The Gospel According to Marc:  

I tend to think of myself as a "boy next door" type. But then I’ll hear my voice on an answering machine and think, "Sure, if the boy next door is Jack on Will and Grace." On the masculinity meter I’d put myself somewhere between Elton John and Bea Arthur.

I was a sissy from birth; but my parents couldn’t tell immediately because they gave me a one-syllable name. It’s only when your five-year-old rolls his eyes and says, "Mother, it’s Jonathan!" that you know for certain he’s queer.

Still, despite having a lisp so pronounced I sssssounded like I’d sssssprung a leak I was reasonably comfortable with myself, happily lolling away afternoons in my cousin Helen’s pink bedroom, coveting her faux Louis XIV canopy bed, and playing "Mystery Date."

So you can understand why I am irritated by the backlash against Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I truly thought I was done writing about this subject until Ron Cowen, the Executive Producer of Queer as Folk, actually said he found it "discouraging to see gay men presented as frivolous stereotypes." I see. As opposed to those painstakingly realistic characterizations on Queer as Folk. (Does no one in Pittsburgh have chest hair?)

And then some bonehead in Details magazine came out with a blistering attack on Entertainment Tonight’s fashion correspondent Steven Cojocaru ("Is There Such a Thing as Too Gay?" Sept. 2003), calling the over-the-top fashionista "a reprehensible throwback—pre-gay, pre-Stonewall for that matter—a bitchy slap in the face to the dogged, courageous men and women who’ve fought 30-plus years to be accepted as normal, law-abiding citizens."

The writer, Tony Hendra (who is straight but claims righteous indignation on behalf of gays), goes on to say Cojo is "just what the red-meat Republicans expect a gay man to be: flirty, lisping, campy, dolled up in ridiculous clothes…in a word abnormal."

Okay, them’s fightin’ words. This kind of criticism makes me just want to wave my wand at this Hendra guy and say, "Be gone! Before someone drops a house on you, too."

Increasingly, the gay community seems to be suffering from what writer Tim Bergling calls "Sissyphobia," which is an irrational fear of effeminate behavior and not, as I originally thought, an irrational fear of Sissy Spacek.

Just look at on-line personals: a swishy fem is about as welcome as genital herpes. Some of the listings are so disparaging of effeminate behavior you’d swear they were written by John Rocker.

But, nowhere is this bias more evident than when Hendra snidely reports that Steven Cojocaru makes "Paul Lynde look like Colin Farrell."

Why does everyone pick on Paul Lynde? Sure, he was a bitter, self-loathing, closeted queen who told People magazine he was glad his following was straight because "gay people killed Judy Garland." (I for one, was not aware of this conspiracy theory, but I suppose it’s entirely possible that a gang of pre-Stonewall party boys stormed Judy’s hotel room and force-fed her prescription drugs.)

But what the anti-sissy faction fails to understand is that swishy queens are actually braver than their straight acting sisters because they fearlessly announce to a hostile society who they are the moment they open their mouths.

For instance, consider some of Lynde’s ribald responses on Hollywood Squares:

Q: Why do Hell’s Angels wear leather?
A: Because chiffon wrinkles too easily.

Q: What do you call a man who gives you diamonds and pearls?
A: I’d call him darling.

Q: According to the old song, "At night, when you’re asleep, into your tent I’ll creep." Who am I?
A: The scoutmaster.

This is pretty daring stuff—subversive, really—when you consider it was said during a time when homosexuality was still considered a mental illness. And Lynde’s legacy of lewd one-liners continues today in Queer Eye’s Carson Kressley who, upon watching a straight guy feed a gooey glob of chocolate to his girlfriend, remarked, "See, in our community that’s frowned upon—when you have a big brown wad on your finger."

Queer Eye features a group of "fairy godfathers" who are cultured, witty and well-groomed. I don’t know about you, but I can live with this stereotype.

Plus, it’s educational: so far I’ve learned to shine silver with toothpaste, see if a pair of jeans will fit by wrapping the waist around my neck, and (most importantly) always—always, always—apply hair product from the back.

Gay or straight, men are acculturated to suppress, or even despise, our feminine sides. And while football-loving, Budweiser-drinking Macho Marys do exist, I contend that those who denigrate finger-snapping fems do so out of their own fear of being perceived as effeminate; a fear as irrational as homophobia itself.

Scaredy-cats. Who are the real sissies here?

And that, my friends, is The Gospel According to Marc.