"Hanky code" or scarves instead of words: how gay men secretly communicated their sexual desires during Prohibition
If you've ever visited a historic gay bar, a queer leather archive, or just wandered into the deeper layers of LGBTQ+ history, you may have noticed a subtle accessory that at first glance seems almost banal: a colorful scarf peeking out of the back pocket of your jeans. A stylish detail for the uninitiated, a sophisticated tongue for the initiated. The so-called hanky code is one of the most iconic but least understood chapters of queer history. And above all: it was born out of a necessity to survive.
Today, in an era of more open coming out, dating apps, and queer aesthetics as part of the mainstream, it can feel like a cute historical artifact. But in the 60s, 70s and 80s, the handkerchief was often the only safe way to signal desire, identity and boundaries to the world - or rather, to the right people.
When silence was a matter of safety
As recently as the second half of the 20th century, queer sex was still a crime in many countries - including the United States. State laws against sodomy allowed police to arrest people on the mere suggestion that they might have had homosexual intercourse. Two men who walked into a hotel together risked questioning. Touching hands in public could spell trouble. Open conversation about desire was out of the question.
Queer intimacy therefore moved into the shadows - into parks, on the waterfront, in public toilets, subway stations or abandoned industrial areas. It was here that the culture of cruising places developed - and with it the need for quick, quiet and above all unobtrusive communication. In these spaces, it was impossible to simply talk. Hanky code was a way of saying: this is what I'm looking for, without saying a word.
Colors instead of sentences
The principle was simple but surprisingly sophisticated. The color of the scarf indicated a particular sexual interest or fetish, while its placement in the left or right pocket signaled the preferred role - active or passive, dominant or submissive. The left pocket usually signified "active", the right "passive". Those who knew the code could "read" the other person in seconds.
A red scarf could indicate an interest in fisting, dark blue anal sex, light blue oral practices, black sadomasochistic play, yellow pissing and brown scat. A shocking openness, perhaps, from today's perspective, but a radically liberating gesture in its time: sexuality was not classified as 'normal' and 'weird', everything stood side by side.
It is important to add that the hanky code never replaced consent. It was an invitation to conversation, not an automatic contract. Even in an environment where meetings were often quick and anonymous, communication remained key.
Leather cities and the visual language of desire
The rise of the hanky code is inextricably linked to the 1970s and the urban leather scene - particularly in San Francisco and Los Angeles. After World War II, part of gay male culture was shaped around biker clubs, leather bars and BDSM communities. Clothing was not just a fashion, but a communication tool.
A precursor to the handkerchief code, for example, were keys worn on the left or right loop of jeans - these too signalled a role in a sexual encounter. The hanky code extended and refined this visual language. One of the first printed sources to systematize the code was the Leatherman's Handbook, now considered the bible of the leather subculture.
At the same time, there has never been an "official" list. Meanings varied by city, club and community. What was true in San Francisco was not necessarily true in New York. And that was precisely the power of the code: it was alive, fluid, and community-shaped.
Lesbians, drag queens and queer creativity
Hanky code was not exclusively a male thing. Lesbian communities created their own variations that reflected different desires, roles and aesthetics. One of the earliest recorded versions of the lesbian hanky code can be found in 1984 in the erotic magazine On Our Backs. Colours such as lavender for drag queens and their admirers, purple associated with piercings or needle play, and lacy white for Victorian erotic scenarios appear here.
The absence of a central authority meant one thing: everyone could add another shade, another meaning. And that's exactly what the queer community did. The hanky code became a decentralized archive of desire.
Then, in the 1990s, the hanky code took on a new, very serious dimension. At the height of the HIV/AIDS epidemic, black-and-white headscarves appeared, signaling an emphasis on safer sex. Here again, it turns out that the hanky code was not just about sex, but also about care, responsibility and mutual respect.
Today, wearing a headscarf in the back pocket is the exception rather than the rule. The reasons are obvious: the decline of cruising spots, the closing of queer bars, the massive surveillance of public spaces and the shift of dating to the digital sphere. What used to be solved by the colour of the fabric is now catered for by the profile on the app.
But at the same time, the hanky code is making a comeback - as a cultural reference, fashion statement or educational content on platforms like TikTok and Instagram. Colored scarves appear in videos, archives, and runway shows as a symbol of a time when queer people had to be constantly one step ahead.
Why it still matters
The Hanky Code is not just a list of sexual practices, but a reminder of queer ingenuity, solidarity, and courage. It reflects the sex-positive, non-judgmental approach to desire that queer, leather and kinky communities have long fostered, often in the face of mainstream puritanical society.
By placing "vanilla" practices alongside those considered extreme, it helped to break down stigma and normalize diversity. He taught queer people to speak up about what they wanted, even when it wasn't safe to speak up.
So the question in conclusion may not be whether you should put a scarf in your pocket today, but rather how much history, courage, and desire can be hidden in one inconspicuous piece of fabric? And are we even aware of the sophisticated languages the queer community has had to create in order to be itself?
