Inevitably, this controversy will win the show more viewers. Because this is what TLC does: It finds people living atypical lives—usually ones in tension with "progressive" cultural norms—and turns them into spectacle. Watching the network's line-up, we're supposed to regard the show's subjects with equal parts amusement and outrage: Freaks with too many kids. Freaks who have never had sex. Freaks from the South. Freaks with multiple wives. This approach to programming succeeds, wildly, because it's a pure distillation of the appeal of reality television: self-righteous voyeurism.

The problem, though, with making reality television about gay men who don't want to be gay is that it will invariably lack empathy for the pain that likely defines those men's lives. The failure of My Husband's Not Gay is one of style, not substance; but the fact that it has been protested for its substance says a lot about the cultural tensions surrounding homosexuality in America.

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There must be something about ice skating that makes American television producers think: Aha! Mormons. The opening of My Husband's Not Gay is a straight callback to the the opening sequence of the fictional HBO series Big Love, about a polygamous family of fundamentalist Mormons. In both, couples are holding hands and sliding along to peppy, Happy Days-esque music; the camera angles are even the same, focusing on each person's face in turn as he or she stares lovingly into spousal eyes.

Throughout the show, the couples emphasize this idea: They live normal, married lives. When the wives get together for a ladies-only hike, their sex lives come up in conversation. "I'd say we've had up and down times with it," says one of the women, Megan. "So you're like every other marriage in America?" her friend responds. "Yes, thank you!" Megan exclaims gratefully.

In interviews, the couples are alternately self-aware and defensive. "Lots of other of my friends are in these same types of marriages—they have good relationships," says Tanya in an early scene. "None of us feel oppressed—we've chosen to be here."

For the most part, they're very open about "the SSA," an acronym that's used throughout the 45-minute-long special. The wives and husbands take turns sizing up waiters and other men they encounter. They're also playful about gay stereotypes, like not being able to play sports. "I don't feel like I fit the mold of guys that are attracted to other men," says a single "SSA" man, Tom. "Other than my deep and abiding love for Broadway show tunes. And my attraction to males—those are the two things that are kind of gay about me."

The men have developed a "danger scale" for rating other men. "It's a way to bring out some of the inner feelings," explains Pret, one of the "SSA" men. One means you looked; two means you looked again; and three means you looked multiple times. "A four pretty much means you'd be requiring restraints," he adds. Out playing basketball, they take turn sizing men up on this scale of one to four, always accompanied by jokes. It's a bounded performance of sexuality: They've structured their relationships so that they can express their feelings of attraction and even toy with gay identity while still setting firm limits on their behavior.