Page 42 - Some Dance to Remember

12 Jack Fritscher

Patrick Henry in some movie or another, exposing publicly for the first
time his theory about emerging, evolving, masculine homosexuals. Ryan
virtually said, “Give me homomasculinism or give me Death!” Quentin,
ever the showman, turned an aside to his fans, wryly arched his brow, and
brought down the house.
Ryan himself laughed, but his shot, like another shot heard round the
world, had been fired. That night the Revolutionary War was not about tea
and taxes, but about Sissy-Brit tea and sympathy versus American-Butch
coffee and sex. Ryan, still radical from the Sixties, could not help rebut-
ting. He wrote later in his Journal: “The internationally received popular
stereotype of effeminacy was Crisp enough, and terribly British, but is not
hard enough to play ball in America.” Ryan’s appetites flew directly in the
face of Crisp’s philosophy the way that passion always will. As much as
Crisp denied the dashing, tall, dark man, Ryan truly believed in the exis-
tence of the Golden Man. He believed that bodybuilders are half-man and
half-god the way centaurs are half-man and half-horse. He also believed
in Tinker Bell, the fight for love and glory, and the sweet, sweet promise
of blond muscle. Everything for Ryan was metaphor.
Many people feel me ambiguous, and somewhat of a sore thumb; but
understanding of my role and my voice, be assured, is part of the mystery
here. As a pop scholar, I feel bound to investigate a love affair, especially
a love affair of this popular sort that ran for three years at the corner of
18th and Castro, an intersection suitable for the painter Hogarth. The
street was their medium as the street has always been for gay men. The
street is for cruising. The street is for parading. When gay people liberated
themselves at the Stonewall riot, they shouted, “Out of the bars and into
the streets.” The street is a confirmation of the public side of gay life and
politics. Walt Whitman was the good gay poet of the streets. The street is
the place where, when you go there, you know you’re out of your closet.
Maneuvers magazine made Ryan visible. Kick’s body was more than
just another streetside attraction. Together they became an instantly
Famous Couple on Castro Street. On the big screen over its glitzy bar, the
Midnight Sun showed candid telephoto closeup videos of them holding
court on Castro in the afternoons, leaning against the window of Donuts
& Things, drinking coffee from yellow plastic cups. The camera loved
Kick; and Ryan, more famous for his words than his face, was always at
his side. More than one queen wished Miss Scarlett dead, because they
saw him as all that stood between them and Kick.
“What’s that balding faggot have that I don’t have?”
“Kick Sorensen,” was the answer.

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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