Tight trousers, bare chest and a mask that, in some cases, never comes off – such is the archetypal figure in Mexico’s lucha libre. But in this macho world a group of flamboyant LGBTQ+ wrestlers have not only carved themselves as space, but come out as champions.
The release of Cassandro, a film starring Gael García Bernal as one of the sport’s trailblazing exóticos, has swung the spotlight on to this perhaps unexpected, but thriving, element of Mexico’s cultural life.
Exóticos are an almost century-old tradition in the sport. The first was Dizzy “Gardenia” Davis, who performed in Arena México – the cathedral of lucha libre – in 1941. Exóticos were just as athletic as any other wrestler – but wore extravagant outfits and makeup, too.
Back then, however, exóticos were just characters to be played in the ring – often for laughs, and often to be vanquished by a more straightforwardly macho character. Even if the wrestlers were gay, they were not open about it.
This began to change in the 80s. “Little by little their homosexuality became more open, and eventually we got wrestlers like Cassandro,” said Apolo Valdés, a journalist who has followed the sport for 30 years.
“Cassandro really stood out,” Valdés added. “Not least because he was a great wrestler. He earned people’s respect and became hugely recognisable.”
Cassandro probably inspired many of today’s crop of exóticos to get into the sport. But not José Luis Hernández – stage name Demasiado, or Too Much – who admits he never watched the sport as a child, and only got into it by chance.
“It all started because there was a boy I liked who wanted to be a wrestler,” said Hernández. “And I just followed him to the training sessions. I was in love with him, but I never told him.”
Growing up gay in Veracruz, a Mexican state, was hard. Hernández wasn’t open about it and at first, he didn’t even wrestle as an exótico.
Moving to Mexico City was a liberation. “In Veracruz I was the faggot,” said Hernández. “In Mexico City I was just another person.”
And restyling his wrestling persona as an exótico was, he says, a kind of therapy.
“Normally in lucha libre we give life to a character. For me it was the other way round: the character gave life to me. It gave me freedom that I didn’t have before. I was badly bullied, very insecure – and with lucha libre I became just the opposite.”
Lucha Libre is one of the most popular sports in Mexico – not quite like football, says Valdés, but certainly up there with baseball, basketball and boxing. Fights are broadcast on national TV and wrestlers appear in reality shows.
Its fans are diverse, but generally working class – something that is reflected in the great number of stadiums in the periphery of Mexico City. In 2018, lucha libre became part of the intangible cultural heritage of the capital.
And yet while openly gay athletes are rare in other sports in Mexico, in lucha libre they are common. “I think the door was opened in lucha libre,” said Valdés. “Now there are a lot of homosexual wrestlers who fly the LGBT flag and go on the Pride march.”
More recently, a few transgender exóticos have made their names in the sport, too. Miss Gaviota was the first to emerge, and Estrella Divina became the first transgender champion.
“I’ve always thought that lucha libre is the most inclusive sport,” said Hernández. The reason, he thinks, is that it is not just about athleticism. “In the end, we are artists: we are embodying characters. In reality I am José Luis Hernández – not Demasiado. What we do is theatre, too.”
These days, there are even straight men appearing as exóticos, which could be read as indicating greater tolerance in society – but then Valdés admits he isn’t always even sure about a wrestler’s real-life sexuality. “Honestly, I don’t think it really matters to the fans.
“Listen, Mexico is still a half-macho country. It’s come a long way, but it is,” said Valdés. “I think the greatest change has probably been among the Mexican fans of lucha libre, who now think, well, if they entertain me, I don’t care what else they get up to.”
