There must be one of those giant German compound words for the feeling you get when you learn that your masseur (who has a rainbow flag on his refrigerator, and who welcomes you with very warm and long hugs, and who doesn't require any draping during your massage, and who works his way all the way up your inner thighs as he explains that today the therapy will be releasing some deeply-rooted sexual issues, and who reminisces about the men-only retreats he enjoys) isn't in fact gay at all but merely maintains the philosophy of the 1960s.  (This actually happened back in the early 1990s, when rainbow flags weren't so well-known in the straight world and served more as a secret code for mostly-closeted gays to identify one another.)