Too Personal for Fandom
Sometimes, even pre-internet, feelings about a coveted relationship were too intense to share within fandom.
In the mid 90s, I was at my table at a Denver fan con (fan con being a small, intimate con with only fans, as opposed to a commercial convention, with thousands of fans and guest stars), selling my Heart and Soul fanzines. The dealer's room was only sparsely populated, since various panels were going on. A young woman walked up to the table next to mine, which was of a major zine dealer, and had many dozens of zines available from various fandoms. I heard her ask hopefully, "Do you have any of the Heart and Soul zines?" The dealer nodded toward me and said, "Why don't you get them from the source?"
The woman seemed a bit flustered that she was going to have to move away from the huge table, to the smaller, intimate table where the only zines I was selling were my mine. She seemed extremely nervous and bashful, and I don't recall her ever getting out a full sentence. I tried to help out by asking if she was looking for a specific zine, or the latest one I'd published. When I couldn't get any kind of answer, I pointed to the flyers I had on the table, that had blurbs about the stories in each zine. She still couldn't seem to communicate what she wanted, and just seemed horribly embarrassed.
So, I asked, "Do you prefer to see Starsky as the hurt one? Or Hutch as the hurt one?" She only sort of sputtered, and I found it hard to believe that she didn't realize that those of us at this private con were pretty much all in the same boat -- we loved this stuff, and there was nothing to be embarrassed out. When I couldn't get any kind of answer, I put my hands on the zines in turn, as I said, "If you like Hutch being hurt, then that would be this one, or this one, or this one. If you prefer for Starsky to be the hurt one, then I'd recommend this one or this one."
I got the sense that I'd tapped into her innermost fantasies, She seemed utterly terrified and completely at a loss as to how to respond. I vaguely recall that she just grabbed a couple of the zines and quickly wrote me a check. And then hurried away. I don't think she spoke a single coherent sentence for the few minutes she was at my table.
I felt really bad for her. How difficult it must be to want this stuff so much, that she was willing to show up at a con with all these strange people, and yet apparently think that her feelings for it were too private to speak out loud, even in such a "safe" setting.
A year or so later, after the internet had firmly taken hold, I decided to reprint of all my zines, so any of the oodles of new fans who who were showing up via the internet, had an opportunity to buy them. That meant fans needed to email me to tell me they wanted a copy of which zines, so I'd know how many to print of each issue. I got one email from a person in my city, who wanted all eight of my zines, and I emailed her back that I could deliver the zines in person, so she would be spared the large cost of postage. She was less than enthused about that idea, but finally agreed, especially when I said I'd just hand them over to her. It's not like she needed to invite me in to her apartment. So, the day came when I happily knocked on the door, with a box of her zines. She grabbed them, said "thanks", and starting closing the door, as I went into my usual spiel about how I'd love to hear what she thought of the stories. She nodded quickly and shut the door. I never heard anything from her again.
I've always felt, in a sense, that fandom was a collection of people who often feel like freaks, because their particular passion feels unusual, and therefore their passions can only be shared with others of the same freakiness. But even in a setting of the supposedly like-minded, some people still feel like freaks.
In the mid 90s, I was at my table at a Denver fan con (fan con being a small, intimate con with only fans, as opposed to a commercial convention, with thousands of fans and guest stars), selling my Heart and Soul fanzines. The dealer's room was only sparsely populated, since various panels were going on. A young woman walked up to the table next to mine, which was of a major zine dealer, and had many dozens of zines available from various fandoms. I heard her ask hopefully, "Do you have any of the Heart and Soul zines?" The dealer nodded toward me and said, "Why don't you get them from the source?"
The woman seemed a bit flustered that she was going to have to move away from the huge table, to the smaller, intimate table where the only zines I was selling were my mine. She seemed extremely nervous and bashful, and I don't recall her ever getting out a full sentence. I tried to help out by asking if she was looking for a specific zine, or the latest one I'd published. When I couldn't get any kind of answer, I pointed to the flyers I had on the table, that had blurbs about the stories in each zine. She still couldn't seem to communicate what she wanted, and just seemed horribly embarrassed.
So, I asked, "Do you prefer to see Starsky as the hurt one? Or Hutch as the hurt one?" She only sort of sputtered, and I found it hard to believe that she didn't realize that those of us at this private con were pretty much all in the same boat -- we loved this stuff, and there was nothing to be embarrassed out. When I couldn't get any kind of answer, I put my hands on the zines in turn, as I said, "If you like Hutch being hurt, then that would be this one, or this one, or this one. If you prefer for Starsky to be the hurt one, then I'd recommend this one or this one."
I got the sense that I'd tapped into her innermost fantasies, She seemed utterly terrified and completely at a loss as to how to respond. I vaguely recall that she just grabbed a couple of the zines and quickly wrote me a check. And then hurried away. I don't think she spoke a single coherent sentence for the few minutes she was at my table.
I felt really bad for her. How difficult it must be to want this stuff so much, that she was willing to show up at a con with all these strange people, and yet apparently think that her feelings for it were too private to speak out loud, even in such a "safe" setting.
A year or so later, after the internet had firmly taken hold, I decided to reprint of all my zines, so any of the oodles of new fans who who were showing up via the internet, had an opportunity to buy them. That meant fans needed to email me to tell me they wanted a copy of which zines, so I'd know how many to print of each issue. I got one email from a person in my city, who wanted all eight of my zines, and I emailed her back that I could deliver the zines in person, so she would be spared the large cost of postage. She was less than enthused about that idea, but finally agreed, especially when I said I'd just hand them over to her. It's not like she needed to invite me in to her apartment. So, the day came when I happily knocked on the door, with a box of her zines. She grabbed them, said "thanks", and starting closing the door, as I went into my usual spiel about how I'd love to hear what she thought of the stories. She nodded quickly and shut the door. I never heard anything from her again.
I've always felt, in a sense, that fandom was a collection of people who often feel like freaks, because their particular passion feels unusual, and therefore their passions can only be shared with others of the same freakiness. But even in a setting of the supposedly like-minded, some people still feel like freaks.