By Phil Italiano

On June 28, 1969, the Stonewall Inn—a scrappy gay bar tucked into New York City’s Greenwich Village—was raided by police for the crime of selling booze without a license. But that was just the excuse. The real reason? Homophobia. See, in 1969, it wasn’t just illegal to serve alcohol to homosexuals—it was illegal to be one. Existing while gay was an arrestable offense. Holding hands. Wearing the “wrong” clothes. Dancing with someone of the same sex. That night, the cops came to remind the queers they were supposed to stay scared, stay silent, and stay invisible.

Instead, the queers rioted. And the world changed.

We now call them the Stonewall Riots, the spark that ignited a global movement for LGBTQ rights. Every Pride parade in June traces its roots back to Stonewall.

A little over a month before Stonewall, in the May 23, 1969 issue of SCREW, two openly gay writers—Jack Nichols and Lige Clarke—gave a name to the sickness eating America alive. They didn’t know a riot was coming. They weren’t predicting a revolution. But by calling out homophobia—a word most of the country had never heard—they unknowingly lit the fuse to a powder keg that would blow a hole in history just weeks later.

Their column, titled He-Man Horseshit, didn’t just drag American masculinity by the jockstrap—it dropped the first-ever use of the word “homophobia” in print. A term coined by psychologist George Weinberg, who recognized that what gay people were facing wasn’t just prejudice—it was fear. Irrational, ugly, panicked fear.

Fear that kicked down the doors of Stonewall.
Fear that loaded the batons.
Fear that lit the match.

And SCREW, of all places—a smut rag that reviewed porn flicks and advertised hookers and seedy theaters—was the first media outlet with the balls to print that truth.

That’s right. A word we now hear in classrooms, courtrooms, and campaign ads was born in the back pages of the filthiest, most honest sex rag this country ever produced. SCREW gave it legs. And unfortunately, America gave it reason to run.

Back then, homophobia wore a leather belt and a crew cut. It spit on gay protestors, giggled during police raids, and clutched its pearls anytime two men so much as shared a dance. Homophobia was loud. It was obvious. It came with a goddamn warning label.

Fast forward to 2025, and the He-Man horseshit’s gotten slicker. Quieter. More insidious. It’s traded its beer breath and locker-room slurs for something far more dangerous: plausible deniability.

These days, homophobia wears a suit. It speaks in talking points. It smiles on camera and says things like, “We just want to protect the children,” while pushing laws that ban books, strip rights, and shove queer kids back into closets built from Bible pages and bad policy.

It’s not “I hate fags” anymore—it’s “parental rights.”
It’s not gay panic—it’s “traditional values.”
It’s not Westboro Baptist—it’s your senator.

And just like in ‘69, it’s still all about fear. Not of gay people per se, but of the freedom they represent. The threat to the old-world order. The audacity of two dudes holding hands and not giving a damn who sees.

That’s the dirty truth about homophobia: it’s always been less about sex and more about control.
Control over bodies.
Control over identity.
Control over who gets to feel safe in public and who doesn’t.

And while the world’s gotten gayer, louder, and more fabulous, the backlash has gotten uglier, sneakier, and more organized. It’s one thing to be hated. It’s another to be legislated against by people who swear they’re only “protecting the culture.”

Let me tell you something: if your culture can be destroyed by drag brunch and a rainbow flag, your culture sucks. And if you feel threatened by dudes in drag or a rainbow flag, perhaps you, my friend, are the real pansy-ass faggot.

Meanwhile, the same conservatives pushing anti-LGBTQ+ laws are caught diddling their interns, tapping their toes in airport bathrooms, or hiding Grindr on burner phones. It’s all He-Man horseshit—just polished and perfumed.

So what do we do?

We remember where this fight started. We remember that the word “homophobia” wasn’t coined in some ivory tower—it was born on smudged newsprint in the same pages that ran dildo ads, dominatrix classifieds, and 8mm film reviews. It was coined by George Weinberg, yes—but it was SCREW that took it public, loud and unashamed.

That’s what SCREW always did best: told the truth, even when it stank.

So here’s to Nichols and Clarke. Here’s to Weinberg. Here’s to every queer kid flipping off their school board, every trans woman refusing to shrink, every closeted redneck still figuring it out. And here’s to calling out He-Man horseshit wherever it shows up—in Congress, in church, or in your own damn mirror.

Homophobia didn’t die. It just learned to code-switch. But we’re still here. Still watching. Still yelling. Still fabulous.

And if you don’t like it?

You can kiss my all ten inches* of my big, fat traditional values. Because that’s what hetero He-Men do, we tell other dudes to suck our dicks — but we don’t mean it like that.

*Enlarged to show texture. May include optical inch or inches as a result of grooming.

—P.