Issue No.
1
Spring 2016
FROM THE EDITOR
H
ello friends,
Thank you for picking up this literary magazine. As you may or may not know, this publication has very much been a labor of love. We have experienced loss and gains. We have cried, we have gotten angry, we have celebrated and we have been completely overwhelmed both positively and negatively. We couldn’t have gotten through this process without the support from the queer community, the Gainesville community, our lovely founder Carolyna, and I personally, without my lovely team who has inspired me to stick it out until the end despite the frustration that comes with starting an organization that has no funds, no support in the beginning and no means of assurance. The reason this magazine is so important as you all know is because there aren’t very many queer community for people to express themselves in various art forms. I’m sure many of you are like me who can’t express themselves in words very well, but when it comes to pen and paper, music,
illustrations, it comes a lot easier and it brings with it, a lot of happiness, excitement, release and understanding and a sense of
Nicole Wiesenthal
We hope that this magazine brings with it acceptance at a time when it’s very hard to feel like you’re being accepted in the larger community. This magazine is critical at a time when queer voices are either being silenced or contorted and those individuals feel misunderstood. There need to be more resources for queer individuals to feel accepted and loved and proud about who we are, and we hope that magazine will be a new resource for queer artists to feel like their voice counts.
Print Editor Rachel Pimienta “Pepper”
Managing Editor Theresa Chapman
Copy Editors Sally Greider Zoey McShane
Layout Director Lauren Johnson
Art Director Michael Ortiz de Villate
Illustrator and Art Editor Lianna Isabelle
Marketing Manager Raina Barnett
magazine, we are only very grateful for all of the people who have contributed to it, supported our cause and seen the need. We hope that you will take this magazine, become stronger because of it and continue to grow in strength, and we hope the magazine in the future years will continue to grow along with you.
Thank you
Editor in Chief Nicole Wiesenthal page 1
Editor in Chief
Web Designer Jarrod Dyer
A Special Thanks to Carolyna Guillen page 2
W
Tainted
e carry ourselves as everybody else does; we have ordinary faces and crooked smiles; this faรงade is for others to believe that we lead normal lives. We learn to blend in. We do what we have to do. Some of us spend our days in a classroom, sitting beside others who will never understand us. Some of us spend our days making a living, sitting behind a desk whose pine walls appear to be the only thing separating our sanity from our madness. Others lost their minds years ago. He put me here; we found solace within various things. Some of us swallowed ourselves in our work, just to escape reality. Some of us swallowed
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By George Protopapadakis
ourselves in partners, just to escape loneliness. Some of us swallowed ourselves in a substance, just to escape ourselves. He told me they would never believe me. They told us a lot of things, but they never told us what we would become: tainted. It all starts at a young age, most of us just arriving at the rooms. Some of our parents gave us a world that one could only dream of. Others found themselves waking up from those dreams to a world less ideal. Our worlds, though different, would become one in the same. We called them different names. Some of us
called them Jack. Some of us called them Bill. Some of us called them Mary. Some of us called them Dad. Some of them were cousins. Some of them were siblings. They used to tell us we were pretty; that we know they love us and it will be over soon. They told us that no one would ever look at us the way they did. They told us to keep quiet; no one would ever believe us. They lied. We called them different names, but they were the same person. They were the ones who took us away. They entered us, in more ways than one, tainting us. They entered our bodies. They entered our minds. They even entered some of our hearts. He took me to the
happened to me is not who I am. We chose to speak up, and let our mothers know what happened to us. “He was never good for you, Mama.” We faced disownment from those who raised us. “You never loved me.” We were not taken seriously. We were told that we were lying and were dismissed. “Why would I ever make this up?” We were embraced with sympathy and given the chance at justice for what was done. “I was always so
fair once. Some of us stopped going to elementary school. Some of us left home. Some of us never saw day again. We never understood what happened. We never understood why it happened. But it happened to us. We stepped into adolescence wearing different shoes. Insecurity reared its ugly head in our minds, consuming whatever innocence we had left. Middle school proved for who we were. We were teased for what we wore. We were teased for how we spoke. We survived on top of the social food chain. Some of us harbored in the shadows of those who were placed above us. Some of us still called out to the
One of us found the courage to fight back.
same names we had been calling out to for years. Jack. One of us “Daddy, not tonight.” One of us took our lives at home, leaving a note behind for our family. “Ma, I am sorry. I love you.” No one understood where we came from. The kids at school knew of our clothes, how we were, how we spoke, but none of them knew our stories. None of them heard us. But we shared an unspoken voice that feared the reaction of family members; God forbid we open our mouths. We shared an unspoken voice that feared judgement from peers. We shared an unspoken voice that we feared to hear out loud ourselves, because the words dancing on our ears recreate vivid memories of what once was, and for some of us, still is. Memories that remind us of what we are: tainted. We were walking the stage next week. We were graduating from high school, an accomplishment that many of us waited 18 years for, but the years were long. What
kept our mouths shut, and never tasted sympathy. “It is better off this way.” Some of us lost faith in ourselves and questioned love. “Who could ever love someone like me?” Others lost faith in Him. “My prayers were ignored. There is no God.” We walked across that stage with those who sat next to us in our classes, the ones who did not understand us. If only they knew what has been eating at me my whole life. We moved on. We all fall asleep at some point in the night. We lead ideal lifestyles. We do what we have to do. Love found some of us. We have families. We relive the events every morning when we wake up. We dream of them once in awhile. We hear their voices calling out our names from time to time. We hate them. Some of us speak. Others have still kept quiet. We blame them. We thank them. But we will never forget them. We carry ourselves as everybody else does with ordinary faces and crooked smiles; this façade put on display for others to believe that we lead normal lives. We learned to blend in. We learned to live. We are among you. We are tainted. page 4
I Never have I acknowledged the full extent of my power until this very instant. I am a celestial being – a galaxy of stardust trapped in a mortal vessel. against the dying of the light with bared fangs and wicked wit. These hands have potential – to create worlds, or obliterate them in one stroke. Never again can a rusted blade split open this temple to let my stardust trickle out. II My will can collide with yours, you angry devil with salt in your eyes. These hands will stop yours from demolishing that brick wall – no stardust on your knuckles tonight. III Listen to me, you who rage, you who seethe, who boil, who burn with potential energy. You are celestial beings, whole galaxies of stardust Acknowledge your power for you can boil mountains – You can boil the sea. page 5
Never have I
acknowledged By Jake Song
Art By Lianna Isabelle
Art By Lianna Isabelle page 6
Violet After Crimson By Rachel Pimienta
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It hurts to intuitively know as much as I do. But it burns to know that I might never see the last two words in the sentence before this one fall from her lips. Guys at our old high school would assign colors to girls based off of their identity. The girls who kissed girls in my school were called ‘ultra-violets.’ I turn my shower on. As the blistering water falls onto tips, I shove my lover down the drain along with her moment of exploration. I say to myself, “Nothing can clean the damage we caused when we were young and stupid.” I often re-play our story. Back then, Celine said to me, “He took me by the Tiffany’s window and stared at the engagement rings. Let’s call him, ‘Suit.’ He was much older than I was. Suit was a family friend – a self-declared family man.” She laughed and continued, “Every time he touched me as a child, I became more desensitized. I handled the abuse most nights with a cry of laughter. He was a businessman like my father, which explained why our interactions felt calculated. I feel like everyone knew, but no one dared to report Suit because he was well respected – a real family man. My father always said, ‘It’s better to be something awful than to be nothing at all. I’m almost certain my father knew what he did to me. I haven’t seen Suit in years.” Celine then fell into my arms like a lifeless doll. She continued telling her story as best as she could. “Speaking of the old bastard, my father passed away recently. He was a man of integrity whom the public revered. My father raised a company out of the dusty ground. His blood, sweat and countless excuses for his lack of attention towards my mother and me are now a block of stone-cold concrete; he was nothing more than a block of stone-cold concrete himself.” Celine suddenly became stoic. hood to build an empire – an entire network of business suits, calculated, desensitized men and women. Unlike them, I will never be my own fortress” she chuckled. “I never cried over all the recitals he missed or the countless nights he came home drunk and touched me, too. I’m laughing because all he ever wanted was to become his business. Even on his
deathbed, my father got what he wanted.” I remember the nights Celine and I spoke words powerful enough to dismantle our pretenses. Our friendship was unlike any other. The way she was special. I remember when she told me about her father’s memorial the night of her 18th birthday. “Happy Birthday. There. I said it, despite you hating sentiment,” I said nervously. “Funerals are strange.” She ignored my comment. “Everyone acts united, as if they collectively comprehend what’s happening. If clothes are symbolic at funerals, then everyone should wear a differEveryone dressed in black for my father. I remember looking down the night of his funeral and seeing a child – a little boy – dressed in a suit. He was impatiently sitting next to a well-dressed couple I pretended to remember – I am sure my father worked with these two Suits in some small way. The well-dressed man mouthed the words, ‘When will this be over?’ His date replied with the two words that changed my life, ‘Hopefully, soon.’ It broke me.” “Are you seeing anyone these days, Celine?” I quickly asked to shift the conversation. I couldn’t withstand not knowing any longer. “I am, in a way. We’ve known each other for a while. There’s something about him that feels like home.” Shit. I was too late. I guessed Celine’s unavailability saved me from having to tell her how I felt about her. I didn’t have to risk losing our friendship. I would make myself forget all about being anything more to her. I would swallow my ultra-violet. Celine and my friendship faded into something new the night of her birthday celebration. All I truly wanted was to be free of her. My eyes followed her as if I was assigned to study her complexity. She was as beautiful and lethal as a riptide, routinely ushering you in and spitting you out. So I left her party early; it didn’t feel right to ask her out when I knew she was dating someone else, and it didn’t feel right for me to stay around her when I wanted to be more than friends. I left through the backdoor. Immediately a stranger latched onto my arms, one of us drowning, the other one being saved: she kissed me.
I handled the abuse most nights with a cry of laughter.
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“
Had I slipped into the same sexist heroism that consumed the many dicks before me? page 9
No one teaches us how to love someone else; no one teaches us how to love ourselves; I think this is both our greatest privilege and our greatest heartache. Later that night in Celine’s bedroom, she said goodnight to her mystery lover over the telephone as I wiped my lips clean of her taste. She became consumed with laughter and rapidly covered herself after “Did I do something wrong?” I asked. “No, you were better than most guys,” Celine admitted, not looking directly at me. “I have to go.” She sat up and slipped her party dress on. “Celine, I’m not one of your old boyfriends. They used you, but I won’t!” I shouldn’t have said that. Who the hell was I to believe that I could save anyone from anything? Had I slipped into the same sexist heroism that consumed just deceitfulness laced with good intentions. Loyalty between two people becomes a tarnished impossibility when one person loses their self-respect. “That’s how I know you don’t get me. They never used me – I used them. I used every single one of them.” Celine suddenly sprinted out of her room and sped down her dark hallway, leaving me wrapped in her crimson bed sheets. I should have called after her, but I couldn’t bear waiting for an echo that wouldn’t come. I thought I needed her like I needed dopamine. Every time she would stray away, so would my inner sense of what it meant to be okay – that is not okay. So I learned at the ripe, old age of 18 that promiscuity is age into the meaning of human nature. Late one night, after weeks of prolonged silence, I drove to Celine’s house, uninvited and feeling entitled once again. This night was particularly silent. Silence is only isolating when it is accompanied by burning desire. The lump in my throat became explosive as I approached her front door like a wounded animal across from a loaded weapon. I knocked. A suit answered her front door. All I could hear for the rest of the night was the sound of Celine’s cry of laughter as I drove over blocks of stone cold concrete.
Art By Lianna Isabelle page 10
I
am Shoog McDaniel: a southern, queer, non-binary fat photographer and artist living in Gainesville, Florida. I have been taking photos since high school, when a friend of mine went dumpster diving and retrieved 200 disposable cameras from behind a Walgreens. I became obsessed and began documenting everything. I now shoot with a Canon Rebel T3i and have yet to take a break from capturing intimate moments and beautiful people in my everyday life. My work is about highlighting bodies and lives that are often overlooked by popular society. I enjoy photographing fat bodies, trans bodies, and queer bodies – people`with gap-toothed smiles and missing buttons. I capture images of my friends. With few exceptions, I have a connection with the humans in my photos, and I intend to show that through the intimacy of my portraits. I thrive to connect the viewer of each photo with the beauty within themselves, through understanding the brilliance of diversity and by showing everyone that there are many ways to be beautiful. #LetYourFreakFlagFly
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By Corey Gallet de St. Aurin
M
y biggest problem is the goddamn bathroom. Every day I ask myself: where the Hell am I going to pee today? I used to have the energy to think about things like the weather, my social plans, or what I need to study. These days all I think about are bathrooms. I have an internal layout of the campus in my head. I don’t remember the way the bricks are put together or the fastest route to my next class – I just remember the best places to pee. My favorites are the unisex. Don’t have to think about those. Just walk in, open the door and do my thing. No one stares at me like I’m crazy. It’s 2015, I would think that people have better things to worry about. I mean, really, who gives a shit where someone else needs to take a crap. Some hateful people do. “Papers to pee,” they say. I think they’re nuts, but I don’t want to get myself arrested. I never know where to go. Every time I have to evaluate the time, the place and the risk. Going to the bathroom is like going to war: It needs strategy. I have page 13
to plan my moves and execute. Today I fucked up. Mission failed. ~ I walked into the men’s room. I was times by then. I learned not to stop to chat. I always bee-lined for the stall. That’s what my friends told me. Men don’t socialize in the john. They just go. So I learned to just go. I kept my head down and looked like I knew where I was going. But there was a wrench in my plan. There was only one stall and it was occupied. I didn’t know what to I thought, I really had to go. Maybe it would be just a few seconds. It wasn’t. It was forever. I waited anxiously. The guy in the stall must have noticed my in relief. The door opened and without thinking I grabbed the door from him. I brushed his shoulder. He was pissed and blocked my way. “What, are you gay or something?” “No,” I said without thinking, “I just
gotta pee.” “Why the fuck wouldn’t you use the urinal?” He glanced over to empty urinals across the way. I tried to advance, but he used his body as a barricade. I tried to retreat, and he grabbed my shoulder. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Your voice is weird.” I didn’t want to speak anymore. I thought I might give myself away. I didn’t answer. He got more pissed. His eyebrow started to furl. He looked me up and down. He tried to undress me with his eyes. Was I bound tight enough? Could he tell? I thought so. He acted like there was an intruder in his who it was. I felt more threatened. His radar was on high alert. My heart was beating 100 miles-per-hour. My breath was moving faster and faster. I thought that Testosterone was working well for me. But my levels obviously weren’t up to par yet. I barely had any facial hair. I was paralyzed. He stared. “Oooh I know... you’re one of those
freaks, aren’t you?” My eyes grew wide. His voice became engulfed in tined for Hell!”My eyes started to water. “You wanna cry? Let me give you something to cry about?” he said. Then the lights went out. ~ Nothing can be worse than what I feel now. I can live with the physical pain. Don’t get me wrong, my body hurts; to swell my cells is freezing my body in place. My body is trying to protect a new one double the size. I keep trying to open my eyes, but the lids won’t move. My nose is not where it was this morning. I don’t even care. I am in Hell. My soul is shattered in a million pieces ing me alive. Did I even escape? I taste blood and feel little hard sharp pieces in my mouth. Must be what is left of my teeth. Where am I? Am I ready to die? Maybe it’s better this way. What’s the point in living in a place where even dogs get treated with more decency than you do? ‘God doesn’t make mistakes,’ they say. People hide behind their little, leather book. Isn’t it crazy? We don’t even know who really wrote that book. If we go by their logic, a mystical spirit came down from the sky and created a manual telling people how to live their lives. And I’m the unnatural one. But people treat it like it has a heartbeat. The book’s heartbeat is more important than mine. ‘Because it’s from God,’ they say. I being myself is disrespectful to that book. What about that ‘love thy neighbor’ thing? Love is the greatest commandment.
ship limbo. It’s the culmination of her life’s work. She dreamed of it ever since she was a teenager, the essence of her being. Without a doubt, her proudest moment in our last 10 years. What the Hell is my wife going to think when I tell her everything? If I tell her everything, will I destroy her? Who knows if I’ll even make it out. I’m not sure if I’m alive, but I don’t think I’m dead. I feel things. I hear things, beeping things, voices. I smell things, Plastic things. I still taste blood in my mouth. My tongue feels sharp edges where I used to have teeth, but, my head feels better. It doesn’t feel like it’s going to explode anymore. I back of my eyelids. My skin feels cold. There’s a wind. I hear voices, but I only grab bits and pieces. My eyes still won’t open. Am I going to heaven? I feel like and muted. I feel a presence next to me. We are moving fast. I hear key words, brain hemorrhage, nasal fracture, broken femur. Femur. Femur. My head is still pounding like a bass drum, but somehow that word bothers me. Then I remember that the femur is the strongest bone in the human body. I feel some prodding on my leg. I stiffen. They are talking about me. I must be in Hell. Shock. I am in shock. Everything is in
shock. I hear a robotic voice. Trauma Code Red. It all makes sense. Someone must have found me. I get to see my wife again. Oh No. My wife. They are going to tell her. This is not the way I imagined it. I wish she knew how sorry I am. I plan to tell her, but I still don’t know know who she is anymore. Her entire identity will be shattered. She married a woman. She needs a woman. I can’t be that woman for her anymore. How can she love someone like me? I never meant for her to feel pain. I was trying didn’t mean to hide this from her. But, I needed to know for sure. I needed to prepare myself. I’m deathly afraid. She could run away. Run far, far away. She is safe in her same-gender-loving universe. My truth will force her out into a foreign land. No-man’s land. She can only return to her safe universe if she leaves me behind. How did I get myself into this mess? Even if I survive, will we make it out alive? Maybe I should have died. A single tear rolls down my cheek. Something sharp stabs my arm. Burning liquid runs through my veins. I know it’s my friend. I let it take control. I let it take me to Neverland. I am not ready to return. But a familiar touch calls me back. I try to move but I
two-inch tall ray of sunshine. Her red Shirley Temple curls bounce in the sunlight. Her beauty is more than skin quiet until there is a battle that needs to be won, a bulldog in the courtroom. She took on the Supremes and won. Those justices didn’t stand a chance. They had leave until gay marriage was legal. She is a modern day heroine. She saved the country from the evils of legal relationpage 14
the chart. Let me pull up a chair.” Metal wife’s grip loosens, but I won’t let go of her hand. The doctor takes another deep breath. “According to the medical records, about a month ago Taylor started hormone replacement therapy at our endocrinology clinic.” “What? What are you talking about? Why would she do that? She’s not menopausal.” “Mrs. Liberty, the hormone prescribed was testosterone. There is a letter in the
can’t. I can barely squirm. The soothing voice, “Honey, it’s me, I’m here.” My wife. She’s here. I feel her hand. Perhaps we sit there for hours. Or maybe mere minutes? I don’t know. I’m not going anywhere. We sit there until we hear a loud knock on the door. “Mrs. Liberty, I’m Dr. Jones. Your husband was bleeding in his brain.” “Wait, what? My husband? Are you sure you’re in the right room?” “Yes, I believe so. But, I’ll verify the patient’s ID number. Your husband’s name is ‘Taylor Liberty,’ correct?” I hear footsteps approaching. He reaches for my other hand. I can feel him turning a piece of plastic. “My wife’s name is Taylor Liberty.” Taylor’s date of birth?” “Yeah. It’s August 13th, 1984.” The doctor continues, “OK, Is Taylor’s blood type O-positive?” My wife’s hand feels antsy. “Yes. Yes, hers is.” He breathes deep, “Mrs. Liberty, do you by any chance have medical power of attorney?” “Yes, I do. I grabbed a copy after I got the phone call. I shoved it in my purse. footsteps head away. Eventually they U-turn back to me. She grabs my hand again. “Here.” Paper crackles as it exchanges hands. “Mmmm. Everything appears in order here. I couldn’t tell you right away until I knew you were authorized to have full medical records access. I was going off of the known patient preferences in page 15
of Gender Dysphoria.” My heart is in my throat. My secret is out. She knows my new label. Trans people don’t like it. It makes us sound crazy. “Wait. Gender what?” The doctor speaks normally. She knows what that is. Every rainbow tribe member knows what that is. But she doesn’t hear him. She knows there are words coming out of his mouth. But, her brain is speeding around a Nascar track. He patiently continues, “Taylor is transgender. The reason I referred to Taylor as your husband is because the hospital has a policy to refer to transgender people by their preferred gender.” She pries her hand free. I hear her feet move. They are pacing in circles. “Woooh, there has got to be some kind of mistake. Taylor doesn’t want to become a man; She’s just a bit butch. Sure, she doesn’t like to shave, but she’s proud to be a woman. We marched on Washington and left our bras on the Capitol steps. We’ve spent our entire we waited three extra years before getlegal. Now you’re telling me my wife wants to be a man? Holy Moses. What the fuck! I’ve never been with a man in my life. Why didn’t she tell me? or he tell me? Why didn’t Taylor tell me? Ten years. We’ve spent a decade of our life together. You’d think after 10 years I would know a person. I’ve shared my bed and my life with Taylor. What the hell am I supposed to do?” Her dam breaks. It’s not a little leak; it’s an uncontainable deluge. Her body wails. Her soul wails. She wails. I want to wail
too, but my soul can only scream on the inside. I want to get out of this bed, but my body is keeping me hostage. I lie there. I can only exhale a little deeper. I can’t fucking move. I don’t even know if the doctor is still there. “Mrs. Liberty, I know this is a terrible lor hasn’t told you yet. But, in my little experience in this area, most transgender people wait until they feel secure in who they are to tell others. Although it seems counterintuitive, they usually someone in a healthcare setting such as a therapist or doctor. Based on the reaction they get and the courage they muster, they move inwards. Before we go any further, I also wanted to reiterate that we were able to stop the bleeding, but his brain is still swollen. While he was in the operating room we were also able to reposition the bones in his nose and femur. He’s not out of the woods. Tonight will be critical. Why don’t you go outside and take a breath of fresh air? I’ll contact our social worker that specializes in the LGBT community to come and visit you later.” She thanks the doctor but doesn’t leave my side. She is a stubborn woman. She grabs my hand. I try to move my arms. I want to hold her, to wrap my arms around her. To let her know I am there. It’s no use. My arms are laughing at me. She is still and silent. I wasn’t what she bargained for. This is not how I wanted I swear. I just wanted to make sure that wanted to make sure that this is really who I am. I had to be sure before I tore her life apart, our life apart. Now I can only hope. I have no voice to explain. I am nothing but a silent witness to my own apocalypse. Maybe he should’ve just killed me. I’d be better off dead than in a world without her. She is the only person I have ever loved. She is my everything. That is how things are supposed to be. It was supposed to be different. I imagined a quiet evening with our favorite bottle of wine. We would be comfortable and private. I would tell her everything I need to say. I’ll go slowly and
help her to understand. We can take our time. I give her as much or as little info as she needs. I can show her the real me. I have a new name, but not a new heart. It’ll be ok. But what now? My body is disconnected from my mind. I don’t know what to think. The impending doom is winning. Have I lost her forever? I can’t hold back. My eyelids well up with water. The pressure builds, and my eyelids move just enough to let my tears escape. I can not wail. I can not weep. I can only let the river run its natural course. Gravity persuades it to travel down my cheek. I am drowning in her unspeakable pain. My breathing changes. I am tense. My hand is still covered in warmth. I don’t want to let go. Her hand is all I have. After a time, I notice a change in its tension. She must be leaving. I prepare for tragedy all over again. Will I survive torture twice in one day? I feel her breath coming closer to my ear. I grow tense. She’s going to tell me she’s leaving me. Her voice cracks. I broke her sense of us. She slowly starts to speak, “Honey, I’m not going to lie. This is the last thing I thought was going to happen when I left the house this morning. I didn’t recognize that number. But, something told me to pick up the phone anyway. I am really confused. I feel like I’ve lost my best friend. I wish you were here. I know you’re here. I mean I hope you can hear. Holy shit, my universe just got turned upside down. I’m more sad than anything. You have been my better half for a third of my life. I thought things were great. Sure, our last few years have been an emotional roller coaster, but we won the fucking battle of the century. The whole country knows us as a resilient power-lesbian couple. Now what? What are we? Who are we? Is there a we? I don’t fucking know anything anymore. Should I be happy you didn’t share this with me? I’m trying to understand why. Were you trying to protect me? How long have you known? Why would you do that to me? How could you do that to me? Why wouldn’t you tell me? Are you even still the same person I married?” I do the only thing I can do. I force the
They must obey. I need her to know I am still me. My synapses are slow to mobilize, but they do not fail me. I grip her hand as tight as I can. I don’t let go. I can’t let go. I won’t let go. Tighter. Tighter. She notices. She feels my response. She knows I hear her. She squeezes my hand back. Epiphany. She chuckles a crazy laugh of relief. “Thank God your sexiest features are your brain and your shoulders. Even a man has those. Don’t fucking leave me before we get to talk this through. You hear me. We can get through this. Some smart person told me that marriage is
about compromise. I need that smart person in my life. I know the physical stuff will be an adjustment. But, we have to try. Even though your body was the key, your mind actually opened my door. It’s your mind honey. I fell in love with your sexy mind. I married you, not your body.” Her long hard squeeze gives me fuel. I am determined. The neurons understand they must go back into battle again. My wife and I have to escape no-man’s land. The tiny soldiers understand the urgency. They invade. They can see the possibilities. I open my eyes.
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GENDERFUL Photographer: Royce Abela Stylist: Kevin Huynh Model: Houston Whitehouse & Connor Goode Clothing provided by Sandy’s Boutique
F
ashion is the canvas in which we wear our society’s norms and expectations. However, more now than ever, fashion has become a form of creative expression used to engage the mind and defy expectations. By using clothing to form an identity that suits our needs, and not society’s, we can distance ourselves from the rigid gender binary and instead embrace fashion’s declarapage 17
tive power. Too often this rebellion from the binary has resulted in “Genderless” dressing; which instead of forming a unique identity, strips the wearer of any true personality. With this shoot, we at Spill take inspiration from the term “Genderful” dressing, coined by WGSN. “Genderful” is something WGSN simply describes as a “positive identity that is unique to each person.” By embracing this “Genderful” mindset we can shake up the binary and accept all ways of dressing, without stripping individuals of their personality.
PORTRAIT OF STRENGTH Photographer: Royce Abela Stylist: Kevin Huynh Model: Ellie Gaustria Clothing provided by Sandy’s Boutique
E
llie Gaustria has gone from sharing her words of acceptance and empowerment on local student platforms to the online pages of Cosmopolitan. Here Spill learns how this emerging advocate found not only her strength but her voice. What is your message to the world? The message I’d like to give to the world is that trans people like myself exist. We are worthy of love and respect. Why is the message important? Too often, people treat trans and gender nonconforming folks as less than human, making crude jokes about our identities or our bodies. This dehumanization is the result of the high physical assault and murder rates we hear in America today. I only want to educate people on language and how quickly it can transcend to violence on trans bodies. How did that message get to Cosmo? Describe the process.
My message got to Seventeen by me speaking about trans issues publicly on my twitter account. One of the Seventeen editors saw my tweets and reached out to me to do an article, and it’s all history from there. Who inspires you? I’m really inspired by a lot of people. Just to name a few, I’d say my sisters Janet Mock, Laverne Cox, and Hari Nef. They’re all really powerful women who all are trans as well. Their narratives are so special to me and my soul. What do you want out of the future? I want more trans-visibility in our media, having trans actors play actual trans roles. I want better TV. I want to see laws regulated that prevent trans and gender nonconforming people from having to deal with discrimination in the workplace or our school system. I also want different gender and sexual orientations to be discussed in our school system. Gender is something that needs to taught in our school system. This could really prevent trans children from facing so much bullying and prevent so many suicide attempts.
How has coming to UF changed your life? Coming to UF has really been life changing, honestly. I’m completely surrounded by such amazing loving people. I’ve met so many people, and I’ve also been given some extraordinary opportunities to make a difference on campus by being placed into PAM as a Director and leading coordinator for an event. It’s just such a lovely experience so far. What words do you have for someone going
through times of unacceptance? The words I’d give them is that: I know what it’s like to feel the way you do. You’re not alone. Find people in your school or your community who will accept you – maybe it’s a LGBT+ club at school or a support group for trans-teens in your community. All you have to do It honestly does get better; just hang in there and things will change for the better. I promise. page 18
How to kill a homosexual By Tomas E. Barron
*This piece contains violent language and references to suicide. Reader’s discretion advised.* How to kill a homosexual: A Guide. A knife: Unnecessary as a gay child’s feelings cut very deep. t: Unnecessary as the gay boy is easy to locate. Simply look for the boy who embodies what everyone around him says he mustn’t be. Rope: Useless as the alienation a gay boy feels from his homophobic family is plenty suffocating. We are told as children that our families will be the saviors of whatever tragedy befalls us. We are told that our family must be our best friend and our utmost priority. We are told that if one’s
The gay boy desperately clings to this illusion only to learn his family is among those wishing he were something else. This type of suffocation is different from page 19
that caused by racism or sexism, although see,women and people of color physically cannot hide their differences. Gay boys, however, can attempt to hide their sexuality. In doing so, they are attempting to cement their worth and feel included. The denial of being gay allows the gay boy to make a friend, please his parents, and slightly alleviate the sophisticated suffering brought on by growing up in a homophobic setting. Bullets: Ineffective because the guilt that the gay boy connects so well with being, well, gay, leaves a wound far greater than any bullet can.The gay boy tries to adopt the virtues of maturity and gratefulness because he knows he won’t be the golden child. He sees his parents working tirelessly to support him and his family. He feels grateful that he has a roof over his head, warm food for dinner, and expensive clothing. It’s logical for him to want to avoid disappointing the people who have done everything for him. Yes, very logical indeed. The gay boy must be smart as
well. However, not wanting to disappoint the people he feels indebted to will require a change, a transformation of the most brilliant kind. The gay boy must cease being gay if he is to avoid upsetting the two people who have given him everything. The gay boy is tactful; there are a variety of options to achieve this end. He may lie to himself cially ingrained into his psyche. He may choose an external approach where dressing, speaking, and acting “straight” will get the job done. Or, he might kill himself. He understands that suicide is the most effective way to ensure being ungay. As the unliving thing is surely ungay. And being ungay would certainly please his parents. Wait, being grateful and self-aware is a good thing? So, esteemed colleague, any guide on “How To Kill a Homosexual” is utterly useless. The society that we live in is your most powerful weapon. Any physical weapon you could imagine is obsolete and clunky in comparison to homegrown homophobia.
Art By Lianna Isabelle page 20
Meat-eating Vegetarian By: Emily Stanton
I
didn’t consider myself straight, though most people did, I guess. I looked like your typical seventeen-yearold middle-class white girl. That’s what threw people off the queer trail. I didn’t look like the type to get off on girl-ongirl fantasies, but I did. Appearances were nothing. Everyone was someone else when they thought no one was looking. So I always looked. I knew everyone’s secrets, and they calculus teacher, Mr. Quu, was the coach of the baseball team. He was pretty butch, or at least, that’s what he desperately wanted everyone to think. I knew that when he went home, his wife gave him a ball gag and made him crawl around the house naked. I knew he enjoyed humiliation – the baseball team sucked. page 21
I knew my kid sister’s best friend was a total klepto. Clare had the stickiest was a glutton for makeup and other girls’ boyfriends. She had everyone in her pocket like powder-blue eyeshadow that was “on sale.” I guess you could have called me a creep. But then again, people should be frank about who they are. I wished Mr. Quu would just admit to being a masochist. I wished Clare would own up to being a thief. I wished people would stop making assumptions about me and my sexual preferences. My mom called me down to dinner. Shaking off my introspection, I rolled off my bed and stood up. I headed down the spiral staircase towards our kitchen. I sat down in my usual chair, and stared down at the meal on my plate. We were
having Mom’s corned beef casserole that night, but I am a vegetarian. Using my fork, I separated my peas from the carnivore casserole. I ate slowly. Mom and Lacey talked about the typical: school; work; Lacey’s asshole of a boyfriend, Tom. “How did you do on that test?” Mom asked, her mouth full of beef.
“I don’t eat meat,” I interjected. skeptically. “I’m a vegetarian.” “I’ve been one for three years.” “Don’t give me an attitude, Lacey.” “I hate you both.” Mom turned suddenly, glaring at me intently. She had her don’t-give-me-
no-bullshit face on, but it was replaced with the smile reserved for dealing with neighbors she wanted to murder. I was fucked. “Listen sweetheart - Mommy doesn’t like it when you’re sarcastic. Wipe that shitty look off your face, Penny.” So I did.
I
t was lunch time. Everyone was waiting in line for food. We were a fucking chain gang. A group of girls stood behind me, talking obnoxiously about their sexual exploits the previous weekend. “I didn’t sleep with him. Why the fuck would I? He’s nasty! Dre Casass has severe bacne. I would rather be choked
They all laughed like her vomit was the funniest thing their microscopic minds had ever wrapped around. I got my food, took a seat, and ate in silence.
T
here was a new girl on the softball team. I had seen her in my gym class three times a week. She was some strange kind of beautiful. I couldn’t so alluring about this girl, but she had my eyes roaming feverously over her appeared to be a breeder. She wasn’t fat or thin. Her hair was
nothing special. She had brown eyes, like everyone. She was not really muscular, but she was not weak. She other girl on the team. She had freckles, on her nose, cheeks, and probably other places that I couldn’t see. Her teeth were straight. Her lips were pink. Her nose was a normal size and shape. Perhaps I was so taken with her complete normality. What could have been her name? Sarah? Brittney? She looked kind of like a Karlie. I knew I wouldn’t ask her. I was a coward when it came to those things. I had preferred to keep my pining to myself. Healthy, I know. I sat in class now, pretending to listen to the lecture on how plants reproduce.
on top of me,” said the redhead. I rolled my eyes in disgust. The ginger was lying. The week before, I hid underneath the bleachers of the softball varsity softball practice. I thought, might as well enjoy some eye candy while you bask in truancy, right? Somewhere between calf stretches and running laps, I noticed a couple sucking each others’ faces off near the brush of the school’s boundary. Their hands ran over each other’s bodies as their hips grinded hard together, trying to reach a release. When the couple parted, I recognized he had been humping a thin, redheaded bombshell. This bitch got her rocks off by having sex with an unattractive slob. I knew it. She knew it. Dre knew it. Her friends were too unobservant to notice her slightly smudged lipstick or her lightly wrinkled cardigan. “He’s always ogling you. You know picture,” one of her friends teased. “He doesn’t even wait ’till he gets home to do that, Tracy. You know he gets off in the back of history watching her!” “Aw, how sweet. He has a crush on you, Wendy.” “God, shut up. I think I’m going to hurl,” the ginger said. page 22
I stared blankly at the teacher as my mind played out fantasies of the new girl. She was practicing alone on the fast pitch. Dirt and sweat caked her face in a delicious mixture. She winded up, and I came out with a catcher’s mitt. “Penny,” she said, smiling. “Here to help me practice?” “Sure am.” She took pitching position and hurled the ball my way. My hand stung when it made contact. She had a damn cannon for an arm. The pain excited me. “What the fuck are you worried about? You’re a damn good pitcher.” “Not good enough.” “Karlie, I don’t say things just to suck in oxygen. You’re the best damn pitcher I’ve seen. My hand feels like it’s going to fall off. Not everyone can do that.” I marched up to her, looked her straight in the eyes, grabbed a handful of hair, and crashed our mouths together. She tasted like strawberries and sweat. Our tongues wrapped around each other, and I found myself getting high off the scent of the dirt mixed with her sweat and shampoo. Her hands grabbed me, trying to force our bodies even closer together. For a second, I gave in and let her dominate me completely. She was everything, everywhere. The ringing bell signaled to me that I needed to go to my next class.
“P
enny, have you ever…you know…” “You know what?” I snapped. Lacey had been acting bizarre since she’d gotten home. Her usually carefree demeanor was absent. I never took anything she said seriously. She was fourteen. “You know…with a guy…” I stared at her, trying not to laugh in her face. “No.” “Really? Come on! Tell me.” “I’ve never bumped uglies with a male before. You’ll just have to read Cosmo
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bullshit is about.” “Why won’t you tell me,” she pouted. “I don’t only mean sex. Have you ever seen a guy’s…” “If you’re not comfortable enough to say penis, then you shouldn’t even be thinking about this crap.” What an annoying bitch. Lacey was naive in my book, but I guessed she was getting to that age when kids discover that having sex feels good. “Is Tom pressuring you to have sex?” I asked. That asshole would. There was only one reason that guys my age dated girls Lacey’s age. They’re easy to manipulate. “No,” she said abruptly, obviously angry. “Why do you hate him so much?” “He’s the gum on the sidewalk that people scrape off their shoes,” I spat. “You’re a jealous bitch,” she said, then stormed off. I had an overwhelming urge to chase after her and break her nose, but regret communicate with my sister. Regret that I hadn’t told her I’m gay. Regret that I didn’t have the courage to do either. So I had to stick to being sarcastic and bored around her, because that’s what was easy for me, because I was a coward, because I was just like every other damn person on the face of this earth. I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stood there in the cold. I grabbed the bacon sitting on the top shelf. Ripping open the package, I shoved a handful in my mouth. I chewed fast, hard, angry. I noticed that I was crying, and rushed to the bathroom and forced myself to throw up.
I
was at the local fast food joint. It was everything you’d expect: dirty, greasy, cheap and delicious. I was about to leave when Karlie walked through the smeared double doors with some of the other girls on the softball team. My breath caught in my throat. I felt like hurling. She caught my gaze and held it. She motioned towards me with her thumb while talking to the other girls. They nodded, heading to the front counter to order food, but she
didn’t follow them. She headed my way instead. “You’re, um…Penny, right?” she asked, a smile adorning her pink lips. “Yeah.” “We have gym together sixth period.” “Yeah.” “Some of the girls want to have a softball scrimmage against the guys. If I bring it up to Mr. Larson, would you vote in favor of it?” “Yeah.” “Great. Thanks Penny,” she said as she turned to leave. “Uh, wait,” I said suddenly, my heart racing. She swung back, waiting for my response. “I don’t really know your name.” “It’s Kit. Kit Vaneno.” I smiled at my small victory. I voted for there to be a softball game, and Kit smiled at me. I found out I’m awful at softball. I couldn’t hit, pitch, or throw. I looked like a confused, convulsing elephant. I could feel that it was going to be a reoccurring nightmare of mine. I was so painfully bad that Kit offered to help me.w
I
was sitting on the bleachers, waiting, hoping, fantasizing. Looking down at my sweaty mitt, strawberries dancing around me. I let out a smooth sigh. Dirt, shampoo and submission ran through my mind. I blushed. I shifted in my seat, trying to relieve the pressure that had been building between my legs. “Penny!” Kit yelled as she jogged up to the bleachers. I eyed her short-shorts and waved, nervous. “So what position do you think you under her, hair messy and eyes halflidded. “Catcher, I think.” “Yeah, you look like catcher material, and your mitt looks like it can take the heat.” “Yeah…” We threw the softball back and forth a few times. She had a strong arm. I didn’t. “You’re getting the hang of it,” she
said, smiling. I tried to smile back, but I was afraid that I’d look stupid. I ended up just nodding, a little too vigorously. “Now it’s time to get dirty. Squat down, like this. Hold your mitt like this. Now prepare for an incoming fastball.” I copied her, pretending I knew exactly what I was doing. She squatted behind me and wrapped her arms around mine. I felt her breasts against my back. “You have to keep your arms strong,” she said, her breath tickling my ear. My body was uncomfortably hot. My face was uncomfortably red. I prayed that she didn’t notice. “A team will never win if the catcher is no good. Pitcher and catcher, they’re the backbone of the team.” I heard the thudding of my heartbeat ring in my ears. We were so damn close. I could feel the heat of her body against me. I guess I lost my mind, because I turned suddenly and planted a shy kiss on Kit’s lips. Her eyes widened as she covered her mouth. She sprang up, ready to bolt. “Wait,” I said desperately, grabbing her arm. “Don’t touch me!” “Kit I-” “I’m not a dyke!” “I just thought-” “What? That I play softball so that means I like girls?” “That’s not what I meant!” “Everyone in school thinks we’re lesbians! You are just like them!” I released her arm. She sprinted away sliding down my cheeks. “Yeah, I guess I am,” I said to no one. I bitterly picked up my backpack and started the long walk back home. It wouldn’t be long now before word got out that I kissed poor Kit Vaneno, trying to convert her to lesbianism, only to have her run away. Life would be hell for a couple of months. Better thicken my skin, I thought. I reached the front door. I didn’t want to go in. I didn’t want to pretend to be OK.
I didn’t want to do anything but to turn Lacey opened the door. “You’re late,” she said. “Dinner is on the table.” I pushed past her and dumped my stuff rushed through my nostrils. I sat down at the table with a blank face. Mom had put a plate full of corned beef casserole in front of me. My eyes locked on the meal. Everything around me was muted, gone. “What is this?” I asked, my face contorting with anger. “It’s dinner, Penny.”
“What the hell do you think it is?” Lacey asked. She was chewing with her mouth wide open. I saw the casserole being grated against her teeth. “This is your fucking dinner. Not mine.” “You don’t get a special dinner, Penny,” Mom said. She had put her hands on her hips, a frown etched on her face. “A special dinner?” She was mocking me, that bitch. I saw red. I didn’t have to take that. Fuck that! I refused to be like everyone else. I refused to be a hypocrite. I refused to be a meat-eating vegetarian. “Mom, Lacey, I’m gay, and I’m a goddamn vegetarian!”
I didn’t want to see my sister or mother. page 24
You were straight By Deede Barrido
You were straight, But I was not. I closed my eyes To not get caught. I hid my feelings Behind the closet, Kept my cold hands Inside my pockets. You were curious While I wasn’t; Drove me ambivalent. You were the center of attention, The sky’s red moon crescent; I was a willow in the shade: Sulky, arborescent. Your eyes spoke to mine, Yet I couldn’t reply; You looked at me
But I looked away, Desperate for time, Escaping into My comfortable mind Where my thoughts collected Like ribbons of citrus rinds; I read them aloud, hoping You would see between the lines. page 25
Kerstin Bryant
T
his is a still image from a mixed-media based series entitled “When The Bitch Stops Caring,” a body of work relating to gender-based oppression within the male monopolized wrestling institution of the 1940’s. The work relates to the plight of female wrestlers in the 1940’s. Women wanted to be legitimized as athletes in a western, gender-normed society as opposed to sexualized novelties within the oppressive hetero-normativity of procrustean, contemporary,
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By: Wesley Allure
I
arrived in Orlando on the 31st. I had a hotel room booked right
the room key and headed to the gorgeous black, lace collared shirt about. You could only access the
apartment, so that was a dose of nostalgia to start the evening. I moved there just months after my Orlando; I think I was very fond of it and either really didn’t know it at the time or suppressed those feelings due to loneliness, which I blamed the city for. I called it the City of Sin. I got into trouble there, but nothing I couldn’t get myself out of. I suppose you could assume the trouble was all about trying new things, and you can interpret that any-way you like. I’m moving back this fall for Act II. I arrived at the hotel anxious, the whole drive I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to check in due to being under 21. The old man at the front desk glanced at my ID a second longer than I liked – but I made innocent conversation and a little sparkly eye contact. I got
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The room had a perfect view of my old stomping grounds. I put all my luggage in and organized. I “Too Wong Foo’d” the room, if you will. One of my girlfriends, Sierra, came over and did my makeup: a smokey eye and a pair of rather dominant brows. I felt very seductive, which is why I think I’ve started wearing eye makeup and such. It makes me feel like a different, sexy person. It’s about changing the perception of my own self. I don’t care about what it is or how it’s applied. I just want it to make me look more promiscuous and slightly ominous in the dim lighting of a club. She invited me to a house party, but I knew I wouldn’t dare leave Parliament House, my destination for the night. I drank pink champagne as I got ready. I wore a black, velvet turtle neck cinched at
with a general hat and my typical black skinnies and combat boots. I left with a suitcase for wardrobe changes and what I call my Party Box – stocked with sunnies, glitter, ence and feeling glamorous. I went to the tent in the courtyard of the club to pay and receive my wristband, but a man sold me his ticket. He must’ve chosen me because of how I looked. I went back to my I had left. I was feeling right, and I know when that is once my lips start to tingle. pool stage outside. I was alone, so I walked to the right of the pool and made my way to the front and watched a bit. I always look straight ahead when I’m making my way through a club crowd. I let the onlookers take a glance at me
and I don’t return the favor, only to heighten their curiosity. This is how I get approached, free drinks and such. I have to be in the mood to want attention, so that’s when champagne or wine comes into play before going out. A friend of mine who I’ve seen a lot of shows there with, Chip, texted me saying he saw me. He was on the other side with his husband Steven, one of the sweetest couples I’ve ever met. I made my way over to say hello and when we talked, I brought up that I left my camera in the car and he was like “Well I don’t even know WHY you did THAT.” That made me go get it, which is important because in doing so, I didn’t go back to the crowd afterwards. I headed to the back hallway where I always take the portraits. I passed shaped headpiece sipping from a straw and I quickly realized from the height and, honestly, the way she was holding her drink and cigarette in one hand that it was Raja (Season 3 winner of RuPaul’s Drag Race and one I just so happen to especially admire). Running into these stars always race as my stomach gets heavy. I’ve had to train myself not to be a fool. It’s a great fear of mine that I will either embarrass myself or come off as forgettable. I asked to take her photograph, and she recognized me from before (back in May). She said “Oh, it’s you! How are you?” I told her that I brought a little ganja just for her and she was very excited. “Where are you parked? Far?” “The parking lot.” “Oh, that’s far.” Right then and there I was planning
when to get high with Raja, which I wanted to do for a long time, since the previous New Year’s Eve, I believe. She was going on for her second number soon. We were both a bit confused and tipsy trying to me her number. “Go ahead and get it, quickly, I’ll meet you back here.” I hauled ass back to the car, in an utter trance of what just happened. Times like those are when reality starts to slip from me and I can see it retreating for the duration of the night. I grabbed my pipe and headed back to the back hallway where I found her outside the door beside it. I sat down with her and to a nearby table. A guy and his accompanying clique who are not too fond of me was sitting there. There are a distinct, handful of
boys in Orlando who I know do not like me. Whether it’s their lack of understanding of who I am or their inability to be pleasant to be around, I do not care. I couldn’t and still can’t be bothered by such pettiness, I just needed a lighter. I got one and sat back down by Raja in the darker corner. We were right by the door on this concrete plant bed. It’s like a jungle in that back, outdoor space. You leave the disco and enter what seems like the Amazon, plenty of oxygen to breathe. All that’s missing are the sounds of tropical wildlife. We lit up and talked about 2015 until Tyra (Season 2 winner of RuPaul’s Drag Race) showed up and invited me back to Raja’s room for the after party, Room 103. I know Tyra out of drag from seeing her around Parliament House; she lives in Orlando. page 28
I couldn’t believe it was all happening so quickly. So now I know that I was indeed high because I can’t really remember what happened next in what order. I forgot to mention that when I was shooting with Raja, Jinkx walked out of the dressing room and proclaimed she was ready (at one point before that, I asked if she was in a hurry and she said “Kind of, darling.”, so I had to let her go). I got 2 Polaroids of Raja and Jinkx together – beautiful. A quirky combination of the two. I think they went back for the second number, so I believe that’s when I went back to the pool stage where I met up with friends. Just like last year, Darcel (the hostess and MC) counted down to midnight. Everyone went wild. My lover was not with me, so I remember looking up at the sky and having the stars and streams of page 29
cloud nine from what had all happened already that night. Everyone was screaming and hugging and kissing while I probably looked dazed with euphoria in my eyes. The roof of the disco had “2016 Party!” in lights’ it was cute. Sharon knelt down by the front of the stage and was touching hands with anyone in reach. There was a tear in her eye, and I witnessed the most real feeling of fame she must’ve had, I can’t even explain it, but it was very dear to me to witness. I feel time went slow when I was gazing up at her, but I snapped out of it and I caught the moment just in time with my camera. The second show began and it was very hot out, quite steamy. My hair curled up, but it actually looked cute when I wore my pink cap later on in the night with my
gold earring. Raja did a fabulous number: What’s This Right Here by Kelis. She looked like a blowup doll with Velcro tits that she took on and off, along with a sequined clitoris and a button asshole, which she all pointed to as the song went on. Sharon was next and looked amazing as the alien human from Mars Attacks! and with that look she performed “Life On Mars,” the American Horror Story: Freakshow version sung by Jessica Lange. Violet performed Bettie which I had wanted to see. During the end of her performance, I left the crowd to return to the back hallway area. I met Raja and she grabbed my hand and led me back to the fenced off area beside the pool stage, where they were all casually standing. I was overwhelmed by all their glamour, even in the wooden shack we were standing in. I didn’t even take all the photographs that I could like I should have. However, I shot Violet twice. She was actually the one diwithout words, curtly telling me to
I was overwhelmed by all their glamour, even in the wooden shack we were standing in.
ter that, they were all heading back to the dressing room to prepare for the meet and greet. I had basically gotten everything I wanted and so much more. Around this time, I went back to my car and changed into a black crop top and still wore the lace shirt over top and this is when I added the pink cap with my curly hair – I looked totally different and I liked it. Once again, I headed back to the outside area beside the back hallway. I caught the eyes of a girl standing by the table. She had a black top on with a gold sequin skirt and pretty makeup. I asked “How is your New Year’s Eve?” and we started talking. She was waiting for her friends who were sitting at the table: a cute boy – blonde, tan, shorter and stocky with muscle – and another girl who reminded me of a cool stepmother. She just had that party girl look and I love that in women. the guy he came with and the girl I had approached was waiting on them to go dance. I told them about getting high with Raja, and I think as we talked, they didn’t become clingy, but wanted to be MY plus ones. I liked
that what I had taken was real, not just an illusion my mind made up. See, when I attend a night with a lineup of big names, all I think about is getting their portraits. Until that moment, I am quite anxious. ebrate. The four of us got pumped to go back to dance, so we did just and crowded. made up of spilled drinks, dirt, sweat and possibly even other few surrounding people, so anything could happen in the middle without your knowing. I’ve seen a genital whipped out by an aggressive partner on the small stage in front of the DJ booth. Things can get pretty wild. Parliament House has and always will have a place in my heart. The seediness there can’t even disrupt my passion for it, it might, in fact, make it grow. There’s a little evil at Parliament House, I can sense this. Yes, I’m sure there are men with bad intentions, others just wanting to get some, but mostly people just getting to know each other and having the time of their life. I saw recognizable faces throughout the night who know me:
of a group. Only when I want to, I don’t like around. I told them about the Polaroids I had taken so far, so I led them back to my car to show them. This allowed for more getting-to-know-each-other talk, the walk from the club to the parking lot. I felt like the Phantom of the Opera, beckoning them to follow me. We got to my car, and I showed them what I had shot and they
black woman. She always wears a black, spaghetti strap top with a black fur jacket. There’s no bouncer, so she is like King Minos, judging the damned as they enter hell. I have a theory that since she has to appear so intimidating, she can’t say anything too nice to me out loud if anyone is behind me. So, when she sees my face, her eye twinkles (the other eye is covered by her big, curly hair) and she
squeezes my hand with affection. Chris who leads the meet and greets allows me to stay behind after to have private sessions with the queens, I’m lucky to know him. If other people are sticking around and they’re not with me, he makes them get out. He knows I like that. I am to Parliament House as Andy Warhol was to Studio 54. The Hispanic guy who was always dancing against the mirror walls in page 30
the disco, trying to seduce all who look at him. Plenty of the regulars, basically, and it made me so happy seeing them all in their element. Another boy grabbed my waist and tried dancing with me, but I didn’t want to, being with the people I just met. I politely declined and he stormed off when I looked away for a moment. That’s how men can be, taking every, little thing so heavily! I can’t help but admire being chased, roughly or not. I feel a sense of power at Parliament House and it’s like a physical high. “And it’s an addictive high like all highs in the long run turn out to be, but it’s a high that won’t hurt you.” We went outside to rest. Raja quickly walked by in baggy blue jeans and a loose V-neck; I could tell she was upset. She was walking like she was wearing clown shoes,
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a distinct walk she must do when something is wrong. I went to her to see what was going on and she
full face, minus the wig, in a letterman jacket and pants, along with Sonique from Season 2 of RuPaul’s Drag Race and now a Footlight really freaking out. I kept trying to Player (a star in the theater show) calm her down. Darcel, also out of in sweat clothes. I loved seeing drag, came by and told her it was them like this. Joel was there along in the lobby. Raja grabbed my hand with Violet’s assistant and that was and led us through the club and it for a little bit. back to the courtyard where she got Talking and laughing. Joel called her stuff. me an all-star, and being compliI can’t remember what I did, but I mented makes me comfortable. We disappeared for a minute and came smoked a little more and Raja even back as she was about to get in the passed around cigarettes, which I Parliament House taxi to carpool accepted, but I just put it behind back to The Gardens (the hotel) my ear…I wanted to keep it for a right next door. I slowly stopped, special occasion. hesitant in not knowing if I was It’s currently stuck in the mouth of going to join as mentioned bethe black skull in my bedroom. I fore and she said “Come on!” in a call it “Raja’s Cigarette.” very sweet and stern manner, so I Then everyone went out on the hopped in, texting the boy with his back porch, where we all just sat, two girlfriends, telling him that I talking about resolutions and such. had to leave with Raja. I felt a little Me and Raja talked about depresrude, but honestly I wasn’t a bit sion for a little bit. I had the opporworried – I was with Raja. tunity to introduce myself to SoWe were dropped off and then nique before she left, I’ve always admired her from a distance. She and phone and really started have seemed so intimidating because of a melt down. Sharon’s boyfriend her beauty, I never made direct eye showed up with his new friend contact as if she were Medusa. People came and went. Tyra things and I hurried back to go get showed up, shirtless and blazed. my car from the parking lot and Jinkx strutted out wearing a little, bring it to The Gardens. black dress, stockings pulled up I passed the boy and the girls I met to her knees, a bowler hat and her on my strut back and said goodboy-hair in pigtails. The fool I was night just in case I wouldn’t see for not having my camera with me! them again. They wanted a ride However, these memories just add home, but I really couldn’t because to the juiciness of my private life. I didn’t know how long I was going What I look back on, what I see in to be at the after party. I drove my my head, was only meant for us, car back and returned to the room not to be captured. My work dewhich was opened, so they got in picts nightclubbing fantasy in all its somehow. glory, posed and polished. HowevI gave Raja a bottled water and er, there’s always a point when the cheddar and sour cream chips and fantasy I experience becomes my being high, of course she ate them reality, which can only be lived. immediately. Violet was there in
Art By Lianna Isabelle page 32
By: Rachel Pimienta
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Dear God, I have a few questions. Prior to the creation of humanity, life originated out of Christianity. Most scientists state that this idea has been rejected, Yet humanity remains sinfully guilty, yearning to be corrected. Even being Your holy creations, we continually kill others. Martyrs in every nation are our sisters and brothers. We burn down buildings in Your name and pillage. But aren’t we all trimmings made from Your image? Sinners cannot mend those without defect, So the god that created humans had to be perfect. But we are all imperfect sinners according to Christianity, Thus, perfection and sin remains fallacy. Did the god that created humans make a mistake? Or have humans created God, omnipotent but fake? Consider the script an actor reads. God conforms to roles, feeding everyone’s needs. Like a TV, we see what we choose to see. There are thousands of channels with different voices. But we usually grow up mimicking our parents’ choices. Everyone has heard of that celebrity abroad. He entertains us all, and his stage name is God. God, you have played the role of doctor and sadist, Yet you refuse to play a homosexual or an Atheist. We turn You on and You run the show in our heads. You alleviate our minds while we’re lying in our beds. Most of us order Your adapted version, ‘no discrimination.’ Yet most of us change the entire script with our interpretation. I want You to know, I threw out my television. I want You to know, I’ll never regret my decision. Your followers call this the ‘unpardonable sin.’ Blasphemy against You will forever enslave me in. A life of darkness is where the outsiders and I will dwell. Even if our hearts are pure, we somehow still deserve Hell. Have You asked Yourself how you are three-in-one? Did You impregnate Your mother and birth Yourself for fun? Why did You create people knowing that You would need to create a Hell?
Why write the verse “only virgins may live; you may keep them for yourselves?” You allow war, and Your followers say You need more angels in the sky. Can’t you create more angels and prevent each and every crime? I won’t read this email out loud because skepticism is banned from religion. People question scientists, professors, and leaders, but God is forbidden? If, in fact, this world is Godless, do not worry where we are when we die. We didn’t seem to care about not existing before we were alive. If in fact this world is Godless, do not ask yourself, “What is life’s motivation?” I am a kind, hard-working person without the threat of eternal damnation. The Bible may have talking animals and characters bizarre But every atom in my body came from an exploded star. The cosmos is in us – the universe is who we are. I would like to do lunch sometime, seeing as I live in the beltway. Although there isn’t any proof You exist, maybe we can meet Sunday? I imagine you look like Beyonce, Darwin, or Meryl Streep. I am contacting you in writing because prayer is weak. [SENT] received. My anticipation was quenched, and I was full of glee! Alas, it was only my letter sent right back to me.
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Spring 2016