A Hint of Pink. Or Blue.

While it’s no doubt true that there’s nothing quite like a nice throbbing nine-incher, as I’m sure we can all agree, all this talk of sticky unreasoning insatiable rampant hardness could make one think that’s all there is to manhood: of course, nothing could be further from the truth.

Naturally, as a young lad, one was thrilled to discover one’s john-willy could go up and down and rushed at once to show mummy. And yes, over the years one has come across chaps who’ve taught theirs to carry out some pretty amazing and useful tasks: flip pancakes and imitate Shirley Bassey are just two that spring to mind. But there comes a time when we need to let go and realize there is more to life than playing with one’s erector set.

Which brings me to sissies.

We all know them. Some of us are them. I used to be afraid of them. I’m not proud of this and I’m not alone. To many gay men sissies represent what we fear in ourselves. We wanted them to go away so they wouldn’t embarrass us. Which kept a lot of us quiet over the years as those less able to assimilate or hide in plain sight have borne the brunt of the considerable hostility that can be generated when one’s very being contradicts the carefully constructed expressions of gender we’ve all grown up with. Soldiers v Barbi. While still adamantly refusing to swish, I’m glad to say my own panic is a thing of the past. Seems I’m not alone. The sissy is well on the way to becoming a cultural icon, as they say on HuffPo, a beloved addition to reality TV. One welcome aspect of the whole world turning gay is that Anderson Cooper was able last night to launch a three-part story on a child, a young boy, 4 at the time (1970), whose mother was concerned that a baby-sitter had allowed him to spend too much time with girls and that he might as a consequence grow up you-know-what. (hint: rhymes with ‘promo’) The boy was taken to UCLA where he fell into the clutches of one George Rekers, of latter-day luggage-lifting fame.

I daresay the rest can be imagined.

Why this matters is that this little boy, frozen in time, became the poster-child of the ex-gay, reparative therapy movement that gives cover to the anti-gay animus of groups like National Organization for Marriage. A movement that has grown into a fund-raising, money-making colossus that keeps many of its leaders pulling down handsome salaries and which has been exported to Africa and Oklahoma with disastrous results.

The estimable Jim Burroway at Box Turtle Bulletin, coincidentally, has just posted the result of his investigation into the life and death of Kirk Murphy, the sissy-boy in question: though his family denies the psychiatrists’ label. Between that and AC360 he’s no longer a pseudonym to be exploited but takes his place in the historical record.

Just why a hint of pink should produce unreasoning panic instead of being welcomed as a bit of a restful change is the topic for another lecture.