out explanation of himself (he doesn't know and it is certainly no one else's place to say) to a rosy-cheeked go-girl who thinks that being bisexual means twice the sex and zero the awkwardness.

Now, I do have to pause and say that this is not the first time in the last six months I have been impressed by the revelation of character bisexuality. 13 on House, MD was more-or-less outed by Eric Foreman in the episode "Don't Ever Change", and I honestly liked Foreman's take on her character and her reaction to it; not once did she stand up and deny or flail. She took his comment, she listened to his thoughts (that people who argue the uselessness of "check boxes" in society tend to be the same people who can't find a box to check for themselves), and then, the show moved on.

I'm not sure I agree entirely with Foreman or Ianto in that there is no box to check, no "true identity", but I appreciate that media is opening discourse on the subject instead of layering on the black-versus-white simplicity of "you are straight, you are gay, or you are crazy/slutty/desperate". It's been a long time in coming, given that L.A. Law opened at least the televised door of bisexuality many years ago, but I hope this manages to be less then exception and more the norm. We need characters who can discuss themselves, who understand themselves, and who can stand up and admit to being whatever it is they are. Gay, straight, bisexual, purple-polka-dotted.

Don't be scared, media. It's okay. Really, I promise, it will all turn out right in the end.

Bag Mags: A Theory on Forced Shame

It's a long story and involves many characters and plot twists, but I shall sum it up as thus: a year ago, and without really my express permission (but not so much so that I would describe it as "against my will"), I became a subscriber to both Out and The Advocate. I'm not sure they are magazines I would have ordered for myself if given the opportunity, half because of content ("and here is another straight person that we gays writing this like, so let us feature him or her instead of featuring a real-life homosexual") and half simply because I'm not a magazine reader. That said, I usually read at least some of the articles, and occasionally find things I really like. (Examples include the profile of The Arizona Republic's news editor, who is now the most powerful out gay man in journalism, and the issue of Out which featured a bio on John Barrowman and Scott Gill's first ever interview in the fifteen years they've been together. Let me repeat this, because I am a fangirl: Scott's first interview ever. Yeah, that's right. I kept that baby and I reread it.)

But this is not really about the fact that I subscribed unwittingly to two Big Gay Magazines. This is about their little plastic wrappers.

I do not know if any of you who may read this subscribes to or ever has subscribed to these magazines, but they arrive in an opaque gray plastic wrapper that has printed on it only your address and the return address. The return address, too, is listed by company name - LPI, for instance - and leaves no indication of what is in the wrap. The first time one arrived, I staggered to a stop because I had no idea what had been delivered in my mailbox. Visions of Playboy and Penthouse danced in my head. I thought I might have been the butt of a cruel joke, or that the previous renter of this apartment had an interesting taste in magazines.

Imagine my surprise - and confusion - when I discovered that, no, it was The Advocate.

All this leads me to the title in a way (not as interesting as a coming entry that I have already titled "Poptastic Danceibility"), because this is how I feel: forced to be ashamed of my reading choice.

I understand, of course, homophobia. I understand it the way I understand racism and bigotry. People are homophobic and, when it comes right down to it, can be unforgivably cruel to others. But I don't feel these bags are a protection from homophobia, or from the local mailcarrier, I don't know, leaving dog poop in a bag on your doorstep. I think it's forcing people who subscribe to be xenophobic, and fear what other people might think.

Isn't that the gist of it? "Hello, subscriber who may be GLBT. As the publisher of this magazine, I know that you are uncomfortable with your sexuality. I will protect you from all those bad heteros out there who may see this magazine when you remove it from your mailbox and come after you with torches and pitchforks. Also, did you know a lot of gay people like John Mayer? Trufax."

It's contrary to the mission of the magazines, creating solidarity and a culture for a group of people who, to date, rank as some of the world's most persecuted. How many articles that actually do feature gay artists, actors, or businesspeople stress the importance of being out and proud? And yet, the mostly-harmless covers of these magazines are hidden from the public eye when they arrive in the mail bin. I wouldn't even know any better were I a militant "all queers must die" homophobic. The first time I saw The Advocate, I assumed it was just another entertainment magazine, and it took until halfway through an article on the RENT movie that I realized no, no, I most certainly was mistaken.

How many people who are going to go out on the limb of ordering these magazines are really so deeply closeted that they fear what their postman or the guy who accidentally sees him pick up his mail thinks? The innocuousness of this is so silly. It's like the "yellow equals sign" of the Human Rights Campaign: unless you're "in the know", you truly have no idea what it is. I believe in the HRC mission but I am not sure I would put the bumper sticker on my car because it would only make people wonder. In the same way, I am curious to what my neighbors think of me toting around a bag-covered magazine when I leave the mailroom.

LPI, and also Out's publisher (the name escapes me), offers the option of "going bagless". I have yet to take them up on this, but perhaps I should, and come "out of the closet" as a subscriber. But at the same time, I am tempted not to save them these pennies because this should never have been the option. The option should be "would you like to have your magazine bagged?" when you sign up, not vice versa.

If we really want to build a better mousetrap (or in this case, build a better society), we should start by not fearing something as simple as the associations people might have with our magazine subscriptions. I am not saying that every LGBT individual should go march in a Pride Parade or wear a big rainbow jumpsuit. I'm saying that, if we're expected to accept everyone in society, then we should start with media. I'm more offended by half of what I see in Cosmo or Elle ("50 Ways to Please Him in Bed"? Puh-lease.) than I am in reading about Rufus Wainwright's "blackout" concert. (The cover story in this week's Advocate, in case you are curious.)

If we expect media to help change our world, we need to be willing to take the censor bars off it once in a while. Especially in our mailboxes.