Teen Sissy Boy

Teen Sissy Boy
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What I admire is seeing a boy who is effeminate remain that way into adulthood. I am a college professor, and I see male students who are just as nancy and fay as can be. I admire their strength. If I had not trained myself to be more "normal," would I have been more like them?
Professor of Theater, Ursinus College
Jan 9, 2014, 05:44 PM EST | Updated Dec 6, 2017
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Professor of Theater, Ursinus College
For Throwback Thursday last week, I posted an old-school portrait of myself on Facebook :
My friends and family found this picture hilarious for a variety of reasons. First, the mop of hair is funny in itself because I am Daddy Warbucks-bald today. The hairstyle emulates Shaun Cassidy's teen idol look from the 1970s, when the picture was taken, but is more like an elementary-school version of Christian Bale's 1970s comb-over in American Hustle . One friend commented that the pattern of the shirt -- bestrewn with bright flowers -- was the same as the wallpaper of her girlhood bedroom.
I had pulled the picture out from the attic earlier in the day and had not seen it in quite some time. Looking at it, I am struck by how gay I look, stereotypically gay. I mean, c'mon -- a flowered shirt with a perfectly matching goldenrod undershirt?! I am quite sure that I picked this outfit all by myself specifically to wear for picture day. Is it any wonder I was teased as a boy?
When I was in elementary school, we did not know what "gay" meant. However, the other boys sensed the difference in me -- the shirt blared it loud and clear -- and they let me know it whenever they could. It was confusing because I did not know gay was a "thing" back then. No one ever told me gay people existed, no gay characters or celebrities were on television, and there were no computers or Internet to surf. I was just a sissy boy, and I did not know there were other boys like me.
The worst thing that a boy could be told at the time was that he was like a girl. I tried to fit in. Even though I did not like sports, I joined Little League one season. This plan to be more masculine backfired because, of course, I was told that I "threw like a girl." By the time I reached junior high school, a boy taunted me after seeing me giggling with some girls after band practice (I played the saxophone): "Hey, what are you... GAY?! " I had no idea what that meant, but I could tell from the way he was asking that it was not something positive. "NO!" I answered... a little too vehemently.
The result was that I attempted to suppress those parts of myself that were perceived as effeminate. I may have worn that flowered shirt in elementary school, but by junior high, I had learned what I needed to do to appear "normal." Clothing must be drab. Do not be overly emotional or dramatic in public. Do not to use hands in too flamboyant a manner when excited. By high school, I had sublimated these energies into drama club, allowing myself to be expressive through art because that was more acceptable. My attempts at butching it up may not have been completely successful, but I fared well enough to get through high school without being bullied too harshly.
The environment for kids today is completely different. Sissy boys are labeled gay from the start, and these boys may identify as gay from a very young age. Some may have supportive parents (such as the fabulous HuffPost blogger Amelia) who promote their boys' burgeoning identities. When I was 20 and my mother found out that I was gay, she rushed to her doctor for anxiety pills and begged me never to tell my father because I would give him a heart attack. The Long Island environment we lived in was not exactly the place to be out, loud and proud, so her reaction is understandable.
Bullying is as intense as ever. It is not easier for kids today, but it is different. What I admire is seeing a boy who is effeminate remain that way into adulthood. I am a college professor, and I see male students who are just as nancy and fay as can be. I admire their strength and their willingness to be who they are. If I had not trained myself to be more "serious" and more "normal," would I have been more like them?
I lost my Long Island accent when I went away to college because the other students laughed at me. I lost my natural flamboyancy when I was in grade school because the other kids laughed at me. Stronger now, I regret altering who I was in order to please the crowd. I cannot willingly bring my accent back -- the ship has sailed on that one. But I can be more myself in terms of my willingness to be expressive or emotional or stereotypically "gay." I can say, wear, or do whatever I want. As RuPaul says, "What other people think about me is none of my business." It may have taken almost 50 years to get to this place, and I can thank today's sissy boys for teaching me to be more true to myself.
Professor of Theater, Ursinus College

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“Dorothy, please, a lady never admits her feet hurt.” Photograph: Photo by Thomas Anderson
Fri 31 Oct 2014 11.30 GMT Last modified on Wed 4 Nov 2015 17.11 GMT
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Whether I was a pretty girl, an ugly boy or something in between, there was nothing funny about a man putting his hand up my dress
When I was 12, my dad bragged that, when he was a kid, boys that wore dresses were sissies, and sissies got beat up.
At the time, I was sitting in the passenger seat of his car outside my friend Mary’s Halloween party, wearing a black dress I borrowed from my stepmother and a long wig I bought at the Walmart down the street. My palms got sweaty and I tried to rub them dry on the dress, but it was some sort of polyester blend that resisted my efforts.
“If you’re so nervous going to this damn party dressed like a girl then why’d you do it?” my dad said. “I just don’t get you sometimes, but it’s your life.”
As he spoke, I imagined him in a dress – a pink one even – his nails glittery and his wig long and blond, in platform shoes and walking like a runway model.
“Son, are you listening to me?” he barked, interrupting my daze, and I looked at him in his golfing clothes, boring in his masculinity. I nodded.
I reached for the door handle, closed my eyes and stepped out into the world as a girl. “Thanks for the ride, Dad.”
I watched his car disappear into the evening and wondered if he thought I looked pretty.
Inside Mary’s garage, other teenage bodies moved awkwardly to music as various parents stood around, partly to judge the costume contest and partly to make sure we kept our dancing age-appropriate. But the only thing anyone wanted to talk about was how good I looked – how I made such a pretty girl. No one was rude or hateful about me being in drag, no one threatened to beat me for being “a sissy” – instead, my friends seemed enamored with how attractive I turned out.
And for the first time, I felt attractive.
As the night progressed, I found myself moving differently through the party – more feminine, hips swaying. I’d spent so long trying to copy how men were “supposed” to walk, but, for the first time, I was unashamed of my movements’ lack of masculinity. I felt more connected to my body than ever before – and a little bit like what I looked like matched how I sometimes felt.
And then, as I reached for a slice of pizza, I felt a hand go up the back up my leg, and I froze. The fingers slowly moved up my leg, under my dress and slithered towards my inner thigh. As they neared my crotch, I snapped out of it and turned to confront which ever classmate was fucking with me – but instead I saw one of the dads.
“You’re not a girl,” he blurted out, a Budweiser in his hand.
I said nothing as my insides pulsed with anger. I wasn’t even sure what to be the most mad about: that man sticking his nasty hand up my dress, the fact that he stopped once he realized that I wasn’t what he expected, or that I suddenly no longer felt pretty.
The dad walked away while I tried to decide, drunkenly laughing to himself.
I walked up to a friend as Mary’s mom shut off the music to announce the winner of the costume contest and said, “Some dude just tried to go up my dress. He thought I was a girl.” He began laughing hysterically, and I just stared. Whether I was a pretty girl, an ugly boy, or something in between, there was one thing I knew for certain in that moment: There was nothing funny about a man going up my dress.
“Our winner for the boys is Zach and his dress!” Mary’s mom yelled, and the room cheered.
My cell phone buzzed inside the right pocket of the shorts as if on cue: my dad was outside, early, waiting to drive me home. I hugged my friends goodbye, and they all made their last “you’re so pretty” comments. They landed on me like leaves falling from the trees that I couldn’t dodge and couldn’t pick off, and I headed down the driveway to my father.
“Have fun tonight?” my dad asked as he pulled away.
I thought for a moment about telling him that everyone thought I was pretty, about the fingers that had crawled up my leg and about winning for best costume, but I didn’t. It was all too connected to the dress, a dress my father didn’t want me to wear. Everything good and everything bad about the night felt like my fault for being the “sissy” my own father thought I was.
I said, “I don’t like wearing dresses”, and a smile spread across his face.

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