Cover art by Travis Hampton
PRIDE | 2021
June 7th, 2021
Happy Pride, everyone!
With the pandemic (hopefully) coming to an end soon and the return of in-person Pride festivities, we hope that everyone can participate in safe, fun, and accessible Pride spaces — after all we've been through in the last year, we've earned it!
We wanted to take a moment to talk about the cover art for this issue, once again contributed by our talented Art Editor, Travis Hampton. When we were mulling over what symbols of Pride we wanted to showcase in our first-ever PRIDE Issue, we decided to go with a little-known emblem that we think is long overdue for a revival: The Lavender Rhinocerous. Created by two Boston-based artists in the 1970s as a symbol of Queer visibility, the Lavender Rhino represented the malignment and misunderstanding of Queer people by the straight populace (similar to how real rhinos have a reputation for being violent and aggressive, but are actually very docile unless provoked or threatened — an apt metaphor for the Queer community in the immediate aftermath of the Stonewall riots in 1969). The original design of the Lavender Rhino included a heart drawn over the chest to represent the common humanity and worth of all people, and the color lavender was chosen because...well, it's lavender, which has a very long history as a color associated with Queer pride and identity. (You can read more about that here, and learn more about the history of the Lavender Rhino here.)
Although the Lavender Rhino isn't a well-known Pride symbol today, we feel like it's time for it to make a comeback — not merely because it's adorable, but because we also feel like it's an apt metaphor for the current moment. Across the US and the rest of the world, the fight for Queer liberation is far from finished. In the US alone, 31 anti-transgender bills have been filed in 20 states since the beginning of the year. Queer people at home and abroad continue to struggle to live daily lives that are free from oppression, discrimination, and violence. And June 12th will mark the fifth anniversary of the deadly Pulse nightclub massacre that snuffed out the lives of 49 Queer people, many of them people of color, and injured 53 others. Like the rhino, which is only dangerous when provoked, it's time for us to charge ahead now as we continue to fight against the assault on our bodies and rights to live in safety and dignity — just Queer people (and specifically trans women of color) charged ahead 52 years ago on a hot June night in 1969 by throwing bricks at NYC cops who were attempting to perform genital checks at the Stonewall Inn. We can seize the opportunity that this moment offers to make real, radical change for ourselves and the lives of our Queer siblings around the globe. We are not hopeless or alone; we are many, we are powerful, and when we come together as a community, there is nothing that can stop us.
In the meantime, find your joy wherever you can, fam. Oh, and don't be afraid to go all-out with the glitter. (If that's your thing.)
With love and solidarity,
Nori, Ashton, & Travis
PS: As a special treat, we've included a few snapshots of important events and figures in Queer history in this issue as a way to honor our Queer ancestors and the rich legacy they've passed down to us. Enjoy!
With the pandemic (hopefully) coming to an end soon and the return of in-person Pride festivities, we hope that everyone can participate in safe, fun, and accessible Pride spaces — after all we've been through in the last year, we've earned it!
We wanted to take a moment to talk about the cover art for this issue, once again contributed by our talented Art Editor, Travis Hampton. When we were mulling over what symbols of Pride we wanted to showcase in our first-ever PRIDE Issue, we decided to go with a little-known emblem that we think is long overdue for a revival: The Lavender Rhinocerous. Created by two Boston-based artists in the 1970s as a symbol of Queer visibility, the Lavender Rhino represented the malignment and misunderstanding of Queer people by the straight populace (similar to how real rhinos have a reputation for being violent and aggressive, but are actually very docile unless provoked or threatened — an apt metaphor for the Queer community in the immediate aftermath of the Stonewall riots in 1969). The original design of the Lavender Rhino included a heart drawn over the chest to represent the common humanity and worth of all people, and the color lavender was chosen because...well, it's lavender, which has a very long history as a color associated with Queer pride and identity. (You can read more about that here, and learn more about the history of the Lavender Rhino here.)
Although the Lavender Rhino isn't a well-known Pride symbol today, we feel like it's time for it to make a comeback — not merely because it's adorable, but because we also feel like it's an apt metaphor for the current moment. Across the US and the rest of the world, the fight for Queer liberation is far from finished. In the US alone, 31 anti-transgender bills have been filed in 20 states since the beginning of the year. Queer people at home and abroad continue to struggle to live daily lives that are free from oppression, discrimination, and violence. And June 12th will mark the fifth anniversary of the deadly Pulse nightclub massacre that snuffed out the lives of 49 Queer people, many of them people of color, and injured 53 others. Like the rhino, which is only dangerous when provoked, it's time for us to charge ahead now as we continue to fight against the assault on our bodies and rights to live in safety and dignity — just Queer people (and specifically trans women of color) charged ahead 52 years ago on a hot June night in 1969 by throwing bricks at NYC cops who were attempting to perform genital checks at the Stonewall Inn. We can seize the opportunity that this moment offers to make real, radical change for ourselves and the lives of our Queer siblings around the globe. We are not hopeless or alone; we are many, we are powerful, and when we come together as a community, there is nothing that can stop us.
In the meantime, find your joy wherever you can, fam. Oh, and don't be afraid to go all-out with the glitter. (If that's your thing.)
With love and solidarity,
Nori, Ashton, & Travis
PS: As a special treat, we've included a few snapshots of important events and figures in Queer history in this issue as a way to honor our Queer ancestors and the rich legacy they've passed down to us. Enjoy!
A Sliver of Something
by Julianna May
Push past the polyester curtain
hung between living room and hallway
to keep the pungent smell of nail polish and remover
from spilling into the dark hall
Catch a glimpse of tiger lily hair
dancing under the moonbeams
as the girl shakes her head
it's like fire flaring through a field
Quick, before mother hurries
you out, grasp the small glass
full of black paint that reminds you
of rubbing alcohol and knee scrapes
But imprints a new beauty
of black nails tracing skin
and tiger hair draping shoulders
as she falls back in laughter
hung between living room and hallway
to keep the pungent smell of nail polish and remover
from spilling into the dark hall
Catch a glimpse of tiger lily hair
dancing under the moonbeams
as the girl shakes her head
it's like fire flaring through a field
Quick, before mother hurries
you out, grasp the small glass
full of black paint that reminds you
of rubbing alcohol and knee scrapes
But imprints a new beauty
of black nails tracing skin
and tiger hair draping shoulders
as she falls back in laughter
Where the Red Fern Grows
by Julianna May
Untasted,
untouched lips
dropped open,
popping softly
as she appeared:
breasts free, hair wildly
red. Her legs long, white,
walking through a field of ferns.
I quickly closed the browser but
a pulsing heat stayed.
untouched lips
dropped open,
popping softly
as she appeared:
breasts free, hair wildly
red. Her legs long, white,
walking through a field of ferns.
I quickly closed the browser but
a pulsing heat stayed.
Niagra
by Julianna May
the water slips
like silk through fingers
or legs through a slit satin dress
i’d love to slide my hand
through the slit up your thigh
touch the muscles I shouldn’t
touch. I look at the mist rise
dream too much
of red lips whispering my name
your curls pressed
in the creases of my sheets
my tongue tracing
what it does not know. You already
have a girlfriend so i smile silently
as the mist disperses
like silk through fingers
or legs through a slit satin dress
i’d love to slide my hand
through the slit up your thigh
touch the muscles I shouldn’t
touch. I look at the mist rise
dream too much
of red lips whispering my name
your curls pressed
in the creases of my sheets
my tongue tracing
what it does not know. You already
have a girlfriend so i smile silently
as the mist disperses
Julianna May (she/her) is a high school English teacher, dog mom, and part-time softball coach. She received her M.A. in Creative Writing from Wilkes University and has previously been published in Nightingale and Sparrow Magazine, Emerge Literary Journal, and Crepe & Penn. Find her on Twitter: @JuliannaMay1216
The paper-mâché Lavender Rhino that cruised along the route of the 1974 Boston Pride Parade.
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Aftercare
by Aimee Nicole
CN: Sexuality
Press yourself deeper, stretching my laffy taffy insides to fit everything you are. I want to feel the memory of you as I walk to get coffee down the block when we part. When I turn my neck to search for passing cars, I want to feel your fingertips gripping me tightly. I want the lace of my bra to chafe those pretty bruises your mouth left trailing my peach skin. My already battered back should be begging for reprieve when I walk those stairs to greet the cat. Our time together might be fleeting baby, so leave your mark for pondering under my sheets alone.
Circumstances
by Aimee Nicole
CN: Sexuality
Dating someone queer requires more from you
than eating rainbow cake in beach parking lots and
watching girl on girl porn after the lights go out.
You will need to rhythmically move a cucumber
inside my love hole upon request then eat it with me
under the covers when I’m missing a woman’s touch.
Pride is a mandatory family holiday. It is always annual
and there will be years when more than
one celebration requires your attendance.
When politics shift like the fickle breeze,
I will need you to settle my fizzy pop boom.
I’m hot to the touch and percolating under this Irish skin.
While I can’t offer you a sit down blood Christmas family
confab, homemade pie, pork in the belly festivity --
I built my family over decades rather than a night.
than eating rainbow cake in beach parking lots and
watching girl on girl porn after the lights go out.
You will need to rhythmically move a cucumber
inside my love hole upon request then eat it with me
under the covers when I’m missing a woman’s touch.
Pride is a mandatory family holiday. It is always annual
and there will be years when more than
one celebration requires your attendance.
When politics shift like the fickle breeze,
I will need you to settle my fizzy pop boom.
I’m hot to the touch and percolating under this Irish skin.
While I can’t offer you a sit down blood Christmas family
confab, homemade pie, pork in the belly festivity --
I built my family over decades rather than a night.
Sex Hangover
by Aimee Nicole
CN: Sexuality
It’s 7:10AM and I’m eating a pepper and sausage grinder with
vegan cheese all mashed onto the roll with a fork.
My body is curled into itself like a spoon.
A heavy sweater covers bruises trailing down my chest, my wrists,
even though we’ll flip the calendars to June next week.
In the middle of a quarantine I’ll still sneak out to meet you in
grocery store parking lots baby, because no one can ruin
this body like those pitcher’s hands.
vegan cheese all mashed onto the roll with a fork.
My body is curled into itself like a spoon.
A heavy sweater covers bruises trailing down my chest, my wrists,
even though we’ll flip the calendars to June next week.
In the middle of a quarantine I’ll still sneak out to meet you in
grocery store parking lots baby, because no one can ruin
this body like those pitcher’s hands.
Gay Kickball During COVID
by Aimee Nicole
The lone spectator, a straight ref’s partner, observes from behind home plate.
Masks are removed to sip beer and sneeze. No one spits into the dirt.
A pitty named Pickle Pussy whines from the sideline while his daddy mans first base.
Teammates screaming “Do it for Beyonce” coach from chipping park benches.
They play for pride or bragging rights or the promise of brunch afterward.
The ref makes calls, always with his toe in the game but never becoming a part of it.
Masks are removed to sip beer and sneeze. No one spits into the dirt.
A pitty named Pickle Pussy whines from the sideline while his daddy mans first base.
Teammates screaming “Do it for Beyonce” coach from chipping park benches.
They play for pride or bragging rights or the promise of brunch afterward.
The ref makes calls, always with his toe in the game but never becoming a part of it.
Cowardice
by Aimee Nicole
I chip away ice from the car until it is streaked with
dirty leftover fluids sparkling under the December sun.
There is nothing left to distract me now and my brain
tunes from static to the occupied mind of someone searching.
Do I blame myself for not asking you the right questions earlier in our relationship?
Or do I transfer every weight I’m feeling directly onto you for having
less compassion, less understanding, less responsibility than I envisioned.
That night we met on the Providence River I was quick to
paint the future of us dancing hand-in-hand, equal and formidable.
That night we shared fajitas and guacamole I drew stronger arms
than you bore, not to carry me but to bear the weight of my world.
dirty leftover fluids sparkling under the December sun.
There is nothing left to distract me now and my brain
tunes from static to the occupied mind of someone searching.
Do I blame myself for not asking you the right questions earlier in our relationship?
Or do I transfer every weight I’m feeling directly onto you for having
less compassion, less understanding, less responsibility than I envisioned.
That night we met on the Providence River I was quick to
paint the future of us dancing hand-in-hand, equal and formidable.
That night we shared fajitas and guacamole I drew stronger arms
than you bore, not to carry me but to bear the weight of my world.
Aimee Nicole is a queer poet currently residing in Rhode Island. She holds a BFA in Creative Writing from Roger Williams University and has been published by the Red Booth Review, The Nonconformist, and Voice of Eve, among others. For fun, she enjoys attending roller derby bouts and trying desperately to win at drag bingo.
The Stonewall Riots took place at the Stonewall Inn — a Queer bar on Christopher Street in New York's Greenwhich Village — in June 1969 in response to a police raid on the bar where officers attempted to perform genital checks on patrons. The riots sparked the modern LGBTQ+ liberation movement in the United States, and story of Stonewall has become a beacon of hope and resistance for Queer people around the world. This "raided premisis" sign hangs in the bar to this day as a reminder of Pride's radical roots.
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Marsha P. Johnson (1945 - 1992) — Queer and trans liberation activist, AIDS activist, model, drag queen, "Mayor of Christopher Street" and one of the most famous figures of the Stonewall Riots.
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Sylvia Rivera (1951 - 2002) — Queer and trans liberation activist, drag queen, founder of STAR (Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries) and one of the most famous figures of the Stonewall Riots.
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Source: Wikimedia Commons
This Body Says
by Melissa Jennings
CN: Partial nudity
I Am Plural
by Melissa Jennings
CN: Misgendering, transphobia
when I am called “woman,” it is like someone screaming in my ear.
“woman” cuts through my eardrum and shapes me into
what I am not and never have been.
I’ve heard so many times
that you can’t call a person “they”
because they are only one person,
but I disagree because there have been
a thousand different versions of me who have existed on this earth.
I’ve died so many times,
and brought myself back to life,
picking up my former lives
and placing them in scrapbooks.
I know where I have been.
“they” is both singular and plural.
“they” is there and here.
I’ve always been
a they
a them
a their
because it’s my right to take up space in the universe.
in fact,
I am the entire universe.
“woman” cuts through my eardrum and shapes me into
what I am not and never have been.
I’ve heard so many times
that you can’t call a person “they”
because they are only one person,
but I disagree because there have been
a thousand different versions of me who have existed on this earth.
I’ve died so many times,
and brought myself back to life,
picking up my former lives
and placing them in scrapbooks.
I know where I have been.
“they” is both singular and plural.
“they” is there and here.
I’ve always been
a they
a them
a their
because it’s my right to take up space in the universe.
in fact,
I am the entire universe.
Gender as:
by Melissa Jennings
CN: Patriarchy
[] fighting the patriarchy & letting new oceans form under my skin
[] comet streaks across my arms & legs & belly & ass
[] electricity in the room & I put you under my spell
[] purgatory in the form of swallowing myself
[] smiling/baring my teeth in the mirror
[] fuck your boxes, your seasons, your doors, your concrete, your glass ceilings
I will exist [ ] whether you like it or not
[] comet streaks across my arms & legs & belly & ass
[] electricity in the room & I put you under my spell
[] purgatory in the form of swallowing myself
[] smiling/baring my teeth in the mirror
[] fuck your boxes, your seasons, your doors, your concrete, your glass ceilings
I will exist [ ] whether you like it or not
I Think I Measure My Life In
(After Maddie McGlinchey)
by Melissa Jennings
CN: Trauma, internalised bimisia, anti-polyamory, family trauma
Time unspent:
asking her out instead of him
apologies coming sooner
speaking to my younger self
holding anger in my arms, not in my mouth
kissing her when she was on my lap
asking my father why he doesn’t know me anymore
in the fifteen years he refused to change
in the years of therapy I could have had
my whole family could have had
loving them both instead of choosing
loving myself instead of choosing not to.
asking her out instead of him
apologies coming sooner
speaking to my younger self
holding anger in my arms, not in my mouth
kissing her when she was on my lap
asking my father why he doesn’t know me anymore
in the fifteen years he refused to change
in the years of therapy I could have had
my whole family could have had
loving them both instead of choosing
loving myself instead of choosing not to.
Melissa Jennings (they/them) is more heart than human. They are a lover of books, poetry, and pizza. They’re probably a druid. Melissa is a queer poet living in the city of Glasgow, Scotland. Visit their website: www.melissajennings.co Twitter @_softpoetry and Instagram @_melissajennings.
A demonstrator holds a sign with a Pink Triangle that reads "Silence = Death" at an ACT UP 30th Anniversary rally at the New York AIDS Memorial. ACT UP was an AIDS activist group with a global reach that participated in a number of demonstrations throughout the 1980s and 1990s, during the height of the AIDS crisis. "Silence = Death" was their official slogan. The Pink Triangle was once used to identify gay prisoners in Nazi concentration camps. Today, it has been reclaimed as a symbol of Pride.
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Source: Wikimedia Commons
The Sky is Gay
by Halle
The sky is gay.
The purple of the night
contrasting the silvery moon
that her eyes glow in.
Eyelashes and mascara shimmering,
her happiness radiating
as the stars glow in the purple night.
The darkness moves
and no one can see
the hidden kisses we take,
the moonlight in her hair,
the wonder in her eyes
as the stars dance above us.
Our hidden acts of love
happen under the purple night sky,
keeping us safe
from the lurking shadows of the day.
It’s purple a safety blanket
for our love.
The sky is gay.
The purple of the night
keeping us hidden,
keeping us safe,
keeping us alive.
The purple of the night
contrasting the silvery moon
that her eyes glow in.
Eyelashes and mascara shimmering,
her happiness radiating
as the stars glow in the purple night.
The darkness moves
and no one can see
the hidden kisses we take,
the moonlight in her hair,
the wonder in her eyes
as the stars dance above us.
Our hidden acts of love
happen under the purple night sky,
keeping us safe
from the lurking shadows of the day.
It’s purple a safety blanket
for our love.
The sky is gay.
The purple of the night
keeping us hidden,
keeping us safe,
keeping us alive.
Bleeding Rainbow
by Halle
CN: Biphobia
Rainbow courses in my veins.
When I am hurt,
I bleed pink, purple, and blue.
My identity shines
in the light of the sun.
I just want to hold a girl’s hand in public
without weird looks.
To like a guy
and not be criticized for being something
I am not.
Every hurtful comment,
every stinging word,
every bite out of my skin
causes the rainbow in my veins to move
a little faster.
I bleed pink, purple, and blue because
I am proud of who I am.
I wouldn’t change myself
or my life
for the world.
Do you feel that way, too?
When I am hurt,
I bleed pink, purple, and blue.
My identity shines
in the light of the sun.
I just want to hold a girl’s hand in public
without weird looks.
To like a guy
and not be criticized for being something
I am not.
Every hurtful comment,
every stinging word,
every bite out of my skin
causes the rainbow in my veins to move
a little faster.
I bleed pink, purple, and blue because
I am proud of who I am.
I wouldn’t change myself
or my life
for the world.
Do you feel that way, too?
Halle (she/her) is a bisexual writer who enjoys writing short romance, sci-fi, and horror stories along with poetry and gets her ideas from random life experiences and fanfiction. When she’s not writing, she’s either watching YouTube or playing Animal Crossing. Her Twitter handle is @YaTheatreNerd
Queen performing at Live Aid, July 13, 1985. Queen's performance that day is widely considered one of the greatest live musical acts in history. Frontman Freddie Mercury (1946 - 1991) was an openly bisexual man who continues to be revered as one of the world's most beloved entertainers.
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Bisexual Bigender Butch
by David Salazar
CN: Transphobia, biphobia
I want to be me
without having to hide anything
from anyone, despite
the silence and the questions,
despite the identities of people like me
being erased and eradicated
by people who do not want to accept us.
I am butch in the way a woman is butch,
protecting her lover,
chivalry and passion,
a knight for her princess
and I am butch in the way a man is butch,
exaggerated masculinity,
the inherent fagginess of it—
leather everything and motorbikes,
biting my lover's earlobe.
I am butch in a bisexual way,
and in a faggy way,
and in a dykey way.
I contain multitudes.
I carry complexities in my body
that can't be silenced:
I am a man and I am a woman
and I am neither and I am both.
But most importantly, I'm butch.
I want to hold my femme,
care for him, be his knight;
I want our dynamic to shine through
the warm days as
he helps me with my T shot
and I hold him in my arms.
People want us to rot in silence,
every part of our identities erased,
from transmasculine to bisexual,
to butch and to femme—
but it won't stop us from taking our words,
words that have always belonged in our mouths,
as we make them grow used to
living in our tongues,
trees sprouting from the ground as I tell him,
you're my femme!
and he replies, gleeful,
I am! I'm your femme!
We know who we are.
Nothing else can help us with that.
without having to hide anything
from anyone, despite
the silence and the questions,
despite the identities of people like me
being erased and eradicated
by people who do not want to accept us.
I am butch in the way a woman is butch,
protecting her lover,
chivalry and passion,
a knight for her princess
and I am butch in the way a man is butch,
exaggerated masculinity,
the inherent fagginess of it—
leather everything and motorbikes,
biting my lover's earlobe.
I am butch in a bisexual way,
and in a faggy way,
and in a dykey way.
I contain multitudes.
I carry complexities in my body
that can't be silenced:
I am a man and I am a woman
and I am neither and I am both.
But most importantly, I'm butch.
I want to hold my femme,
care for him, be his knight;
I want our dynamic to shine through
the warm days as
he helps me with my T shot
and I hold him in my arms.
People want us to rot in silence,
every part of our identities erased,
from transmasculine to bisexual,
to butch and to femme—
but it won't stop us from taking our words,
words that have always belonged in our mouths,
as we make them grow used to
living in our tongues,
trees sprouting from the ground as I tell him,
you're my femme!
and he replies, gleeful,
I am! I'm your femme!
We know who we are.
Nothing else can help us with that.
|
David Salazar (he/xe/she) is a teenage writer from Chile. Xe is nonbinary, bisexual and autistic, and has been writing since xe has memory. She has been published or is forthcoming in Ogma Magazine, Paper Crane Journal and The Hearth, among others. You can find him on Twitter at @smalllredboy.
|
A 1963 flyer for the NYC chapter of Daughters of Bilitis. DoB was a lesbian support organization that was founded in San Francisco in the 1950s by Phyllis Leon and Del Martin. Members worked to educate the public about homosexuality and provided support for single and married lesbians, as well as lesbian moms.
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Vegetarians
by Ashton-Taylor Ackerson
Vegetarians are the bisexuals of the food chain,
we politely, but firmly plant ourselves in the middle,
yet are constantly nudged,
sometimes even shoved,
one way or the other,
as society shouts for us to pick a side,
dangling validation just out of our reach,
until we conform to the proper team,
but we can do without their cheap words
tied to carrot strings.
My vegetarianism is not a stepping stone,
to the land of total abstinence
from creamy, dairy delicacies,
in the same way that my bisexuality
does not bar me from my community,
my existence and experiences are valid!
I like men,
women,
eggs,
cheese,
while still despising meat,
so let me be.
we politely, but firmly plant ourselves in the middle,
yet are constantly nudged,
sometimes even shoved,
one way or the other,
as society shouts for us to pick a side,
dangling validation just out of our reach,
until we conform to the proper team,
but we can do without their cheap words
tied to carrot strings.
My vegetarianism is not a stepping stone,
to the land of total abstinence
from creamy, dairy delicacies,
in the same way that my bisexuality
does not bar me from my community,
my existence and experiences are valid!
I like men,
women,
eggs,
cheese,
while still despising meat,
so let me be.
|
Ashton-Taylor Ackerson (she/her) is a writer from Austin, Texas. She graduated from the University of Texas at Austin with a BA in English, and minor in creative writing. Her work has been published in Crown & Pen, ARC Journal, The Raven Review, Red Skies Anthology, Ice Lolly Review, and Pink Plastic House. When she’s not writing, Ashton-Taylor is always on the lookout for the best food, wine, and beer to be had in Austin. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter: @ashtonalopoli
|
Lone Shoe
by Karla Butler
CN: Poverty, violence against homeless folks, sex work
We were poor, hand to mouth. Each morning we woke up cold and hungry wondering what we could scavenge from the bins. Passers-by would spit at us, some nights they would throw food at us and scream get a job, like we wanted to live like this. Danny was different to me. Everyday I woke up and felt that I did not want to live anymore, what was the point of it? Each breath I took I was reminded of how much I have failed, but I looked at Danny and he would brighten my day just by being Danny. He always made me laugh with stories of parties he had been to, celebrities he had slept with. Leonardo di Caprio was his favourite. I knew they were lies but he told them so well I did not care. We saw Titanic three times — the manager would let us in for sneaky favours from Danny.
Nights were getting longer and the cold was getting to us. Danny took desperate measures to make sure we had food in our bellies. Men would come by, old business types. He looked young enough for them, and he would lie about his age. We were twenty-four, but we did not look it. He would say he was seventeen and they lapped it up. At first it was small things, hand jobs here and there, then it would get more serious. He would go for days with these men and would come back with his face bashed up. My Danny was disappearing. He no longer told stories, he was silent as we ate the bad tasting KFC he bought with the money he was given. He would not stop. I begged him. I knew one day he would not come back, either in mind or body. One night a very expensive car pulled up. An elderly man sat in the back seat and the driver told Danny to get in the car. I begged him not to, but he did it anyway. I searched the streets for days, weeks. I went to the police station, but they just laughed at me.
In time I managed to get off the streets and make a life for myself. I never completely forgot about him, I just tried to move on with my life. I don’t know why I chose to change my route to work today, but I felt compelled to check our old haunt. Perhaps it was an old song on the radio. I spotted a bright blue Adidas Samba Trainer along the side of the path where we spent our nights begging. It had been twenty years since we last saw each other. I picked up the shoe. Why would I find this now — was it Danny’s? How could it be, finding it here, near the boarded-up cafe where we had slept many years ago? There were quite a few of us along the street with our made up shelters; we were stronger together, we all protected each other. I don’t know why, but I always felt I had a duty to Danny. So I’ve decided to rent a flat nearby, just in case I see him again.
Karla bought a dog called Millie, then Millie had a son, Freddie. Which made for an interesting lockdown. It also gave her some mad stories to write.
Karla Butler is a lesbian woman living in Calderdale, West Yorkshire, UK. she is a low income writer. She had limited experiences of schooling, and went to a school for kids with special educational needs. Since leaving school she has educated herself. This goes to show what you can achieve when people believe in you. Karla likes breaking the norm, and writing things that people don’t necessarily like.
Karla Butler is a lesbian woman living in Calderdale, West Yorkshire, UK. she is a low income writer. She had limited experiences of schooling, and went to a school for kids with special educational needs. Since leaving school she has educated herself. This goes to show what you can achieve when people believe in you. Karla likes breaking the norm, and writing things that people don’t necessarily like.
The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence began in 1979 when four gay men in San Francisco's Castro district donned retired nuns' habits. The Order was formed thereafter as a way to spread joy and initiate social change. Active chapters exist across the globe and work to bring attention to religious hypocrisy, promote safe sex practices and educate about the dangers of substance misuse, and raise money for AIDS, Queer and community causes — all while having plenty of fun!
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Go West
by Mark Binmore
CN: Mention of r*pe
As a nineteen-year-old Englishman from a small quaint English village, Castro of 1979 was somewhat of a cultural shock. Equipped only with a phone number of a friend of a friend, I arrived late at Oakland International Airport jet lagged from my first ever long haul flight. Erich, who lived four blocks from Castro's main drag, answered the phone and assured me it was okay to stay a couple of nights and to make my way right over. Unfortunately I got the street numbers mixed up and after knocking on the unanswered door I made my way through the empty house, and after using the toilet, I met Erich outside who told me I was in the wrong house and could have been shot as a prowler.
Erich's house overlooked downtown Castro and Bay Bridge. It was built, he told me, by his landlord in the 60's who was off his scone on LSD most of the time. After a cold beer and a home grown joint, Erich led me up to his bedroom via an enclosed spiral staircase with the skin of a reticular python stapled to the wall. In my condition of total disorientation, the spiralling walk up the stairs seemed to be lasting longer than my flight from London. Once in his bedroom where some trashy disco album was being played on the turntable, "catch the beat, you’re a star, you are a star...," Erich displayed his pride and joy which was enormous and dripping with potency. In the suite was a glass house accommodating the biggest crop of home-grown grass I could imagine. Each plant at least six feet high and oozing vitality. By now the effect of jet lag, beer, and grass was overwhelming and Erich kindly offered the floor of his lounge for me to crash on. That night, he explained, he was entertaining in his bedroom. Lying in Erich's borrowed sleeping bag, that smelled strangely like compost, I listened to the sounds of a San Francisco night.
I picked up the vinyl sleeve album which was still being played and saw a flamboyant queen on the cover dressed in silver with the wording ‘Queen B’ on the left hand side going downwards like some advertising neon light. Wailing sirens, the thumping rhythm of the Village People in the distance, a gunshot (or backfiring car) and the strange accents and movements of Erich's guests. For me, this was the start of an incredible experience of the Castro of '79, which included drunken revelry at the Elephant Walk by night and exploring the streets by day.
The following night in Castro, Erich invited me to sleep in his bed.
"I'm not gonna rape you," he promised. What a dilemma, to insult my host's integrity or risk my uncompromised sexuality. Later that night, lying in his bed listening to his gentle snores I looked out over the bay and downtown San Francisco in wonder. What would my friends say? Here I was, in the gayest part of the homosexual capital of the world, in bed with another man. But for me, a so-called Mr. Straight, there were absolutely no worries.
"I'm not gonna rape you," he promised. What a dilemma, to insult my host's integrity or risk my uncompromised sexuality. Later that night, lying in his bed listening to his gentle snores I looked out over the bay and downtown San Francisco in wonder. What would my friends say? Here I was, in the gayest part of the homosexual capital of the world, in bed with another man. But for me, a so-called Mr. Straight, there were absolutely no worries.
Precious
by Mark Binmore
It was a Sunday morning back in the mid-1960s when Benton Marland made his first public performance in his local choir at the Church Of Christ, located in some backstreet suburban area of Los Angeles. To the hush of the crowd, the slightly shy and naturally effeminate Benton dressed from head to toe in white launched into a gospel rendition of "Precious Lord, Take My Hand." The lyrics to the song would become Benton’s epitaph for life.
"Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
I'm tired, I'm weak, I'm lone
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light, take my hand precious Lord,
lead me home."
Lead me on, let me stand
I'm tired, I'm weak, I'm lone
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light, take my hand precious Lord,
lead me home."
As the song reached its crashing finale, Benton stole a look at his silent mother who was perched like a peacock as always in the front row, dressed also in white with matching gold shoes and accessories. He threw his arms up into the air, his vocals warbling the final notes. Her face gave no reaction. The eyes were still, staring forward. Her hands neatly crossed in her lap. As the music finished playing, Benton’s arms remained in the air while the audience leapt to their feet clapping and cheering wildly with notable shouts of “Amen to that child." Mrs. Marland remained seated. As the church service finished, many people clapped Benton on his back offering more congratulations. Benton just grinned. He loved to sing and despite being the shy one in the choir, he also basked in attention.
"That child is pure heaven," one mother said to another.
"What a child, what a voice," others would say.
Mrs. M still remained seated.
"Mama, did you like my singing?" Benton asked on the walk home. The answer was short and swift.
"I think you need to be more of a man."
There would be no congratulatory response. That would never happen.
"What a child, what a voice," others would say.
Mrs. M still remained seated.
"Mama, did you like my singing?" Benton asked on the walk home. The answer was short and swift.
"I think you need to be more of a man."
There would be no congratulatory response. That would never happen.
Disco Heaven
by Mark Binmore
The boy had black hair, as black as a raven's wing. His eyes were glass grey and rimmed with tear-stained mascara. He was sixteen this summer, and he looked like a sooty angel in his black leather and lace. He stared vacantly at his own reflection in the mirror above one of the wash-room sinks. His cigarette slowly burnt out. The ash grew into a long cylindrical droop and fell away. The hot ember met the flesh of his fingertips, and he dropped it with a gasp. He studied the stub as it burned a hole into the edge of a stray paper towel, and then he stamped it out with one quick gesture, as one might kill a spider or a beetle.
Outside, the thunder of "Disco Heaven" pounded into the nightclub walls. He fumbled in his pocket for his box of matches, and shook one out. The match had a blue head, very neat. He ran the match along the sandpaper strip a couple of times, and on the third strike, it snapped. He dropped the broken match. His hands were shaking. Then he tried again. This time the match flared. He held it upright and watched the flame slowly eat at the wood. The flame flickered and spat. When it came close to his fingernails, he shook it out. Then he closed his eyes and breathed in the thick, sharp scent of sulphate. After a moment, he took out a third match and lit another cigarette.
"You know you can't have him," he said to his reflection, blowing smoke. "He doesn't even know you exist." His reflection stared back at him with nothing but contempt. The boy wondered why he felt such a perverse delight in torturing himself.
He studied his slender body in the mirror. His hair was long, tangled and dull. He tried to use his fingers to comb it, but they snagged halfway down. He decided that he did not like his hair, and inspected his roots, which were light brown and looked grey against the rest of his head. He separated out a few strands from his hairline at the front, and lit them with the end of the cigarette. He was startled by how fast they burned, like little tapers, and panicked, trying to jump away from them. They did not stop until they were almost level with his eyes. He brushed away the ash and it floated wildly.
The air stank of burnt feathers. He laughed at himself softly and leaned back against the sink unit. He wondered if he had a boyfriend. The magazines never said. If he did, then he did not want to know. He wanted him to be single, and hate everyone in the world but him. He rubbed his brow. He explored the idea slowly, turning over the possibilities in his mind. He could be single. He could be. He looked single. He shook the thought from his head. The boy boosted himself up onto a space on the unit between two of the sinks. He got up close to the mirror and inspected his eyes. They were a little red, but not too noticeable. His nails were painted with black varnish. It was cheap stuff, and badly applied. The polish was chipped, and overlapped onto his skin. He picked at the varnish on his skin, because it felt horrible and sharp on his fingers.
Then he remembered why he was there, and he started to cry softly. He felt lonely. Searching out some tissue paper from one of the toilets, he wiped his tears again. The mascara was a dark smudge beneath his eyes, and made him look tired. Well, that did not matter. It just seemed to add to the effect. He picked up his cigarette from where he had balanced it on the edge of the sink, and took another drag. He coughed and blew his nose, almost setting the tissue on fire in the middle. He stared at the cigarette pensively. Then he turned it upside down and angled it for the flesh of his forearm. He closed the distance. He could feel the heat of the ember above his skin.
The hair of his arm began to curl and turn black. The skin began to turn red and singe. Then he jabbed the cigarette down in a sharp movement and yelped in pain, jerking his hand back. The cigarette flew across the room and landed in a puddle of water at the far end of the toilets, where it died a smoky death. He put his arm under the cold tap. He was not drunk enough for it to be numb. He whined miserably to himself, and thumped his leg, which did not help. He put his lips over the burn and sucked it better, leaving a black lipstick kiss on his arm. He looked at the mess and laughed again unhappily. He suppressed some more tears. Music blared and lights exploded, as the wash-room door was shoved open: some clone with big hair and tight black jeans. The man walked past the boy to the urinals. The boy stared dully into the mirror until the man finished and left with another blare of music and a slam as the door snapped back on its hinges.
The noise had woken the boy from his trance. He pulled himself together and looked around, but no one was there. There was no point missing the show. He searched his back pocket for his elusive stick of lipstick, and reapplied it to his lips. He thought about writing on the mirror. He thought about writing 'Fuck You,' but that just seemed childish, so he wrote 'Disco Rules' instead. He loved the way the lipstick slid so easily over the glass. He looked around for something else to write on. Then he had an idea. He searched for a piece of paper in his pockets, but there was not any. He thought of tissue, but that was too fragile. Then he saw the paper towel holder. It was empty, but there were a few green papers lying around on the urine soaked tiles. He picked up a reasonably dry one. Then he wrote 'I Love You Queen B' on the paper in block capitals, as big as possible. He folded it neatly in half and made a paper aeroplane from it. He smiled. He thought about putting something smart and knowing, like, put me in your coffin, but that sounded stupid, so he did not.
Then he went out of the toilets and into the roar of the crowd, pushing his way anxiously to the front, shielding his aeroplane close to his chest. He caught a glimpse of the boy with his glitter wig as he skipped across the stage with his high heels and kimono, and his heart nearly stopped. He threw the paper object. It looped up into the air in a U shape, arched down and, amazingly, caught in the boy’s glitter curls. The boy's throat tightened up with excitement. In that moment, he imagined the impossible. That he might read it; look at him. Blow him a kiss. Invite him backstage. Take him to his hotel room. A surge of passion tingled through the boy's belly. The green thing caught up in his glitter wig annoyed the performer. His legs were already soaked from where some queen had thrown a plastic cup full of cider onto the stage. He shook the green thing free, and when it fell to the ground, he stomped on it and mashed it into the sticky puddle at his feet. He shot a glance out into the audience, and then juggled his bass line with a jump in the air as the chorus began.
The boy was crushed. Around him, the crowd surged forward and they screamed along to the chorus. The boy slipped out of the crowd and found a speaker stack to sit on near the back, where he could watch him. 'I love you Queen B,' he mouthed miserably. He felt empty. His nose began to run, and he felt in his pocket for a tissue. He lit another cigarette and watched dejectedly as the crowd raised their hands to the electro beat of the remix.
Mark Binmore is an award winning novelist. His works include Sad Confetti, Beautiful Deconstruction, Everything Could Be So Perfect, Sunsets, Etc., and others. In 2015, Mark was ranked one of Britain's 100 influential LGBTQ+ writers. He was also the subject of the Chris Henson trilogy After The Event. Connect with him on Twitter @MarkBinmore and visit him at markbinmore.com
