77 Signs that You're a Fairy

 

In my junior high, the worst possible fate was to be a "fairy."  Not a boy who was interested in boys -- we didn't have the slightest inkling that same-sex desire existed, anywhere in the world.  A boy who suppressed his natural masculine instincts and  pretended that he was a girl.

We didn't know why fairies pretended to be girls. Malice, stupidity, sheer perversity?  But they were in deadly peril.  Most obviously, every boy's sole reason for living was to get girls, and girls only liked real men.

But there was another, more sinister peril that the older boys whispered about: if you pretended to be a girl long enough, you might actually turn into a girl, or rather a swish, a nightmarish he-she creature.

Fairies had to be convinced to stop it! and act like boys again, by any means necessary.  Friends tried gentle persuasion; enemies, catcalls and jeers; mean boys, public humiliation, and if that didn't work, pummeling in the schoolyard.

Teachers rarely intervened.  After all, it was for the fairy's own good.  He had to be convinced to stop it! and act like a boy again.

There were dozens of signs that you were a fairy, or in danger of becoming one.  Here are the top 77:

Clothes

1. A shirt with a little loop in back (called a fruit loop)

2. An undershirt.
3. A green shirt.
4. A turtleneck sweater.
5. "High water" pants that revealed your socks.
6. Pants with buttons instead of a zipper.
7. Glasses
8. A bow tie.
9. Buttoning the top button of your shirt.
10. Jewelry, especially rings.
11. Being excessively neat.

Language and Deportment

12. Wiggling hips

13.  Hand gestures.
14. Wrist movements

15. An enthusiastic voice (it must be angry or a monotone).
16. Using too many adjectives.
17. Using correct grammar.

Before and After School

18. Talking to/ walking with girls.

19. Carrying books home with you.
20. Carrying a violin case home with you.

21. Refusing to fight when challenged.
22. Fighting ineptly.
23. Crying for any reason.

24. Telling a teacher or parent about bullying.

In Class

25. Carrying a pencil case.
26. Sitting in the front row.
27. Volunteering the answer to a teacher's question.

28. Not referring to the teacher by her last name only ("Mrs. DeSmet" instead of just "DeSmet")

29. Taking French (a fairy language) instead of Spanish.

30. Using a protractor.
31. Having neat homework assignments.
32. Getting good grades on purpose (saying "I studied hard", for instance)
33. Worrying about/asking about grades.

Gym/Sports
34. Not going out for a sport.
35. Pretending to be ignorant of the results of last night's game.
36. Pretending to be ignorant of a player's statistics.
37. Calling gym "p.e. class"
38. Not being able to play a sport adequately.
39. Being selected last for a team.
40. Wearing a towel around your waist on the way to the showers.
41. Having insufficient muscles.
42. Having an insufficient penis.
43. Having insufficient pubic hair.










Leisure/Extracurricular Activities
44. Belonging to an academic organization (Spanish Club or Chemistry Club)
45. Participating in student government.
46. Playing in the band or orchestra.
47. Performing in student plays or musicals.
48. Studying dance.
49. Studying art.
50. Going to libraries, museums, art galleries, or concerts.
51. Not going bowling.
52. Watching The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, or any variety show.
53. Not watching Adam-12. 
54. Listening to David Cassidy, the Captain and Tennile, or Elton John.
55. Not listening to The Eagles.
56. Reading teen magazines.
57. Not knowing about cars.
58. Not knowing about guns.
59. Disliking hunting, fishing, and camping.
60. Having never been on an airplane.
61. Having to be home before dark.
62. Calling your parents to tell them your whereabouts.
63. Hanging out with girls.


Lunch/Food

64. Sitting with girls in the cafeteria.

65. Carrying a lunch box instead of a paper bag.

66. Eating grapes.
67. Eating jello.
68. Drinking chocolate milk.
69. Using a napkin instead of your sleeve.
70. Depositing apple cores in the trash instead of on the ground.
71. Eating in an excessively neat fashion.
72. Knowing how to cook.

Dating/Sex
73. Being a virgin.
74. Having sex with fewer than five girls per week.
75. Being attracted to athletic girls.
76. Dating a girl who is overweight or wears glasses.
77. Walking hand-in-hand with a girl.

Bonus (for Rock Island only)
78. Coming in through the back entrance of the school (past the girls' locker room).
79. Going to Little Caesar's (a pizza place next to a hair salon).

See also: Slow Dancing with Boys

September 23rd, 1985: Dreary and Dull or the Best of Times

  

Yesterday I was reading my collection of Peanuts comic strips.  On September 23rd, 1985, Marcie says "We are lucky to be living in this point of time." 

 I thought it would be fun to check up on what I was doing on September 23rd, 1985.

September 23rd, 1985 was a Monday.  I was 24 years old.  I had been living in West Hollywood for two months, living in a tiny carriage house (one room, big enough for a bed and a desk, a kitchenette with a microwave but no stove, a bathroom with a shower but no bathtub).  I was working at three part-time jobs but still having money trouble: $100 in the bank, no credit cards, and forget about health insurance!  Plus I'm sure that the landlord was charging me for the utilities for the big house.

On Mondays I left the house at 7:00 to drive 45 minutes down San Vicente and Wilshire to skid row in downtown Los Angeles.   I would have listened to my car radio on the way, but most of the top singles for September 23rd, 1985 don't sound familiar: "Money for Nothing' (Dire Straits), "Cherish" (Kool and the Gang), "Don't Lose My Number" (Phil Collins), "St Elmo's Fire" (Man in Motion):

Play the game, you know you can't quit until it's won

Soldier on, only you can do what must be done

You know in some way you're a lot like me

You're just a prisoner and you're tryin' to break free

 I would park in a $5 per day lot and walk five blocks to the Community Redevelopment Agency, where I had a "permanent temp" job opening and filing resumes from 8{00 to 12:00 pm.  Lunch was probably at a discount pollo place a few blocks away.  I went there every day until I got mad because they wouldn't accept a $10.00 bill.

On Monday afternoons I drove down Grand Avenue to Exposition and the University of Southern California, where I would try to find a free space USC for a horrible seminar in Modern Drama taught by Dr. Moishe Lazar., who was in his 50s but seemed like a cranky, cane-waving grouch.  He assigned Le Roi se Meurt by Ionesco, which makes no sense whatsoever.  I wanted to concentrate in Renaissance Italian; why was I reading Ionesco? 

Afterwards I would drive down Pico to San Vicente,hurrying to get home before the deadly rush hour traffic began.  I would walk to the gym, and then stop into the Different Light Bookstore, where I would be too broke to buy anything.

Dinner would be something microwaved.  

No dates, parties, or cruising on Monday nightss, and on September 23rd, there was nothing good on tv: Hardcastle and McCormick, Scarecrow and Mrs. King, football, and the movie Izzie and Moe.  I may have watched the two-hour Family Ties special where the family visits London, Alex (Michael J. Fox) takes classes at Oxford, and Mallory falls for his roommate (John Moulder-Brown), but I don't remember it.

Or I may have gone to a movie. The nearest theater was Mann's Chinese in Hollywood, which offered discount tickets on Monday nights.  On September 23rd, I would have had a choice of Plenty (a woman during World War II), Smooth Talk (Treat Williams, top photo) turns out to be a killer), and Creator (Peter O'Toole tries to clone his dead wife)

Most likely I stayed in and read my...ugh...Ionesco or a novel.  In 1985, I was still into science fiction, so I may have been reading Ender's Game, about a war between humans and evil insectoid aliens.   I liked Orson Scott Card's books; they all had strong gay subtexts, so I assumed that he was gay in real life.  Only later did I discover that he was actually a raging homophobe.

I would be in bed by 10:00, in order to get up at 6:00 Tuesday morning.

No boyfriends, no dates, no hookups, a terrible job, a terrible class.  Broke.  Nothing on tv.  Nothing on the radio.  

But I was going to bed in West Hollywood.

It was the best of times.

My First Bath House

Rock Island, June 3, 1983

I'm 22 years old, home from grad school in Bloomington, along with my friend Viju.  We've seen most of the sights in the Quad Cities, and I'm running out of ideas.

"We could go to the Amana Colonies, or to Starved Rock State Park...."

"You know what I always wanted to do?" Viju says.  "Go to a gay ghetto!"

I knew the term from The Advocate.  A neighborhood, a place where gay people can live in freedom, not hiding,   With bookstores stocking only gay-themed books!  Community centers!  Organizations!  Gay people walking hand in hand down the street!

According to The Advocate, there are seven gay ghettos in the U.S., in San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Houston, and -- Chicago -- the nearest big city to Rock Island, about three hours away.

June 4th, 11:00 am

Viju and I take Interstate 80 to the 94, get off at the Loop, and drive up Lake Shore Drive to the North Side, to a sliver of streets between Clark and Broadway that our Gayellow Pages tells us is clustered with gay places.

We check into our hotel and walk around.  It's a little disappointing.  No gay couples walking hand-in-hand, or newsstands cluttered with gay magazines, or...well, anything.  It looks like a standard suburban neighborhood with small shops, restaurants, gas stations, a drug store. A lot of male-female couples.

You have to look carefully to see the gay presence.  Same-sex couples walk in pairs, close together but not touching.  Young single men are walking dogs, buying groceries, jogging.  

There are bars with closeted names: My Brother's Place, Closet, Carol's Speakeasy.

I want to go into Yosemite, which has a placard outside with  Yosemite Sam pointing a phallic gun in the air.

"Who is that?" Viju asks.  "Is he gay?"

"He's a cartoon character, one of my childhood icons.  On the placard of a gay bar!"  The gay and straight worlds are so complete separate, with such impermeable boundaries, that it is shocking to see an icon of one in the other, like seeing a unicorn on Main Street.

"Sounds stupid.  We'll go to another bar, something hotter, like the Glory Hole."

12:00 pm

It's too early for the bars, so we have lunch at Hamburger Mary's, a restaurant listed in The Gayellow Pages.  It has a picture of a big-breasted woman on the placard, but inside it's crowded with young buffed men, many reading Gay Chicago magazine.

Then we go to Gay Horizons, a community center, actually a small storefront.  There are fliers about AIDS support groups, drug and alcohol support groups, a political club, the Metropolitan Community Church, a gay synagogue, clubs for runners and square-dancers!

I grab Viju's arm.  This is amazing!  A year ago, I had no idea that any gay organizations existed except for bars.  This is a whole gay world, open, out there, only slightly closeted.

Of course, none of the groups meet on Saturday afternoon.  

2:00 pm

Seven hours until the bars get busy.

"Let's go to the Museum of Science and Industry," I suggest.

"No!  We came to see a gay ghetto, and that's what we're going to do."

"But there's nothing open on Saturday afternoons."

"Here --"  he showed me the listing in The Gayellow Pages.  "Man's Country.  A bathhouse, open 24 hours."

I read about bathhouses in gay novels.  "No way!  They're dangerous.  Old guys grab you while you're sleeping."

"So who says we'll be sleeping?"

It's an older 2-story building on Clark Street, far north of the gay ghetto, almost in Evanston.  We pay for two lockers and go through a green door into a vast expanse of black and chrome, dimly lit, with a musky smell.  

2:30 pm

We take off our clothes, wrap towels around our waists, and walk through a maze of small cabana rooms.  Some of the doors are open; we peer inside at guys with their penises or butts in the air, waiting.

Therer's a sauna, a steam room, a small gym, and a room with glory holes.  Guys in towels kissing and going down on each other.  A couple doing anal while a crowd watches.

2:45 pm

An older guy -- way old, probably in his forties, with a hairy chest and beard -- is receiving oral sex from a kid our age.  Viju and I watch.  Suddenly the Kid reaches out, pushes my towel aside, and goes down on me, then both of us in turn.   Hairy Chest pulls Viju close and kisses and fondles him.  

When Hairy Chest finishes, he walks off without a word.  The Kid stands and walks off, too.  

I glance at Viju.  "Not a lot of conversation, is there?"

3:00 pm

I say "hello" to a very young guy, college age or younger, sitting by himself in the lounge.  He says "I'm resting."

3:15 pm

In the steam room, I go down on two guys without learning either of their names.  While I'm working on the second,  an anonymous hand starts fondling me from behind.  I turn and say "Hi!" to a buffed blond in his 30s.

He looks flustered and walks away.

"What's the point of being around a bunch of gay men if you never talk to any of them?" I say in a loud, angry voice. I stomp out.  Viju, who has been working on a thickly muscled Hispanic guy, follows.

"Do you want to go?"

I put my arm around him.  "No.  I came here to meet guys, and I'm going to meet some."

"Maybe they're just here for sex, not talking."

"Well, I'm not leaving until I have a conversation with someone."

3:30 pm

I lower myself into the hot tub, where two middle-aged men are chatting, and introduce myself.  They give me bar-style Attitude.

3:45 pm

I go to the front desk, where an older guy is browsing among the sex toys and lubricants for sale.  He's in his 30s, very muscular, with a hard smooth chest and a military-style buzz cut.

"Hi, I'm Boomer, from Rock Island."

"I'm resting," he says without looking up.

"Me, too.  But my friend and I are visiting, and I was wondering if you could recommend a nice bar?'"

"That depends on what you're into.  Leather, bears, twinks, hustlers?"  

"A bar where you can actually sit down and have a conversation with someone."

"Oh, a piano bar!"  He glances at me, smiling.  "You don't look old enough to be a daddy.  Let me give you a taste of the real Chicago.  You and your friend meet me here at 9:00."  He writes an address down on a slip of paper.  "My name is Mike, by the way."

The address he gives is for Yosemite.  It turns out to be a cowboy bar, actually named after the park.

10:00 pm

Yes, we did go home with Mike, but I don't remember much about the bedroom activity.  My biggest memory is seeing a cartoon character from my childhood in the gay world. 

See also: The Shy Boy at the Bathhouse; Three Days of Cruising in Chicago