From handkerchiefs to Grindr: A history of how gay guys communicate

By Roland Taureau

Subtext is everything in gay culture. It stems from having long been marginalised, forced underground, and having had to develop the means by which to identify one another and communicate without fear of humiliation, denigration or worse, violence.

The fact of the matter is, most straight people just don’t enjoy the thought of coming across as gay, and can get really pissed off at unrequited, homosexual advances.

That’s why we’ve had to develop various ways of communicating, of indirectly ascertaining whether someone’s interested and, if they are, exactly what they’re looking for.

But how did this system of subtext and signifiers originate?

A modern history of underground gay communication can probably be traced back to the USA in the late-1960s; a time in which the country’s simmering gay culture would soon come to a boil. The underground nature of gay interaction necessitated the development of a series of signifiers designed to communicate sexual preferences, roles and desires. A relatively simple, coded system eventually took hold, involving a raft of shiny and colourful accessories.

Earrings, key rings and handkerchiefs in various colours were strategically placed on the body to indicate that the wearer was ready for action, and the role they intended to play.

For an in-depth examination of the Handkerchief Code you’d be well-advised to flick through Hal Fischer’s ‘Gay Semiotics’, although a layman’s guide is as follows:

Blue handkerchief = seeking anal intercourse.

Yellow handkerchief = piss play.

Red handkerchief = fisting.

Black handkerchief = BDSM.

Worn on the left = top/active/insertive.

Worn on the right = bottom/passive/receptive.

According to Fischer, earrings and key rings were pretty general, and only gave a subtle indication as to the wearer’s preference to be passive or active during sex, depending on which side they were worn.

Obviously this system had its drawbacks. For those of us who’ve always struggled to discern left from right, for example, it could be quite alarming to find yourself in the wee hours of the morning being worn like a Rolex by a beefed-up bear you met at a kebab shop on Oxford Street.

Not to mention the hazard posed to oblivious straight men, who just happen to have a penchant for vibrant textiles.

By the turn of the century, the rise of the internet had opened up a whole new world for gay men, because all of a sudden we could interact with one another securely and privately on websites like Gaydar and Manhunt.

The shame and stigma of online dating never seemed all that apparent within gay communities, because we’d been forced into the relative safety of cyberspace in order to communicate openly, build networks and look for love (and sex). As technology progressed, so did the global gay diaspora and, soon after the creation of the smartphone, came the invention of a clever little app named Grindr.

Launched in 2009, Grindr truly was a game changer.

It was as if, all of a sudden, everybody had a little homosexuality detector that they could carry around in their pocket, and that would practically explode when other gays were in the area.

Not only you could send messages and pictures, but it would track to within a few metres the locale of prospective partners, in order that you could carefully evaluate how much energy would need to be expended chasing cock for the evening.

In my experience, Grindr has always been particularly useful on public transport.

There you are, coming home from work, when all of a sudden a cute boy hops on the train. You contemplate how to make your move; how to ascertain his orientation, availability and enthusiasm surrounded by an audience of potentially-homophobic strangers.

In the old days, if you wanted to take the plunge, you’d have to go manual. A couple of minutes of optical ping pong would lead to a lingering glance, a lusty leer and then, before you knew it, you were in the local park, taking full advantage of the seesaw and getting optimal value out of your council rates. It was exciting, but Grindr significantly reduced the margin of error.

The popularity of Grindr gave rise to a whole host of other apps, aimed at different markets and demographics, from Scruff to Hornet and even Tinder, which to me has always seemed more like a tool for sexual spring cleaning rather than an effective mode of communication.

Call me old-school, but what I’d really like to see is a Hanky Code app, that connects with counterparts in your general vicinity before beaming a monstrously bright beam of blue, red, or yellow light from whichever pocket you happened to have placed your phone.

The fact remains that coding and semiotics are just as important as they used to be, and while technology has become a great way to evade some of the dangers of open homosexuality, particularly in oppressive countries, it should be acknowledged that gay apps have also been used to track and target their users, indicating that the technology presents both an opportunity and a risk.

What’s really interesting these days, is that apps like Hornet and Scruff allow users to search for other homos anywhere else in the world. This is not only useful when planning a fabulous vacation, but allows us to open up a dialogue with an international network of gays, even those suffering persecution under oppressive political and socio-cultural regimes.

Greater understanding of the pressures and dangers in these countries might lead to greater understanding of the ways in which we can help, which could mean a far more positive future for the gay underground the world over.