The office closet: being LGTBI at work and what my lyrics have to say

«¿Señor inspector de trabajo? Le quería preguntar una cuestión.»

Mr Labour Inspector? I wanted to ask you something. That's how «En grupo mienten explotan siempre» begins, one of the songs on the first album of the GAYFOLK trilogy, «Descubierto un nuevo planeta llamado Gayfolk». (The full lyric is on gayfolkplanet.com.) It's satire: an invented company, an invented coordinator, a boss who loses her temper, and a query to the Labour Inspectorate that ends with five inspections in a single week and a shout for workers' struggle. I can't help laughing every time I hear it, but under the joke there's something very serious: the fear of asking.

Because that first line is almost a plea. Someone who doesn't know whether what's happening to them at work is legal, and who needs a person with authority to tell them. Plenty of LGTBI people know that fear of asking well, and not only about overtime or unpaid training. There's a closet that opens and shuts every Monday at nine in the morning: the office closet. That's what this piece is about.

Monday at nine, again

Many LGTBI people who have long since come out to their family and friends step back into the closet every time they change jobs. It's no exaggeration. It's a calculation made silently on the first day: do I say «my boyfriend» or «my partner»? Do I put the photo on my desk or better not? Do I tell them what I did at the weekend, or do I tweak it a little?

Funnily enough, nobody asks you to hide. There's no sign saying so. The office closet is built from small signals: a comment from months ago, an odd look when someone mentioned their boyfriend, the feeling that in this place «those things» aren't talked about. From those loose pieces each person draws a private map of the risk, and nearly always draws it more dangerous than it may be, because erring on the side of caution costs less than erring on the side of trust. That's how a silence persists that often the company never even asked for, but never did anything to break either.

That calculation isn't made once. It's made with every new colleague, every client, every boss who arrives. And it's exhausting, far more than it looks from outside, because it means policing what you say eight hours a day, weighing every anecdote, keeping a neutral version of your own life ready to hand. Some people call it «the intermittent closet», and I think that's a very precise name: you're neither in nor out, you're standing in the doorway, opening and closing depending on who's in front of you.

That double life turns up often in my lyrics. In «Tan paleto» the one who judges points a finger at two men holding hands in the street. The office is another street, only carpeted and with fixed hours, and with a finger you sometimes can't see but can always feel.

The coffee-machine joke

There's a scene almost any LGTBI person will recognise: the joke at the coffee machine. It isn't an attack; nobody insults you to your face. It's a remark about the colleague who's «a bit camp», a crack about what someone would do «if he were that way», an impression with a limp wrist. Everyone laughs, and you have two seconds to decide whether you laugh too, keep quiet or say something.

All three options have a price. If you laugh, you betray yourself a little. If you keep quiet, you feel like a coward. If you speak up, you become «the one who can't take a joke». That's why so many people choose the second, and why so many pile up, year after year, a small mountain of silences nobody sees.

I've written a lot about humour, and I defend tooth and nail the right to laugh at almost anything. But there's a huge difference between laughing with someone and laughing at someone who can't answer back because their job is on the line. I go into it more calmly in «Hacer humor gay sin hacer daño», on gay humour that doesn't wound. At work, hierarchy changes the joke. What's a game between friends can, between boss and employee, become a way of marking who's in charge.

Asking is frightening

Back to the song. The narrator doesn't call the Inspectorate to file a complaint. She calls to ask. «La tengo que hacer en mi tiempo libre o no», do I have to do it in my free time or not, she says about a training course the company won't pay for. It's a practical doubt, the kind anyone has. And yet she asks it with a tremor, because she knows that asking already means sticking your head above the parapet.

That detail matters to me, because it's exactly what happens to many people facing discrimination. They don't know whether what they're living through has a name, whether it's legal, whether it's worth complaining. Is it harassment when your boss comments on your sex life? Is it discrimination to be kept away from clients «because of your image»? Is it normal to be asked in an interview whether you have a girlfriend? The short answer to all three is that you shouldn't have to put up with it, and there are laws that say so. The long answer needs someone to explain it to you, and for that you have to dare to ask.

On the song's specific question, it's worth knowing that, as a general rule, when it's the company that requires training for your job, that time shouldn't come out of your pocket or your free hours. But every case has its nuances, and that's what unions, legal advice services and the Labour Inspectorate itself are for; the Inspectorate answers queries and takes complaints.

What the law says

This isn't a legal handbook and it's no substitute for an employment lawyer. But I do think it's useful for any LGTBI person working in Spain to know that there are laws on their side, and which ones.

Spain's Workers' Statute forbids discrimination on grounds of sexual orientation and recognises the right to protection from harassment for that reason. That's been law for years.

In July 2022 Law 15/2022 was passed, the comprehensive law on equal treatment and non-discrimination, which many people know as the «Zerolo law» in memory of the Madrid activist and politician Pedro Zerolo. It lists sexual orientation, sexual identity and gender expression among the forbidden grounds for discrimination, and it applies to employment too. It also provides for an independent authority on equal treatment.

In February 2023 came Law 4/2023, on the real and effective equality of trans people and the guarantee of LGTBI people's rights. Its article 15 requires companies with more than fifty workers to have a planned set of measures for LGTBI equality, including a protocol for dealing with harassment and violence against LGTBI people.

LGTBI plans in companies

That obligation was fleshed out in October 2024 by Royal Decree 1026/2024. Under that text, companies with more than fifty people must negotiate those measures, and the anti-harassment protocol doesn't only protect staff: it also covers job applicants, agency workers, suppliers, customers and visitors. The protocol must provide for a swift, confidential investigation and protection for the victim.

It may sound like paperwork, and partly it is. But paperwork matters. A written protocol means that if something happens to you one day, you don't have to invent the route: there's a specific door to knock on, deadlines, a responsible person. And it means something subtler: the company has had to sit down and think about you before anything happens. For me, that's the most valuable part. The LGTBI person stops being an awkward surprise and becomes someone planned for.

If you work for a company that size, you're entitled to ask whether the protocol exists and where to find it. Asking, again. Like the narrator of the song.

The coordinator, the boss and the chain of command

In «En grupo mienten explotan siempre» the blame doesn't stop with one person. The coordinator says it's «orders from above», above him there's a director, and the boss gets angry when the inspections arrive. It's satire with invented characters, but it portrays something very familiar: in many workplaces the problem isn't one bad individual, it's a chain in which everyone washes their hands.

Discrimination works the same way. The colleague who makes the joke says it was banter, the boss says he didn't notice, HR says nobody filed a formal complaint. And the person affected is left alone in the middle of the chain. That's why protocols and laws matter: they break the excuse that «nobody here knew anything».

In another song on the same album, «Asqueroso coordinador», a job title becomes an outright insult, although there the target is an ex rather than a boss. It amuses me that the name of a middle-management post can sound so loaded. Maybe because we've all had a coordinator who thought he was more than he was.

When the problem is the interview

The office closet starts before day one. It starts at the interview. Questions about whether you're married, whether you have kids, «what does your wife do». A CV where you hesitate over listing your volunteering at an LGTBI association. A profile photo you look at twice before uploading it to a professional network.

For trans people the barrier is usually higher still, and community groups have spent years pointing out how hard it is for them to get a job. That's why I think it matters that the Royal Decree's protocol explicitly includes job applicants. Discrimination doesn't wait for you to sign the contract.

If an interviewer asks about your private life in ways that have nothing to do with the job, you don't have to answer. You can steer the conversation back to your experience. And if you feel you were turned down for who you are, write everything down: the date, the questions, who was in the room. Details matter if you decide to complain one day.

Let's all do the same

There's a moment in the song that moves me, even surrounded by jokes. Once her query is answered, the narrator says: «Vamos ahora todos a hacer lo mismo», now let's all go and do the same, and adds that it's something the company fears and hates. It's the oldest insight of the labour movement, and of the LGTBI movement too: alone you can't, together you can.

When one person complains, she's «a troublemaker». When five complain, it's the company's problem. That's why the song ends with five inspections in one week. It isn't realistic, it's a fantasy, but it's the right fantasy: that the collective can change what the individual can't.

At work, that means finding allies. A colleague you trust, the union rep, the works council, the diversity group if there is one. And if there isn't, maybe you're the one who can suggest it. You don't need to be a hero. You just need not to be on your own.

Being your own boss doesn't spare you

People sometimes think the self-employed are spared all this. Not entirely. I run a music project and a one-person label, and I write about it in «Llevar un sello discográfico de una sola persona», on running a one-person record label. I have no boss, but I have clients, platforms, programmers, people who decide whether my work fits their playlists and spaces. And the closet exists there too, in another shape: the temptation to soften things, to take the word marica out of a title, to look «more commercial».

My decision, in my songs, has been not to soften. But I know not everyone can afford that decision, and I don't judge anyone who chooses to protect their wages. What I do ask is that we stop having to choose. That being who you are at work stops being a luxury.

Working alone also has its own loneliness, which I write about in «La soledad de crear solo, y cómo la llevo», on the loneliness of creating alone. Having no colleagues shows most when you need someone to tell you «what happened to you isn't normal».

Rhyme as a ready answer

There's a device I've used a lot in my lyrics that, oddly, works in the office too: the ready answer. In «Licenciada en derecho» the narrator always has a rhyme at hand to fire back. It's armour made of words.

At work, having a line ready for the coffee-machine joke can make all the difference. It needn't be aggressive. It can be as simple as «I don't find that funny» or «would you say that if I weren't here?». Rehearsing it at home feels silly, but it helps. When the moment comes, the body goes blank, and having the line already thought out gets you unstuck. Sometimes saying it once is enough for the joke never to come back.

What changes when you can be yourself

Now picture the opposite of the office closet. Someone who can say «my husband» at the Monday meeting without calculating anything. Who puts the wedding photo on the desk. Who mentions going to a Pride party at the weekend the way a colleague mentions going to the beach. It seems a small thing, and yet it frees up an enormous amount of energy.

All the attention that used to go on self-surveillance is suddenly free for working, creating, making friends. You don't need statistics to understand it: anyone who has kept a secret for a long time knows how heavy it is. When the secret stops being one, the body loosens. It shows in how you talk, how you laugh, what you dare to suggest.

And that freedom doesn't only benefit the person who enjoys it. Every person who can be themselves at work opens the door a little wider for the next. The new intern who sees his team leader talk naturally about her girlfriend gets a message nobody needs to spell out: you don't have to hide here. That's how the closet is dismantled, one by one, without banners, through sheer everydayness.

If you're the one in charge

Bosses, team leaders and HR people may read this too, so here are a few simple ideas that cost nothing.

The first is language. Asking «do you have a partner?» rather than «do you have a girlfriend?» isn't political correctness, it's simply not assuming. The second is stopping the joke in time. A manager who calmly says «not here» at the coffee machine does more for the team than ten diversity courses. The third is making sure the protocol really exists, that people know where it is, and that it's applied when needed, not just when there's an audit.

The fourth is the hardest: listening without minimising. When someone tells you a remark hurt, the automatic response is usually «I'm sure he didn't mean it». Maybe not. But intent doesn't erase effect, and someone who has gathered the courage to tell you needs to be believed before being given explanations. In «Antisocial» I wrote about someone who chooses to withdraw from people. Very often, that withdrawal begins in a place where nobody listened in time.

Allies at the next desk

Not everything depends on the LGTBI person or on the boss. Straight colleagues have a huge role, even if they don't always know it. They're the ones at the coffee machine when you're not. They're the ones who can say «that's not funny» without anyone thinking it's personal.

Being an ally at work doesn't take grand gestures. It takes not laughing at the joke, using the name and pronouns each person asks for, never outing anyone by repeating what they confided, and being there if a colleague decides to report. Sometimes a sentence said in private is enough: «I saw what happened in the meeting and I didn't think it was right». That sentence, which costs so little, can be the one that stops someone feeling alone in the middle of the chain I described earlier.

When it weighs too much

Workplace harassment, whether for being LGTBI or for any other reason, doesn't stay at the office. It comes home with you, steals your sleep, knots your stomach on Sunday afternoons. If you recognise yourself here, it isn't weakness. It's a normal reaction to a situation that isn't normal.

Talk to someone you trust. See your GP, who can assess sick leave if you need it and refer you to mental health services. Get advice from a union or an LGTBI group; in Madrid there are associations that support victims of anti-LGTBI hatred, at work as well. And if at any point the anguish overwhelms you or you think about harming yourself, call 024, Spain's suicide prevention line, free, confidential and open 24 hours a day. In an emergency, call 112. If you're outside Spain, call your local emergency number.

Workers' struggle, for us too

The song ends with a repeated cry of «lucha obrera», workers' struggle. I love that a queer song ends like that, because the two fights have more in common than it seems. Both began with people who dared to ask whether what was happening to them was fair. Both were won together. And both still have work left to do.

If one day you're at the coffee machine, you hear the joke and you say nothing, don't punish yourself. Silence is sometimes a way of surviving too. But remember there's a law that protects you, an Inspectorate that answers, colleagues who may think as you do, and an absurd song that ends with five inspections in one week. And that next time, maybe, you can ask.

If you're starting to think about telling people, at work or elsewhere, here's «Carta a quien todavía no se lo ha dicho a nadie», a letter to someone who hasn't told anyone yet. And if you'd like to know more about who writes all this, it's on my page.

Frequently asked questions

Which laws protect LGTBI people at work in Spain? Among others, the Workers' Statute, which forbids discrimination on grounds of sexual orientation; Law 15/2022 on equal treatment and non-discrimination; and Law 4/2023, which requires companies with more than fifty workers to have planned measures for LGTBI equality.

What is a company's LGTBI protocol? It's the protocol for dealing with harassment and violence against LGTBI people that forms part of the measures regulated by Royal Decree 1026/2024. It covers staff and also job applicants, suppliers, customers and visitors.

What is «En grupo mienten explotan siempre» about? It's a satire about an invented company, in which a worker asks the Labour Inspectorate whether she has to do a training course in her free time, and the story ends with five inspections in one week. It's a song from the first album of the GAYFOLK trilogy.

Who can I call if workplace harassment becomes too much? In Spain, 024, the suicide prevention line, free and open 24 hours a day, and 112 in an emergency. Outside Spain, your local emergency number. For the employment side, a union, a legal advice service or the Labour Inspectorate.

Who writes these songs? Mike Sain't Louis, a lyricist, composer and music producer from Madrid who introduces himself as the first AI songwriter. The music and vocals of his songs are made with artificial intelligence.