PHOTO: Sara Keith

In bucolic Southern Appalachia, a region of the country replete with lush mountains and “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN” yard signs, queer people must regularly interact with folks who are hostile towards them. Our fellow Southerners gawk at us in the streets, shout homophobic abuses at us from their cars, and discriminate against us in our neighborhoods, at our jobs, etc. Wherever we go, we are trailed by the knowledge of our own vulnerability in conservative Southern culture. Still, many of us wake up every day steadfastly devoted to creating change through community activism. We know better than most that Appalachia and the South plainly need dedicated activists who are willing to confront their communities about white supremacy, transphobic violence, and the daily struggles that LGBTQ people face. The conspicuousness of this need makes our work here feel singularly important; being queer and outspoken against identity-based injustice is a kind of radical affront to the systems of violence that permeate Southern life. When there are still many queer people who consider this part of the country wholly off-limits to them, it feels necessary to walk proudly and openly through our cities, unafraid. If we can live here and stay here, perhaps we can change here.

But being out, proud, and unabashedly queer in the South is difficult and frustrating. It is impossible for queer activists to feel empowered or supported when they must spend so much of their time worrying about their safety, their welfare, and the reactionary bigotry that pervades the sociopolitical climate they exist within. Many Southern queer activists get burnt out after a couple years of hard-won and painfully gradual progress. The constant threat of violence is fatiguing and dehumanizing. The loneliness of trying to build queer community in a place where there’s not many queer people is, likewise, hard to bear. Many of us do not have the financial or social means to leave the South, to start over in a bigger, more progressive city where queer people have already won imposing victories (though anti-queer violence looms everywhere). I do have the means to leave, and sometimes I badly want to, but I am gutted when I think of how more vulnerable members of my community might feel: angry, scared, tired, and trapped.

PHOTO: Sara Keith

Straight and cisgender allies who support LGBTQ activism often express their gratitude to me and my activist friends: “Thank you so much for doing this work. It’s so important” they say. I appreciate their sentiments, but I get the feeling that they don’t know how tired and frightened we are. They are quick to condemn anti-queer violence and bigotry generally, but they are not as quick to condemn it in their daily, personal lives. I wonder: how many of them intimately know someone who gawks at me and my friends in the street—someone who misgenders us, insults us, makes fun of us, or votes in a way that disempowers us? I also wonder: how many of them would be willing to confront these friends, family members, and loved ones?

Confrontation is painful—queer activists confront the fear and anger of other people constantly, that’s why we are so tired. Confrontation is necessary to our liberation, and we want to continue doing that work—but, to succeed, we need to feel safe and supported. We need our more powerful, more visible peers to do work themselves confronting and challenging the violence they see in their day-to-day lives: from microaggressions to the most brazen forms of enmity. No doubt, there is a formidable coalition of folks down here who want meaningful change. It is now up to each of us to use what we have and what we know to move beyond passive support and become co-liberators—diverse groups of people fighting alongside one another to create sustainable progress.

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RM Barton is a writer and activist living in Roanoke, Virginia. Originally from Maryland, she moved to Southwest Virginia for school some five years ago, and has since become invested in queering southern space. She is the co-lead of The Southwest Virginia LGBTQ History Project and the publisher of The Southwest Virginia LGBTQ History Project Zine, which aims to illuminate queer history through queer art and storytelling. She blogs at rmbartonblog.wordpress.com

A play on the word “shoulders”, Shouldies as a name reminiscences kid-powered rewording, the “strawbabies” and “roast beasts” of childhood. As an electronic outfit, Shouldies relies less on the whimsical and more on the surreal.

“Statue”, their first recorded material engineered by Esar Tehrani, emits a palpitating smokiness. Yancey Ballard’s talk-singing is a strong instrument on its own, building intensity with John Pierce’s use of MicroKORG and Daniel Eberlein’s programmed drums and bass synth. With a sound surprisingly full for a three piece, Yancey’s sprechgesang, like a haunting early Modern Lovers’ Jonathan Richman, provides a post-punk edge to John and Daniel’s synthwave foundation.

“When I wrote this song I wanted the act of everything to be stripped away. I was tired of the whole performance of touch,” he explains. “I wanted someone to touch my skin with no intention. With something pure and perfect. I think of the repetitive verses in a mocking sense.”

Craving a different creative current, when Yancey and John dissolved their long time project, Man Up Yancey, they were exhausted of relying on traditional band structures. John had cultivated a solo project, Post Hunk, that combined drum machine with traditional guitar and bass. While Yancey is always creating, currently making a zine about trans body positivity, the two knew they need another counterpart. When Daniel moved from Macon with a previous background in noise and an interest in electronic music, they found their magic number, three.  Without requiring a traditional drummer, or even dependence on a typical practice space, Shouldies, as a newer Atlanta act, also crosses over into queer art and identity. Having played many captivating performances, quickly gaining a devoted following, audiences look forward to more recordings and shows from this innovative group.

Get to know the Shouldies crew better with this fun q&a:
 

The best color to eat...

Daniel:  A wood grain brown, something dark and complex and rich.
John:  Blue would be refreshing.
Yancey:  Orange.
 

The sound that smells best…

Daniel:  I wanna hear the smell of mint.
John:  Black coffee with a full breakfast.
Yancey:  The smell of new shoes. I feel like it would translate into 90’s music. I feel like “You  Oughta Know” would smell like fresh Converse or No doubt would be new Doc Martens.
 

Why electronic?

Daniel:  I like to use electronics because I can make the music that I hear in my head that I'm not good enough to play. Creativity’s not restricted by physical limitations as much.
John:  To play something I haven't before.
Yancey:  Electronic music gives so much of an immediate satisfaction when writing it. I wanted to focus on texture over the notation of things. I’ve always wanted to make something people could dance to but super dark.
 

Dream concert…

Daniel:  I would love to see Arca perform in a giant old building like a church or something.
John:  Fugazi and Dead Kennedys at 529
Yancey:  Tiny Tim, Tina Turner and Tegan & Sara all day in a small venue in a forest.

Guilt pleasure movies...

Daniel:  Teen drama horror movies like Scream or When a Stranger Calls.
John:  High School Musical.
Yancey:  Trolls.
 

Biggest internet time suck...

Daniel:  I have seen every Nardwuar interview on YouTube.
John:  Awkward video comps.
Yancey:  Google searches going from chakra for snot to where’s Bowling For Soup now.
 

Shoutouts to ATL creatives...

Daniel:  Matt and Kathleen w bbhaus and Moth Manos, Sequoyah, Leo Heikkila with GNR Sound and AGYN, Pamela_and_her_sons. Without these, and many more, people's support and beautiful art, I don't think I would have moved to Atlanta this year!
John:  Dicaprio, Uniq, Moloq, Shepherds, Alex Huey.
Yancey:  Cory Ferriera, Sequoyah Murray, Andrew Lyman, Maggie Swain.
 

The little things...

Daniel:  Sometimes I can't sleep because I'm so excited to wake up in the morning and eat breakfast.
John:  Weed.
Yancey:  Sitting on the couch at night with John and our pup.
 

Musical crush...

Daniel:  Matmos.
John:  Michael McDonald.
Yancey:  John Pierce and Daniel Eberlein.
 

Least favorite word…

Daniel:  Christmas.
John:  Corn.
Yancey:  Panties.
 

Karaoke Go-To...

Daniel:  Lately it's “Truly, Madly, Deeply” by Savage Garden.
John: “Africa” by Toto.
Yancey:  Enya’s “Only Time”
 

Music you’re into that surprises others...

Daniel:  Savage Garden
John:  Grateful Dead.
Yancey:  Tina Turner has always been my favorite musician but honestly not sure if any of my music taste would surprise anyone. At least it’s more surprising than John’s. John brings up the Grateful Dead at least 3 times a day.
 

Best Records of 2017...

Daniel:  Guerilla Toss GT Ultra, Kelela Take Me Apart, Björk Utopia, Arca S/T, Black Origami Jlin, John Maus Screen Memories, Boy Harsher Country Girl EP, Girlpool Powerplant.
John:  Kendrick Lamar Damn and Omni Multi Task.
Yancey:   Fits All Belief is Paradise, Mutual Jerk 7”, Yani Mo The Moment.

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Sunni Johnson is a writer, zinester, and musician based in Atlanta, GA. 

Drag is not some kind of new thing to happen in Athens. For as long as I have been a citizen of the Classic City, there has always been a drag show to go to and if we are to look at drag like we look at other forms of art, I think we can say that now is the Age of the Kourtesan.

With shows at Max, The Globe, Sister Louisa’s Church, and the 40 Watt, The Kourtesans make sure that there is opportunity to be seen from all angles. From the curious drag newbie to the diehard fan, a chance to experience what Athens drag can be—to grow and experience the art form for themselves.

One of the things that the Kourtesans showcase is a diversity of talent that allows for many forms of drag. On any given night the cast of characters can be glam girls, pageant queens, club kids, bearded queens and anything in between.

Semaj Onyx Coxring

Eden Cakes

When I asked show runner Karmella Macchiato what she thought the overall message of the Kourtesans was she said, “We just want to encourage people to be themselves, even if they feel like they might not fit in elsewhere…” Creating that sense of welcome and safety is one of the things that the girls do best. The world might be crashing and burning around us, but at a Kourtesans show you are surrounded by your closest friends and family, so you can let yourself go a little bit. It is an anything-goes kind of vibe—people can go wherever they want, drink what they want, love who they want, and be as free as they want—as long as they don’t walk on the stage during a performance. In such tight spaces you might get a glittery pump to the chin.

But the Kourtesans exist as more than a drag show. They are queens of the social media age. With each girl showcasing their own personal styles and tastes, they not only exist as ambassadors for the troupe but as ambassadors for queer life in Athens. Each queen has a strong media presence and are all outspoken when it comes to current events as they affect the Athens queer community and the community at large. Kourtesans are smart and opinionated and show that there is more to drag than glitz and glamour.

Photo by Savannah F Cole

It is because of this openness and celebration of being yourself that has led many queer kids to don the title of performance artist for the night (myself included). Every so often there will be a night of tryouts where those willing will turn a look and compete get an offer to perform alongside the girls for a night. It is on nights like these that a Kourtesans show can be really special. Nights like these are about celebrating being whatever kind of you that you want to be and they are right there with you, cheering you on and celebrating you the way you celebrate them.

The world can get you down and make you want to call UNCLE but sometimes, even if only for a couple hours, it is worth having something to do that will put a smile on you face, get you dancing, make you laugh, and maybe even make you a little uncomfortable. I’m not saying that a drag show is going to solve all the world’s problems…but I’m also not saying it wont.

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Robby Bailey is a writer in Athens, Ga. You can follow him on twitter @robbebailey

After my computer died in the middle of parent-teacher conferences, I spent the time between conversations checking my phone. While scrolling through Facebook, I came across a post from The New Yorker, reminding their readers that before it was an Academy Award winning film, Brokeback Mountain appeared in their pages as a short story by Annie Proulx. In quick bursts, I devoured it, appreciating its heartache and yearning—seeing within it my own tears and tribulations—more as a twenty-seven year old than I ever did as a fresh-faced freshman. Then, too, I had read it surreptitiously, standing in the aisle of a Barnes & Nobles a week after I’d seen the film in theatres. I had the money to buy the book, but I could not fathom the courage to walk up to the counter to pay for it. Even if, somehow, I did, taking it home, displaying it proudly on my shelf, was out of the question.

Similarly, I saw the movie in secret, going with a queer friend on a Tuesday night, telling my parents we were going to the arcade. Her dad had bought us the tickets—we were too young for its R-rating—and sitting in the dark, a strange thrill passed through me, the rush of doing something clandestine and adult. Never before had I seen my loves and fears, doubts and anxieties, portrayed on the big screen. With the advent of the internet and the budding Gay-Straight Alliance at my school, I knew other queers existed, that I was not, in fact, alone, but it could not compare to the validation of seeing queer love not only gather an audience, but garner accolades. I left the theatre emboldened, eyes wet and heart racing.

The feeling lasted until third period the next day, when a fellow student in drama class approached me. “I saw you,” he said, tone casual, “at the theatre.” He paused, expectant, before asking me if I liked the movie. Up until this point, I’d affected what I called a “soft coming-out,” revealing the truth to close friends and the other members of the GSA, while concealing it from my family and the school population at large. The fact that I had been seen—caught, as if at the scene of a grisly murder, red-handed—filled me with dread. I made some excuse, saying my friend had wanted to see it and I didn’t even know what the movie was about, and quite literally ran away.

The memory of that day in drama class bubbled to the surface as I sat in my darkened apartment, re-watching Brokeback Mountain for the first time in years. Much of the film concerns itself with running away, not from a physical location, but from the truth. Other than a brief repudiation (“I’m not no queer”), Ennis’ and Jack’s sexuality is never given voice, only alluded to with diverting turns of phrase. The oppressive weight of what they cannot admit tinges their lingering, forlorn glances, as tangible as the alpine chill. Distant shots of the mountains instill a sense of grandeur, but also of insurmountable remoteness. The characters, and the viewer, are quite literally dwarfed by the sheer magnitude, not only of Wyoming’s peaks, but of the oppressive atmosphere that suffuses the very air.

Set in 1963 and spanning nearly twenty years, snapshots illustrate the hushed, isolated existence of rural queers, a feeling all too familiar when living in a town of 5,000, where the nearest big city is over an hour away. Looking back on my life, the distance between who I am now—an out, proud queer man—and who I once was seems unfathomable. How different would my life had been, I wondered, if instead of the liberal oasis of Atlanta, I grew up in Gray, Georgia? Or Clayton? Or Mitzpe Ramon?

It led me to question which of my students are queer. What did they think being queer meant, if it was even a word they’d heard before? Was it only something that existed in movies and Tel Aviv? Had they ever met a queer person? Even if they gathered the courage to come out, what resources were available to them? The only homeless center for queer youth in Israel (Beth Dor) is in Tel Aviv, nearly three hours away from Mitzpe, and there exists no anonymous testing center for HIV and STDs nearby. The same problems plaguing queers in America—the discrepancy of safety and resources available to queers in urban centers versus rural communities—is further exacerbated by the conservative, religiously-entrenched mindset of Israel’s periphery.

Memorial for Matthew Shepard in Laramie, Wyoming

One might be tempted to shake one’s head, cluck one’s tongue, and think well times have changed. But to allow ourselves to be lulled into this illusion of progress would be to dishonor the memory of our queer brothers and sisters whose blood has been shed by hate or complacency. One year after Brokeback Mountain first appeared in the pages of The New Yorker, Matthew Shepard was beaten and left for dead on a fence in Laramie, Wyoming. Last year, a gunman killed 49 queers (most of them Latinx) at Pulse nightclub in Orlando. This year alone, twenty-four trans individuals have been murdered.

Israel, too, has an unfortunate history of violence against queers. Two years ago, a woman was killed by an ultra-Orthodox Jew during the Jerusalem Pride parade. He’d been released from prison only three weeks earlier, where’d been serving a sentence for stabbing three marchers during the same parade in 2005. In 2009, a shooting at Tel Aviv’s branch of Israeli’s LGBTQ association resulted in the death of two individuals, while fifteen more were injured. The perpetrators were never caught.

And what of AIDS? As we mark the 29th World AIDS Day on December 1st, we remember the nearly 35 million people who have died of HIV or related illnesses (one million in 2016 alone). With an administration that refuses to even mention the queer community in its acknowledgement of the day, and the astronomical cost of treatment and medication, in no way aided by Trump’s abomination of a proposed healthcare bill, what are we to do? The problem is no solely an American one. In Israel, 43.8% of new, male carriers in 2014 were queer. 65% of Israelis have never had an STD test. Lack of education and resources only add fuel to the flames.

Have we progressed then, not just from 1963, but from 1997? Or 2005? Or 2016? I would like to think we have, though the evidence shows there is farther still to go. While the queer community has made leaps and bounds in terms of acceptance and visibility, our struggle—for access to healthcare, for equal protection under the law, even, yes, for our lives—continues. In one of Brokeback’s more emotionally charged scenes, Jack expresses his displeasure at their current situation—forced to hide and subsist on “a few high-altitude fucks a year”. Ennis tells him that, if you can’t fix it, you’ve got to stand it. The queer community has stood it for long enough—now it’s time to fight.

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Alex Franco is the queer son of an immigrant and a southern belle. He hails from Atlanta, GA, and now teaches English in southern Israel.

Tis the season to be extra, tra-la-la-la-la-la-la-la trollops! And WUSSY has got all your last-minute holiday gifts covered for all your favorite naughty little elves.

We’ve compiled a list chockful of queer gift ideas for nearly all to enjoy, no matter what their sexual identity or belief system. We even have Atlanta-based local artists to buy from, because you know us - we’re nothing if we’re not all about giving back to the A, pray hands.

How are you spending your holidays? Let us know your favorite queer gifts, and where you’re spending your queer money to push your gay agenda.

Click each item for purchasing info!

Baby Jesus Butt Plug

You get a butt plug! And you get a butt plug! Everyone gets butt pluuuuugggggssss! Made in the form of the sweet Lord Baby Jesus, of course. And before anyone comments on social to complain about this being sacrilegious or inappropriate or whatever, you should know that 1.) I am Jewish, and would never put a fellow Member of the Tribe on blast like that unless I did not 100% know he was down for it, which I do know, as us Jews all keep tiny golden phones on our desks, on which we can call any Jew anywhere at any time, living or dead, to make sure that they’re cool with us goofing on them, and 2.) you didn’t let me finish. What I was going to say was that you could heed the website’s advice and stick the Baby Jesus on your car’s dashboard. I’m not one to tell anyone how to live their lives, but if the thought of a Baby Jesus butt plug bothers you that much, then turn water into wine and make him a hood ornament and conversation starter.

ABetterBuzz Brand Goods

@ABetterBuzzBrandGoods on Instagram

Our gay friend Buzz makes these gay goods! From baseball caps that read “Sasquatch Daddy” to hoodies with bears proudly roaring on them, Buzz makes the coziest gear to keep you warm all winter long, and also into those weird Spring months during which you’re either constantly sweating or constantly freezing. Oh, and you can totally repent for buying the Baby Jesus butt plug by buying some of ABetterBuzz’s stuff (try saying that 10 times fast), because $1 of every proceed of ABetterBuzz Brand Goods goes towards Lost ‘N Found Youth, which is a nonprofit organization dedicated to finding permanent housing for Atlanta’s LGBTQ youth.

Waterproof Illuminated Gaming Keyboard

This pretty, rainbow-hued gaming keyboard from Amazon is not just for gamers (what a deceptive name, 1STPLAYER, you sly dogs, you!) - it’s also “perfect for typists, programmers and writers” as well. Thank goodness for that, because the last game I played was Donkey Kong on NES, but I am a queer writer who loves pretty colors, hint hint WUSSY readers! The keyboard comes in different color options, has LED effects and a “breathing light effect” option on it, and is water-and-dust-proof (but the Amazon copyist made note not to put the keyboard under water, duh-doi). Honestly, I just want to whip this out at my favorite coffeeshop along with my desktop computer, and be that person, but combine it with being that gay person, and have a working-in-a-coffeeshop queer-ass dance party. I feel like it would get me free lattes, yes?

Charis Books & More

via Charis Books & More on Facebook

Charis Books & More sounds like something out of a Portlandia sketch, but it is actually your new favorite Atlanta-based independent feminist bookstore, located conveniently in Little Five Points! Adorable on the outside and inside, Charis Books specializes in “diverse and unique children’s books, Feminist and cultural studies books, and Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer fiction and non-fiction,” according to their website - so you’re sure to find your new favorite book for any member of your family! I can’t wait to have a Ladies Who Read Woke Literature Day with my kid and take her there to pick out a new book. If you go, tell ‘em WUSSY sent ya.

Politically Charged Phone Cases

We love anything by LookHuman, and this Black Lives Matter, Love is Love, etc. phone case is no exception. It’s sure to be a conversation starter no matter where you work and/or play - and as well it should be! Your SJW-ing shouldn’t only be for social media; get out there in the world and preach the good word of truth and acceptance, brothers and sisters.

Oh, and we also adore this sweatshirt and tote bag. You know what, just get us anything you think would look cute on us, which is obviously everything.

Buttlocks Lift Mask

Made by Unicorn, this product is known for putting the line on the map of gay men’s skincare. It was released in 2015, and is known for its superpower skin-firming, smoothing, and toning abilities. One of its best features is that it can be worn while lying down or standing up - how convenient! You could even get your butt mask on at work, or the gym, or the chiropractor, or make your boyfriend treat you to a spa day and get him to cater to you…

If you try it, take before and after pics, and send them to our assbox. That’s an inbox for ass pics.

Pansy Ass Ceramics

Holy hell, I need all of Pansy Ass Ceramics items and products in my house, in my car, in my life right now this very instance. Many of the products are handmade in their Toronto studio, and some of the ones you can mail to me for Hanukkah are: the Shady Boys with 22KT Gold Porcelain Girls with Fan, the Shady Girls with 22KT Gold Porcelain Girls with Fan, and/or this original ceramic Kunt plate.

The group’s official statement is that they “explore gay male identity and culture through the medium of porcelain and the act of ornamentation.” Damn, they fancy and cultured. Ya’ll get you some.

Gal-dem print issue

Via @GalDemZine on Twitter

Our very own Editor-in-Chief Jon Dean stated that he had a chance to flip through the print issue of gal-dem, and that it was “really good stuff!” And if Daddy Jon says it, it must be true. The gal-dem website is dedicated to all things diverse. The team is comprised of all-women and non-binary individuals of color, who started the magazine in September 2015. So, if you want to buy a copy of the print issue, you’re supporting a minority-owned, badass, well-written publication by a group of artists committed to fighting the good fight. Don’t you want to feel good about your holiday gift-buying decisions? Of course you do! Show these folx some love!

WUSSY merch

Would Oprah name-drop herself? We’re pretty sure she would, if she hasn’t. So, if it’s good enough for the Queen of Talk, it’s good enough for us. WUSSY has new sweatshirts and t-shirts for your wearing pleasure. They look amazing on anyone and everyone, and come in a variety of sexy colors.

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Anna Jones is a writer and producer currently based in Atlanta. She is the proud owner of digital copywriting agency Girl.Copy and independent film production company Tiny Park Productions. She loves a lot of stuff, but mainly: her husband, kid, and cat, writing and filmmaking, coffee and Diet Coke, millennial pink, sushi, gay stuff, and horror films.

How can I find a way to make you see I love you?
Words don’t come easy.

The lyrics to F.R. David’s classic 1982 synth pop song is the perfect distillation at the heart of  “Call Me By Your Name” and plays during one of the film’s pivotol love scenes. Directed by Luca Guadagnino, the filmmaker behind “I Am Love” and the upcoming “Suspiria” remake, CMBYN explores a temporary, sun-kissed romance and the obsessive nature of love and friendship. Following in the footsteps of “Moonlight” and “Pariah”, it’s the latest in a string of queer stories being told in the hands of competent directors.

An adaptation of the 2007 novel by André Aciman, “Call Me By Your Name” is the story of seventeen year old Elio’s summer of love spent “somewhere in northern Italy”. His family is joined by a fellow American, the much older and statuesque figure of adulthood, Oliver, his father’s latest intern. As their friendship grows, Elio (played by Timothee Chalamet) becomes obsessed with Oliver (played by Armie Hammer).

Guadagnino has crafted a near perfect queer romance. The film left me breathless from the jump, opening with a gorgeous title sequence layered with images of classic marble male figure. “...ageless beauty, as if they’re asking you to desire them” Elio’s father, a historian, remarks on these statues later in the story. These silent figures of desire and antiquity weigh over the rest of the film, mirroring the unspoken longing both Elio and Oliver feel through a majority of “Call Me By Your Name”.

In a film with no real antagonist, the film’s strength lies in the wordless, touchless tension building throughout the first half until the protagonists eventually come together. Chalamet and Hammer shine in the quiet moments and nuanced conversations, unable to say what they truly mean but somehow the audience understands. Unlike most mainstream gay films, these characters are not outwardly afraid of being assaulted, arrested, condemned to Hell, or thrown out of their homes by conservative family members. Their internal struggle lies in the inability to speak, to touch hands while walking the empty streets, or just to lie together for one night. It is refreshing to see a queer romance allowed to shine on film, unincombered by the usual cinematic tropes.

“Is it better to speak or to die?” Elio’s father (played by Michael Stuhlbarg in one of the film’s best performances), reads to Elio from “The Heptaméron”.

Once Elio does eventually confront his feelings, Oliver holds him off as long as possible. “We can’t talk about those kind of things,” Oliver remarks. The film perfectly captures the push and pull of a relationship with a clear expiration date. Elio is still only seventeen and living with his parents, and Oliver is only around for the summer.

There were a few stylistic choices with the sound design that jolted me out of the narrative, but otherwise the music and score were brilliantly handled by indie rock angel Sufjan Stevens and Japanese composer, Ryuichi Sakamoto.

I would be remiss if I didn’t bring up the film’s (and novel’s) most infamous scene: Elio fingering and fucking a ripe peach picked from the garden. The exquisite attention to detail, sounds of the juiced peach dripping and dribbling down Elio’s lips and chest give a tacticle quality to the scene. This scene is more erotic and emotionally layered than any overt sex scene could have ever been. Guadagnino clearly has a keen eye for the romantic and the absurd. In the film’s final moments, the camera lingers on Elio, fruit flies crawling up and down his arms. Emotionally bruised but still ripe and feeling, not wasted.

With delicate direction and expert performances by the films leads, "Call Me By Your Name" will go down as one of my favorite queer films of all time.

The Doom Generation, 1995

The 90’s were a clusterfuck. Generation X juxtaposed between commercialized individuality, guzzling cappuccinos like fascist Italy in combat boots underneath Gap ads and Nike signs. The cultural phenom of Prozac Nation romanticized bipolar babes while the robust Glamazon Supermodel of George Michael videos were replaced with "heroin chic" waifs. Kurt Cobain’s suicide note noted that being "too sensitive" was a curse. The grunge era cultural martyr of the 27 Club, misinterpretations marketed to the masses in his wake, followed by yuppies blaring Matchbox 20 and Goo Goo Dolls from car stereos in shopping mall parking lots.

1995, being the year that Creed formed, marked the downfall of "grunge", and goth counterculture resurged with industrial-influenced bands like My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult and glam hybrid Marilyn Manson. "Alternative" Pavement and Weezer moved from college radio to MTV, causing V-neck sweater shortages at thrift stores. Britpop rode the peacoat-tails of shoegaze, Liam Gallagher-Beatles-bitch humming Ride's "Vapour Trail". Meanwhile techno downed ecstasy with glow sticks and candy necklaces, props to its cooler cousin trip-hop and the magic that was Bjork. These genres would eventually find themselves rehashed by Tumblr "sea punks".

"Growing up too fast" was the prominent teen film theme from the 1950's juvenile delinquent and the graphic '90s version a la Larry Clark and Harmony Korine’s appropriately titled Kids smeared as “child pornography”. Combined with frequent nihilistic rantings and a disdain for “society”, though not bothering to act like the hippies parents before, 90’s youth easily adapted to a “life sucks then you die” stance, which is perhaps the basis of Gregg Araki’s "Teen Apocalypse Trilogy".

Totally Fucked Up, 1993

Totally Fucked Up (1993), Doom Generation (1995) and Nowhere (1997) all center around hunky James Duval whose acting career began by playing "this teenager who drinks Drano and kills himself… a dream come true". Not widely released, the indie circuit’s "rag-tag story of the fag-and-dyke teen underground, a cross between avant-garde experimental cinema and a queer John Hughes flick" explored the sincere but scathed hopeless romanticism of those who half hold hope yet attempt squash love anytime disappointment comes around.

Araki’s insistence that queer characters stay in the periphery (if not the focus) started with The Living End, an HIV-positive "gay Thelma and Louise" dissed as "pornographic shit" by an LA video dubbing company. The Living End was stronger and more symbolic in its apocalyptic absurdism than Totally Fucked Up, more similar to Doom Generation, but each Apocalypse film emphasized the diatribe of relationships and struggles of a larger group than the isolated singular self destructive relationship in Araki’s debut.

Totally Fucked Up was partly filmed on camcorder pre-Blair Witch, commenting on queerness in the transient haze between childhood and adult life. "Being gay in the ’90s is not just a matter of what you do when you have sex. It has to do with a whole outlook, your place in society, your feelings toward government, politics, culture. Because homophobia is so prevalent, it becomes ingrained in your personality on all levels,” Araki states. “I am in no way a spokesman for gay people, but being gay in a society like this totally affects my films. Being queer does put you outside or underground."

Totally Fucked Up, 1993

Relying on youth culture, promiscuous relations, low budget tricks and bold titled shots, it was clear Araki was highly influenced by Godard. Glimpses of characters’ psyches flash by UFO-style, dissolving into darkness, Araki’s disillusioned teen and their inner world an adventure in itself. Similar to Godard’s work, capitalistic entities overshadow settings where emotions erupt, showcased within the plastic commodity society has become. Regardless of the varied race, gender or class, TFU comments on what it is to be a queer on-the-edge ‘90s teenager with indirect but powerful philosophical statements about the imbalance between microcosm and macrocosm.

Araki expanded on Godard’s influence: "I originally wanted to do Totally Fucked Up as my sort of Masculin-Feminin, exploring the issues faced by gay/lesbian teenagers in a pretty hostile socio cultural climate (the days of the AIDS epidemic, homophobic a-holes like Lyndon Larouche, etc). Working and hanging out with a cast of nonprofessional actors who were all around 18-19 at the time inspired me to write the next two films, focusing on that subjective state of mind of being a teenager, having no idea what your future might hold, experiencing life as one big question mark.”

It was the cartoonish teen angst of The Doom Generation that gained Araki solidified popularity. Like The Living End’s fugitive road trip, an accidental string of slayings in bars, gas stations and drive-thrus confines three teens to motel rooms and abandoned warehouses with a script full of hilarious one-liners reflecting Teen Loserville’s twisted nature. James Duval is the gullible Jordan White, puppy-eyed for girlfriend Amy Blue (Rose McGowan) whose plethora of creative insults in “valley speak” and Anna Karina French New Wave fashion attracts a nihilistic third, Xavier Red (Johnathon Schaech), the antagonist whose arrival sets off a streak of freak accidents and bad luck.

The Doom Generation, 1995

This dark comedy binges on bizarre violence, but the story always reels back to the intense sexual tension between the triad. Doom Generation was the most accessible softcore ‘90s teens could access AND relate to. The sex scenes executed between Amy Blue and either Jordan or Xavier features close-up focus of their faces during orgasm, a signifier of Araki’s cinematic intimacy, and is touted as Araki’s "first heterosexual movie". Xavier Red confronts both Amy Blue's commitment to Jordan White while challenging the cracks in Jordan's seemingly straight facade. If Totally Fucked Up is Araki's Masculin Feminin then Doom Generation is Araki's Weekend.

Opening with Nine Inch Nails, perfect for pent-up bisexual boys with greasy hair, stupid tattoos, and black denim, the film’s softer scenes are sprinkled with shoegaze. Cocteau Twins and Slowdive are used in nearly every Araki film, his soundtracks a tool of emotive inflection. The end is tragic, cringe-worthy, trigger-intense, involving homophobic rednecks, setting a comparison to the consensual and safe exploration of the characters’ sexuality against an oppressive society that thrives off oppression and power.

Aptly described by David Moats in The Quietus: "To this day, The Doom Generation still seems to divide critics. For fans of B-movies and horror, it was a bit too pretentious and arty. For others it was a failed art film, too loose and shambolic to achieve its goals. For cineastes who prize things like 'plot points' and 'character development', it simply didn't compute. But for fans of similarly perverse mixes of high and low culture, and reckless genre mashups, it's an absolute masterpiece. Once you realise it's a movie about being a teen, it all makes perfect sense. For a hormonally charged adolescent, there's no middle ground: everything is either eye-wateringly boring or a matter of life and death. Everyone is against you and out to get you and no one understands."

Nowhere, 1997

Doom Generation's set designs were more robust than Araki’s previous and would serve as a precursor for the highly-stylized and final installation in the "Teen Apocalypse Trilogy", Nowhere. Raver culture takes over and Araki’s allegiance to his home base Los Angeles created the perfect bubble for kids to fuck and get fucked up morning, noon and night. Unlike the first two films, the enormous cast of characters in Nowhere creates an overwhelming amount of side plots yet somehow manages to flow as different characters and stories intertwine.

Nowhere is also outrageously 90s celeb filled: Ryan Philippe shoves a chocolate heart in Heather Graham's pussy eating her out in a convertible, Baywatch's Jaason Simmons is a TV heartthrob who brutally rapes the young idealistic Egg, many characters visit dominatrix duo Debi Mazar and Chiara Mastroianni, and John Ritter plays a crazed televangelist condemning and converting the "hopeless". Amongst dozens whose cultures vary between music, sexual kinks, drugs, eating disorders and political affiliation, Dark Smith (James Duvall) experiences disruptive visions of a reptilian with a ray gun, initially seen zapping away three valley girls (Shannen Doherty, Traci Lords and Rose McGowan).

Nowhere is ominous and Dark Smith's hallucinations foreshadows the apocalyptic mystery ahead, the only character aware of the horror that awaits while everyone remains obliviously nestled in their drama and drugs. Dark’s visions of a sweeter kind, an esoteric connection to a dreamy boy that leaves him longing for a gentle (and monogamous) relationship, against being one of many partners with his polyamorous main, Mel (Rachel True), is another conflict. Mel was the first character I recall expressing ideas about the emotional responsibility involved within polyamory, dividing her time between Dark and the grape-haired proto riot grrrl Lucifer (Kathleen Robertson).

Nowhere, 1997

While the aspect of craving monogamy exists in all three Araki "Teen Apocalypse" films, the director does not diss those that want poly relationships. Araki portrays intimacy equally both in the heat of hookups and the intensity of love but tends to judge neither party and shows how characters react and grow from these situations. Even though these movies are filled with comical interjections, cynical attitudes disassociating themselves from horrific or grotesque situations, Araki's films remain integral gems to "New Queer cinema".

20 year from the release of Nowhere, The Teen Apocalypse Trilogy is a 90s tome of queer youth culture ahead of its time. Can't Hardly Wait on ecstasy with alien takeover waiting in the wings, Nowhere was Araki’s strongest film to date at the time. With a knack for the coolest and most colorful B-movies focused on goofball teens immersed in corrupting counterculture, as a queer director with queer characters, Araki predicted not only fashion and drug use to come, but the sexual fluidity and gender expression we are familiar with today.

"Bisexual sounds to me like an old school scientific kind of category. I have always believed that sexuality is not really black and white, that it is a gray area. As time goes on, people become more open and fluid in terms of their views of sexuality,” Araki states. “The younger generation, their view is not really about labels and categories and declaring themselves. It is very unusual for an American movie to not have consequences because of the sex. As a middle aged adult, those experiences I had in college those made me who I am today. The things I learned about myself I still use to interact with people. They are an important part as your evolution as a person. I don’t think of them as titillating or even erotic. I find them fascinating."

Head over to our Spotify for some 90’s playlists and take our fun Buzzfeed 90s Queer Youth quiz

Growing up in the South has had many drawbacks for David Courtright.

As a musician with an honest heartfelt approach, Courtright’s project Suno Deko is a proclaimed “call to vulnerability, to living openly with love, fear, and free expression in a world that still prizes rigid notions of masculinity”. Coupled with a love for poetry and a lack of particularity about separating queer identity from his work, Suno Deko’s rich content and presentation, though pleasant, is in many ways radical. The music video for “Altar” is an example of unfiltered expression looming in an incandescently fairytale-esqe narrative and aesthetic. Visualized in a gauzy ether of cinematic storytelling, “Altar” is just one facet of the gorgeous web of musical magick Courtright has perfected in his craft.

Quite comparative to the regular populus of indie rock at large, especially regarding ATL’s macho garage scene, Suno Deko is a project that embraces depth and intimacy. Courtright’s connection to feminine energy and pansy princehood against the reactions of naysayers in the Southeast was both a hindrance and source of motivation. “It's easy to hate the South as a queer person,” Courtright says, an echo many a queer individual resonates with. “To feel your existence is so monitored and reviled, that the very narrow path of masculinity that is required, is so exhausting. In a lot of ways, that constraint caused a rebellion in me that I really value.”

With strong connections to the DIY communities of the Northeast, Courtright’s move to NYC in April 2016 was an intentional decision to connect to a stronger musical community in a more openly queer city. Born and raised in Decatur, GA, the crave for change persisted above the background noise of whispers throughout youth. “People are polite enough that they just glare at but don't openly assault you,” Courtright recalls. “You can stomp all over their dumb traditions and it feels empowering, but it is oppressive as fuck. That was sort of why I left. In other ways I belong to it, especially to the natural landscape. It feels like my job to reclaim that space.”

Courtright’s journey began with sax in high school, along with compulsively joining the drill team dance routines despite all the other boys’ laughter. His lean towards songwriting was solidified by the tell-tale of songwriters: being gifted a guitar on his 16th birthday. Teaching English in Thailand to get away from Wofford and small town Spartanburg, SC, the isolation of being abroad lended an opportunity to develop both in writing and technique. When Courtright returned to Atlanta and found himself collaborating in a band, his “real education” further surfaced. “I had accumulated all these tools and practices and felt ready to make the work I was dreaming in my head,” he says. “Now, this project has become such a valuable way to reclaim old parts of myself or rediscover things about myself I'd suppressed or tried to get away from because I was ridiculed for it.”

Music is a vehicle for many aspects of Courtright’s self, but most importantly, like any true poet, honors the heart: “Mainly songs come to me in times of emotional overflow. Moments of aloneness where an emotion is so powerful it needs to be channeled and transcribed into something tangible. That's such a gift of music for me, to create or observe and translate and record something that makes a new space in the world from something that is only a feeling. And that creation—a song—exists outside of me and outside of that feeling, and ultimately, will outlast my physical body, and that's such an amazing thing to know will exist beyond me.” Poignant sentiment that glimmers, glistens and swells to a bittersweet vibration, the earthy eagerness towards emotional expression is an intensity rarely well-done by Atlanta-bred musicians.

PHOTO: Tonje Thilesen

Suno Deko has roots in the Southeast always, though as a project has grown beyond the constraints of maps and relationships. Since Thrown Color, Suno Deko’s first EP in 2014, friends and comrades both near and far have witnessed a process of metamorphosis in personal and professional actualization, a beautiful thing indeed. And we’re in for more in 2018, according to Courtright, “The record I'm nearly finished writing is all heartbreak; brutal really, but also I feel some of the most crystalline and distilled work I've made. It's still in a formless state, but I think the next few months will bring a lot together with that.”

While relocations and romance are core counterparts that continue to inform Courtright’s work, the undercurrent of queer identity remains a solid space that Suno Deko draws from. “It's certainly the best time in history to be making queer work. Even despite the current political climate. There's more space than ever for marginalized voices, and more freedom for queer people than has ever existed in human history, so that still to me feels like something to celebrate,” says Courtright. “It's been amazing for me to be able to explore that very central part of myself—a queer person—in my work, and push my own boundaries and visual representations way more in that direction. There are so many incredibly talented queer people pushing the limits of what we've seen that it's really inspired me to take it deep into that territory, which of course exists in every part of myself.”
 

Suno Deko returns to the Earl, December 30th, accompanying the Dot.S release show, along with HALF | STATE, and Palmlines. Doors at 9PM. Entry $8.
 

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All Photos by Tonje Thilesen

Sunni Johnson is a writer, zinester, and musician based in Atlanta, GA. 

It feels disingenuous to write less than a novel about Bayard Rustin and call it his life’s story.

He was the chief architect of the 1963 March on Washington, integrated all-white labor unions, and helped streamline the logistics for activating non-violence into a formidable protest strategy in the mid-20th Century.

A sharp, intense, and glaringly brilliant man, Rustin had to balance his immense talent for organization and advocacy with the threat that if he were too visible, his homosexuality, pacifist draft-dodging during WWII, and youthful proximity to the Communist Party would be used by detractors to smear or discredit the Civil Rights Movement. Some of his contemporaries felt that respectability politics made him a liability to the causes he supported, so he worked in the background with little mainstream recognition, sidelined from textbooks and grade school discussions about heroes of the time.

Early Civil Rights Career and Arrests

Raised a Quaker by his NAACP Affiliated grandmother, Rustin was exposed to both a conviction for non-violence and a slew of revolutionary activists and thinkers at a young age, via house visits from figures such as Mary McLeod Bethune and W. E. B. Du Bois himself. He joined the Young Communists League while at university in the 1930s, then revoked his allegiance to it in 1941 when they dropped racial equality from their roster of priorities.

He worked as an organizer for the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) and the Fellowship of Reconciliation (FOR) in the early 1940s, then spent two years in prison as a conscientious objector refusing to fight in the second World War. He was imprisoned again on a grueling North Carolina chain gang with other members of CORE in 1947 after testing out a Supreme Court ruling which claimed to ban segregation laws on interstate travel. He would serve a third sixty day jail term in 1953 on ‘lewd vagrancy’ and moral indecency charges after being found having sex with two men in a parked car on a warm Pasadena night.

Organizing the March on Washington

James Baldwin and Bayard Rustin

After their correspondence during the Montgomery Bus Boycotts, Martin Luther King Jr. took on Rustin as a deeply intimate collaborator, friend, and invaluable advisor.

Despite virulent pushback from a minority of other leaders gathered in Harlem’s Roosevelt Hotel to discuss the inception of the March on Washington, Rustin was selected as the man to spearhead the organizational effort—so long as he stayed out of the limelight. He had decades of experience in organization, an undeniable mastery of mobilizing activists, and had traveled abroad to work with West African independence movements in the 1950s. Pulling dizzying hours in a rented out former Harlem church on the corner of West 130th and Lenox Avenue, Rustin was charged to pull together countless threads of logistics, communication, and organizational manpower in the span of two months.

Relationship to Queer Liberation

Bayard Rustin with his partner, Walter Naegle

A fantastically busy man constantly sidelined for potentially endangering the causes he championed the on basis of his sexuality, it’s not surprising that Bayard Rustin didn’t become a vocal gay rights activist until the 1980s.

While he was never ashamed of his orientation, according to his partner upon his death, Rustin did decline an invitation to be included in a book about the struggles of out black gay activists, because he felt that he didn’t contribute enough to gay rights while he was in the prime of his career in activism, and that he didn’t publicly ‘come out’ so much as was outed involuntarily in the semi-public eye.

In 1986, he testified on the behalf of a New York City queer civil liberties law, stating that at that point in his life and experience in human liberties, gay rights had become the new barometer for social change and progress.
 

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Mel Paisley is transmasculine author, illustrator, and general loudmouthed inkslinger based out of Savannah, GA. He writes a lot about pre-Stonewall herstory, schizophrenia, and being mixed and queer in the Deep South. (IG/Twitter: @melpaisleyart, melpaisleyart.com)

I, Tonya

I know we're all tired of talking about 2017—the year that mostly belonged in the garbage, or to queens Laura Dern and Cardi B.

Unlike Trump's first year in office, the year in cinema was full of surprises.

2017 was a great year for big and busty Blockbusters, with many of the top 10 grossing films being actual quality pictures. (Wonder Woman, Thor: Ragnarok, Logan, Star Wars: The Last Jedi) This may be due partly to the fact that talented auteurs are being given the chance to flex their cinematic muscles with these high-budget franchises and the trend doesn’t seem to be slowing down.

It was also a great year for queer cinema. The gays made waves with films like Call Me By Your Name, Thelma, Beach Rats, Battle of the Sexes, Beats Per Minute, and Tom of Finland (zZzz).

So now onto my personal Top 10 list. I'm no expert, so please let us know what we may have missed. And before you ask, I really hated Three Billboards, so don't ask me about that overhyped, sentimental turd. 

10. BLADE RUNNER 2049

In a year full of notable blockbusters, remakes, and sequels, it was tough to decide which one came out on top for me. Ultimately I was most moved by Blade Runner 2049, which is much better than the 1982 Ridley Scott original. Denis Villeneuve (Arrival, Sicario) helms this visually-stunning, longawaited sequel starring Ryan Gosling and Harrison Ford. It's like an extended Black Mirror episode on acid. 

9. GIRLS TRIP

Not only is Girls Trip the funniest film of the year, but I would argue it is one of the funniest films in the last decade. Tiffany Haddish steals the show as the bubbly Dina, who reunites with her three best friends for a vacation in New Orleans. Girls Trip is a celebration of friendship, with a little bit of gross out humor and a whole lot of black girl magic.

8. THE BEGUILED

Director Sofia Coppolla is back and better than ever in this lush Southern Gothic remake of the classic Clint Eastwood film. The Beguiled is about a wounded Union soldier who seeks refuge in an all-girl boarding school in the deep south. It’s an intensely erotic and disturbing fairy tale about power and female desire. Nicole Kidman, Kirsten Dunst, and Colin Farrell round out the powerhouse cast.

7. THE KILLING OF A SACRED DEER

Director Yorgos Lanthimos’ (Dogtooth, The Lobster) latest is a cinematic gut punch starring Colin Farrell and Nicole Kidman. The film is a psychological horror, but much like The Lobster, still maintains a sense of humor. Barry Keoghan gives a creepy, standout performance that carries Sacred Deer to horrific heights. It’s best to go into this one not knowing the premise. 

6. I, TONYA

Part white trash mockumentary, part made-for-tv-movie-realness, I Tonya takes a closer look into the fascinating rise and fall of two-time Olympic figure skater, Tonya Harding. The film ultimately wants you to root for the underdog in Tonya, while still painting her as a crass, complicated antiheroine. As someone who has been obsessed with this story since I was a lil baby gay, I was not disappointed.
 

5. GET OUT

Jordan Peele’s directorial debut is a revelation. Combining Hitchockian suspense and social critique, Peele has crafted a terrifying genre of racial horror. Get Out is about one black man’s (Daniel Kaluuya) trip to visit his white girlfriend’s (Allison Williams) family home. In a year full of disappointing horror and genre films, Get Out left a huge impression on me. Avoid spoilers and watching the trailer before seeing this one.

4. LADYBIRD

A nuanced and honest portrait of a mother/daughter relationship, written and directed by indie film favorite, Greta Gerwig. Ladybird is laced with humor and deep affection for its lead characters, played expertly by Saoirse Ronan and Laurie Metcalf. Gerwig’s directorial debut captures the complicated pangs of growing up, figuring out who you are, and the people who get hurt along the way. It feels reductive to call this the ‘feel-good film of the year’ but fuck it, Ladybird is the feel-good film of the year.

3. CALL ME BY YOUR NAME

Timothee Chalamet is transcendent as young Elio, a 17 year old American who begins an intense love affair with the 24 year old Oliver (Armie Hammer) over the course of one summer spent in Italy. With delicate direction and expert performances by the films leads, Call Me By Your Name will go down as one of my favorite queer films of all time. That final monologue by Elio’s father (played by Michael Stuhlbarg) had me WRECKED. Check out my full review here.
 

2. MOTHER!

Darren Aronofsky’s latest masterpiece is a gut-wrenching and provocative take on what it means to be an artist and creator. Dismissed by many critics and filmgoers who perhaps weren’t prepared for the often derogatory Biblical allegories, Mother! commits fully to it’s ambitiously creative structure. Love her or hate her, J-Law is electrifying in the leading role. Like any good piece of art, Mother! seered itself into my brain and refuses to quit taking up space.
 

1. The Florida Project

The last film that I saw from this list is incidentally my favorite. The Florida Project is the latest from Tangerine director Sean Baker—a deeply empathetic and moving portrait of childhood in the shadows of Orlando, Florida.  Seven year old star, Brooklynn Prince plays Moonee, a devious child living with her mother in a hotel just outside the world of Disney. The film is mostly without traditional narrative, allowing the child stars to flourish, play, and just get by from week to week—turning the streets into their own magical theme park. The Florida Project is shot beautifully, combining traditional camera work with the type of iPhone shots that we saw in Tangerine. Both hilarious and heartbreaking, Baker's latest depicts a specific time and place in America's landscape, without ever exploiting or romanticizing its subjects or location. 

Honorable Mentions

Lady Macbeth, The Shape of Water, Personal Shopper, The Other Side of Hope, Good Time, Thor Ragnarok, Atomic Blonde, Dunkirk, I Am Not Your Negro, Wonder Woman

Photo courtesy of Dad's Garage

I first learned about Dad’s Garage living on the West Coast. I was doing a play called 44 Plays for 44 Presidents, directed by theatre veteran Amanda Sox. We had a limited budget, but managed to scrape together a lively, entertaining show with an all-female cast playing the all-male 44 presidential roles. The play was written by Andy Bayiates, Sean Benjamin, Genevra Gallo-Bayiates, Chloe Johnston and Karen Weinberg, and premiered as a Neo-Futurists of Chicago show in 2002 (back when there were only 43 presidents, hence its original name being 43 Plays for 43 Presidents). Soon after, it was produced at Dad’s Garage, where President Jimmy Carter came to see it.

My castmates and our director talked quite a bit about the fame of Dad’s Garage in Atlanta, and I told myself that if I ever moved back home to Georgia, I would be sure to take improv classes there. And this Winter 2017, I finally did, having been granted a diversity scholarship as a queer, female, Jewish performer. That is one of the missions of this non-profit theatre: to encourage members of the LGBTQ+ community, people of color, women or female-identifying folx, and any other marginalized groups to participate in improv. It makes sense, too - to me, improv is therapeutic as well as a fun hobby or an asset in my career as a performer. Now, it’s also turning into a full-time job, with my role as a co-founder of Atlanta’s first all-queer comedy variety show, Queeriety, helmed by creator Nick DeGroote.

The role that the arts plays has grown significantly, especially in the era of Trump, and it’s refreshing to see companies like Dad’s confront political maelstroms with humor, grace, and initiatives that promote change in an industry that is primarily white male-dominated, adhering to a boy’s club mentality.

I had the privilege of interviewing Director of Education and Associate Artistic Director, Ed Morgan, on Dad’s Garage push for diversity in their classes, shows, and events and why it’s made Dad’s even funnier than ever:

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Hi, Ed! Tell me a bit about the history of Dad's - who you are, who Dad's is, what was your initial mission starting out, and how has that changed in regards to diversity initiatives and efforts?

Hello! Well, I’ve only been the Associate Artistic/ Education Director of Dad’s for coming up on two years now, but I’ve been hanging around this place since I saw my first show in 2005, I think. The company itself got started in 1995 when a group of improvisers from FSU decided they wanted to start a theatre and picked Atlanta as the place to settle down. We’re a nonprofit organization and perform both improvised and scripted live theatre with a mission of “transforming people, communities, and perspectives through laughter.” Diversity is something that we’ve always agreed is important, but for a while, we just didn’t do anything particularly proactive about it. I think a lot of places are like that, and are starting to realize you can’t just sit around saying, “Man, I sure hope our company gets more diverse.” You have to make an effort.

Are there any inciting incidents that warranted Dad's Garage wanting to start diversity initiatives?

Not really. We have been working on this for a long time, but eventually we just decided it wasn’t enough, as a lack of diversity on stage continues to be too common in the improv world. So, we started talking a lot about what we could do to improve that, and we started making moves to try and get the experience of improv out to more communities and artists whose voices are under-represented in our particular art form.
 

How have you seen the theatre change since implementing programs, like the diversity scholarship? Have you had any pushback in the community?

The changes around here have been great! We’ve had a lot of success with the scholarship program in our classes. It’s led to a really noticeable change in the makeup of the group on our student show nights. We’ve also started doing monthly shows to give some stage time to improv groups that come from underrepresented groups, and they’re always packed. Plus, we’ve met some amazing improvisers who might not have ever been able to take a class. As far as the community, no, we haven’t noticed any pushback. I hope everyone sees how well it’s working for us and follows suit! I think some people are afraid that focusing on diversity leads to an overly-PC atmosphere that somehow lessens the comedy, or having to hire people who aren’t as good just to hit quotas or whatever, but it’s just not the case. Our scenes exploring sensitive subjects have gotten better as a result. You can do a lot on stage when it’s not a bunch of “Group A” ripping on “Group B” without them having a chance to show their perspective on the situation.

What are your plans to grow diversity efforts at Dad's for the future?

You know, that’s a good question. We’re going to keep focusing on adding more voices to our performing company for sure, but it’s not just about getting people on our stage. We want the improv community as a whole to benefit from this, and to me that means looking at ways to get more people from more different backgrounds learning improv skills. And that’s just my department; every part of Dad’s right now is making diversity a priority, and it’s only gonna get better.

Plug time! Any upcoming shows you'd recommend to our readers?

Oh boy, we have so many. We run shows every Thursday, Friday and Saturday at 8 and 10:30pm - it’s always changing up, so just check out dadsgarage.com to see what’s on on any given night.  

To sign up for improv classes, visit this link, and to apply for the Dad’s Garage Diversity Scholarship, get thee to this one. Yes, and!
 

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Anna Jones is a writer and producer currently based in Atlanta. She is the proud owner of digital copywriting agency Girl.Copy and independent film production company Tiny Park Productions. She loves a lot of stuff, but mainly: her husband, kid, and cat, writing and filmmaking, coffee and Diet Coke, millennial pink, sushi, gay stuff, and horror films.

Work by Curtis Bryant

In a landscape that is rapidly redeveloping, Atlanta’s queer culture continues to take root despite the harsh political climate burdened upon us both nationally and locally. From Midtown’s baby steps in representation and approaches to art, to the growth of prime underground queer event organizers like Morph and Southern Fried Queer Pride, queer ATL continues to show that opposition only motivates communities towards transformative change. In theory, we could have a list for each category or career, but also evolving is the fact that Atlanta’s queers no longer tend to specialize in one medium.

For now, here are 10 individuals and groups worth watching in 2018 that are adding their craft, dialogue and creativity to our ever changing Southeastern Emerald City.  

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BLAMMO

Blammo began as a simple idea between friends hanging outside a Lumpy show. With a mutual love for cool contemporaries like Palberta and Grass Widow, members Sarah (bass+vox), Mariam (drums) and Tyler (guitarist, also frontperson of Mutual Jerk) solidified themselves as “a real band” after stuffy neighbors complained and they acquired a practice space. “It is a hat trick: a Repo Man reference, a Ren and Stimpy reference (it's Log!), and a reference to a zine,” Mariam says of their name. “A Slacker reference too!”, Tyler includes. Sarah describes the band as “bass-driven slacker booty-punk with hyena vocals”, but everyone agrees their influences heavily lean on lady-fronted post-punk of the past such as Delta 5, Kleenex, Suburban Lawns, and The Slits. Having played two shows thus far, Blammo will be performing February 3rd at 529 and later that month for a special WUSSY event TBA. With plans to play lots of rad shows with friends, make new songs and demos, and be revivalist P.U.N.K. badasses (while Mariam finishes up their PhD!), Blammo are predicted to be the DIY darlings the ATL music scene definitely needs.

QUEERIETY

In the rich roarious comedy scene, ATL’s first all-queer improv team, Queeriety, officially formed in summer 2017 when founder Nick DeGroote met with fellow Village Theatre volunteer Anna Jones to hash out an idea he’d been brewing. Now more classified as a variety comedy group, Assistant Director Jones affirms, “We've expanded into being so much more. What remains the same is that our talent all identify as LGBTQ+. When I've talked to folks about us, I've received similar responses of surprise that this hasn't happened in Atlanta before! We're honored to be a part of the changing, vibrant landscape here, and to provide a safe outlet for queer performers and the community at large.” Recently collaborating with WUSSY for another sold out Queer Drunk History, playing on Freddie Mercury, Sylvia Rivera and Lady Chablis, the next edition in June 2018 is in the planning. You can also find Queeriety regularly performing at Dad's Garage monthly Melting Pot which includes an all-Latinx and an all-Black comedy troupe.

MOLLY RIMSWELL

Crowned Miss Glitz! 2017, the brash buxom bearded Molly Rimswell has kept busy between AMEN!, Pride weekend and hosting packed-TF-out Glitz events every third Thursday at Mary’s. Sparked by pure inspiration after becoming mesmerized by Evah Destruction and Brigitte Bidet’s combination of beauty, wit, and humor at The Other Show, with the aid of two drag sisters, the crass and kooky Molly Rimswell was created. “I started with tulle....a lot of tulle, but I love all things flowy and that have a natural movement. I don't have fashion sense. I just want to be visually assaulting to the audience,” a modest Miss Molly fondly recalls. “Chyna White taught me how to use the thing they call makeup in her dirty bathroom while she chain smoked. Taylor Alxndr taught me how to work for what I wanted in this career, that sometimes you have to make your own way.” Seamlessly deviating between divine bitch, batshit crazy, endearingly goofy, and Fairy Godmother matron, Molly’s animated insanity has branded her with a certain star quality within the art drag community you’ll definitely be seeing a lot of in the upcoming year.   

OYE!

OYE Fest was founded by Terminal West veteran Margarita Rios, Living Wall’s founder Monica Campana and DJ/producer Randall Ruiz to “promote and celebrate the rich diversity present in our Latinx community through music and the arts…. connecting arts to social awareness... honor the history and culture that is shaping the creative, visionary, and resilient identity of the Latinx community today”. Margarita and Randall’s friendship growing up OTP was a bonding experience that strengthened their aim to create stronger spaces. “Gwinnett went from being one of the whitest counties in Georgia to one of the most diverse in what seemed like overnight. You can now find mosques, Hindu temples, Dominican barber shops, and Korean karaokes all over. This growth in demographics led to the Underground Peachtree Latino Festival, which was the first of its kind in Atlanta”, Margarita explains. When Randall and Monica came together as original members of La Choloteca and were further inspired by Chicago’s Ruido festival, the trio were driven to organize a larger format event space that combined their past achievements and create more opportunities for community connection. With three events under their belt in 2017, their last featuring LA’s Cuco, queer punk band Bitter and DJ Esme (check the video recap), the organization’s robust plans for 2018 include many upcoming events. Keep up with announcements via their Facebook page.    

DEVYN SPRINGER

There aren’t many ATL queers under the age of 25 that have accomplished as much as Devyn Springer has. A multidisciplinary artist, Devyn is a performer, a photographer, and a curator, who presented a powerful prose and print installation series at Wonderroot mid-2017. Devyn’s incredibly strong suit in writing and curating, as Editor In Chief of the badass social justice blog, Offtharecord, which publishes personal accounts of unequal access to essays on feminist theory, is just a small part of this independent spirit’s curricula vitae. A regular contributor to Afropunk and Wear Your Voice, Devyn’s frequent and authentic content, whether it be political, historical, educational, prose or all of the above, never skips a beat. "My identity is almost inextricable from my work, whether by choice or inherently. When I create, I create from the context of what I know: Blackness, queerness, my Muslim identity, and my relation to class,” Devyn states. “I'm working on starting my own digital publication in 2018 that caters to Black, PoC, Indigenous, TLGBQ, and immigrant voices.” Be on the lookout for Devyn’s next step in journalism and in the meantime, check out Devyn’s writings on abuse in queer relationships; Black-Palestinian solidarity; aesthetics, culture and identity; and order Devyn’s print collection, Grayish-Black, on Amazon.

CURTIS BRYANT

Like so many, “nue creative” Curtis Bryant had an intense 2017. Perhaps it was his Saturn return, or being barraged by the same faces, or having lived in the same apartment in NY all his life… until now. For whatever reason, the urge that propulsed him to ATL found him sitting in a city that unfolded in unexpected ways, altering his approach to creating:  “Funny enough, I use to be inspired by others and even though that still happens, recently I’ve been way more inspired by myself. Becoming my own muse is new for me but super liberating at the same time.” Known for his crisp visuals, photographing everything from street fashion to underground musicians and designing innovative graphics or short films examining race, Curtis’ new path brought forward by a small network in ATL has led him to discovering family and a fresh outlook on opportunities in the short two months he has been here. Curtis’ collaboration with Phillip-Michael and Pow Jones can be found in Wussy’s Queer Sex issue debuting at ATL Contemporary January 25th. Be sure to follow his Instagram and blog for more content.

 

RIGEL GEMINI

Lifestyle blogging is often assumed a hetero ladies’ game of carefully curated fashion, beauty, self-care, and so on, but listen up, blogger bitches! Rigel Gemini is a strong contender, bringing a queer eye of streamlined LA looks and SF tech savvy to the American blogosphere. Though no longer on the West Coast after careful consideration of many other warmer-climate destinations, super sweet Rigel and artist hubby Cameron Lee are new ATLiens and instantly fell in love with the city’s offerings. Even with a background of growing up in a solar and wind-milled powered house in rural NH, My Little Pony lunch box in tow, at first glance Georgia didn’t seem to be the move. “Coming from New England, I had a limited concept of The South, and Atlanta struck me as cosmopolitan and exciting. It has an authentic, raw spirit,” Rigel says of his first visits. With 66.9K followers on Instagram, Rigel’s strong passion for design ranges from fashion to technological has strengthened him into a full-time Influencer, Blogger, and Digital Strategist, a welcome addition to the young creative circuit in Atlanta and definitely worthy of a subscribe.

MELANIE PAULOS

As singer, songwriter and guitarist for Chick Wallace, Melanie Paulos’ slight leaning toward 90’s grunge with a 70’s country twang surfs a most wistful wave of garage hooks. Releasing a solid EP in November, Paulos and partner-in-crime drummer Max Boydston consistently deliver live either as a two-piece or with the accompaniment of Josh Pringle and Alex Glick, and will be playing next at SFQP’s Sweet Tea January 20th. Paulos’ zest for non-stop creation also includes thought-provoking visual art often inspired by philosophical texts. Paulos’ connects the personal to the political demonstrated via installation (her real jam) at the upcoming Served Soft opening alongside the works of Xan Violet, a day before Sweet Tea. “I created ‘Beware of Bearing Gifts’ after I had been fired or taken off jobs in the creative field for not wanting to pursue romantic involvement with the folks who hired or were managing me. It made me feel like I had no protection, no say because I was predominately freelancing,” says Paulos. “I made the piece for anyone who has ever felt outside pressures to have intimate (whether they be sexual or emotional) relations with someone else based on a ‘Trojan horse’ that the receiving party has put forward, whether it's someone dating a 28 year old at 17 or Trans folk experiencing fetishization.”

LA RICO

La Rico Potts is an androgynous vixen who puts performer standards regarding presentation both in performance and dress in the crosshairs. Noting that one of his favorite standouts of 2017 was ICON: A Celebration of Beyonce, LaRico is not lying when he says “entertaining is what I love”. The ICON events are just one of many Midtown soirees in which the trained dancer and choreographer has risen the vibrations of the room to transcendent triumphal heights. Past events include leading the high-heeled high-octane SugarBoyz, Powder Room with RuGirl Peppermint, Gawd Save the Queen with Pearl, Glitz and Mighty Real to name a few. ATL audiences beware and be ready to get amped! The delightful unstoppable energy of LaRico will be glorious in 2018 as LaRico never fails to produce propelling performances, sometimes resulting in injury, a labor of love for this magickal maven of movement. We’d be surprised if promoters aren’t fighting for bookings over the next year.  

BRIAN ROJAS

In 2016, Brian Rojas had no idea he would become a DJ. After approaching Vicki Powell for mentorship on a whim, Rojas was quickly learning the ropes under Powell’s wing who happily inducted him into the Deep South DJ family. As both a queer and Latinx DJ, Rojas’ growth process in becoming established in a short period of time has been a personally liberating journey. “Being a new QPOC DJ to the scene, I was floored with emotion at the reception and opportunities provided for involvement and participation,” Rojas explains. “Anytime I go out, I want to represent myself and my roots with pride. I hope other people like myself (Latinx/Latin American) are inspired when they see brown people doing their thing, throwing and hosting queer parties.” Ringing in the New Year at Perreo Changa: Cholo-Wussy-teca and releasing his first official mix on Soundcloud shortly thereafter, the upcoming Deep South Horse Meat Disco at Heretic February 17th is a guaranteed good time.

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Sunni Johnson is a writer, zinester, and musician based in Atlanta, GA. 

In the past year, Queer ATL has seen growth in local charities and in local politics. Not all moments impacting LGBT+ Atlanteans have been positive, as we have mourned the loss of queer activists and queer businesses this year. Still, many celebrations of pride were held throughout the year, and multiple hometown drag performers recently moved onto the world stage. 

2017 was a big year for queer people in the Atlanta area, and here are the top reasons why, in no particular order:

Indigenous House 7 Celebration

This event comes every year, but is important to include because it doesn't seem to receive the same attention as other annual events like Pride, Black Pride and the Peach Party.

The Indigenous House 7 Celebration took place for 10 hours on Sunday May 21. The event is a celebration of house music and Black LGBT+ culture, including guest speakers and lots of dancing. John Dennis, founder of Indigenous House, told the Georgia Voice that “ I try to really stress on being inclusive of everyone, which most events – especially the club scene – doesn’t offer.”

Scout Schultz Killed by Georgia Tech Police

Scout Schultz was the President of the Pride Alliance at Georgia Tech. In an emotional statement released on the Pride Alliance Facebook page members declared their love for Scout and briefly discussed the positive changes that Scout made. The statement was made on September 17, the day following the fatal shooting.

The shooting caused outrage, as the police used lethal force on Schultz, who was carrying a multipurpose tool. “Why didn’t they use some non lethal force, like pepper spray or Tasers?” Lynne Schultz, Scout’s mom,  sain in an interview with The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.  

The event caused protests that occured the following few days, resulting in a police car being set on fire on September 19, according to the Washington Post.

Nina Bonina Brown on Drag Race

Nina Bonina Osama-Bin-Laden Brown’s time on Drag Race was tainted with drama, but its important to not let that overshadow her immense talent. Despite appearing to be in her head during much of the competition, she came sixth place. There is no doubt to the question of Brown’s talent and we can't wait to see what she does next.

I mean, have you seen her Instagram?

Liliana Bakhtiari runs for Atlanta City Council

Photo: Jon Dean

Liliana Bakhtiari's campaign for City Council District 5 has opened many queer citizens to the realm of local politics, introducing them to the increasingly evident power and influence local offices hold, especially with Atlanta City Council decriminalizing marijuana earlier this year.

While Bakhtiari eventually lost, it was only by 2% of the vote, and her campaign was extremely successful in a multitude of ways, even managing to gain national attention.

Atlanta will undoubtedly be watching for Bakhtiari and more queer voices in local politics. 

Abhora and Biqtch Puddin' on Dragula

-Warning: Spoilers ahead-

Abhora slayed from day one in the competition, turning out sickeningly unique looks that can only be described as abhorrent. Bringing her signature style and delicious drama, she quickly solidified her place as a key competitor. Abhora showed her humanity and strength as she fought through personal issues. She made it to the top four, landing the spot with a performance that caused a direct contrast in the opinion of the judges. Having made it to the top four, it’s clear that this super monster's creativity knows no bounds.

Biqtch got off to a rocky start, landing her in the bottom and in some serious drama. Biqtch had a lot to prove, and she did exactly that by outwitting her competitors. She has since snatched wins and worked her way up to the top three, quickly becoming a fan and judge favorite alike. For those of us that have seen Biqtch preform and know what she's capable of, it has been validating to see her rewarded on a national level.  

You can the next episode of Dragula here on January 9.

Jungle Closes Their Doors

After 13 years of serving our community, Jungle was forced to shut its doors on Saturday November 11. This loss will be felt by regular patrons and performers, as well as queer people between 18 and 21, as Jungle was one of the only gay bars that took patrons under 21. Jungle was well known for the many events it hosted over the years—The Other Show was held at Jungle for years, helping launch the careers of many Atlanta Queens, perhaps most notably Violet Chachki, season seven winner of RuPaul's Drag Race.   

Barry Lee's How Nice exhibit at Murmur

Local artist Barry Lee debuted his How Nice exhibit on Saturday, July 29 at Murmur. His art showcases his experiences as a bisexual with disabilities and can be described as really personal, and really pink. Barry stepped outside his usual style to depict the reality of life in his shoes. Barry discussed his exhibit and the importance of representation and respect in the bisexual and disability communities in an interview with WUSSY.  

Rally to Support the Atlanta Trans Community

A march to support the Atlanta transgender community was held Saturday, July 29. The event was organized by Rainbros to raise awareness about issues facing the trans community, specifically in response to President Trump's attack on transgender troops. Organizers created a GoFundMe page to raise money for local trans organizations, like The Trans Atlanta Housing Program, The Transgender Health Education Alliance and Transgender Individuals Living Their Truths. They have reached $6.5 thousand out of their $20 thousand goal; you can still donate here.

Lost-n-Found Youth opens second thrift store

Lost-n-Found Youth, an Atlanta based charity serving local homeless queer youth, opened a new thrift store in Norcross on May 1. The store is reliant on donations from the public, and all proceeds go to Lost-n-Found, where they are used to provide critical services to members of our homeless queer population, according to Lost-n-Found’s press release.

Rainbow Crosswalks at 10th and Piedmont Become Permanent

On June 12, the one year anniversary of the Pulse nightclub shooting in Orlando, Atlanta Mayor Kasim Reed paid homage to the victims and to Atlanta's own Queer citizens by announcing the news, according to the AJC. This decision became controversial when the city released the budget of the project, revealing that the installation cost $196 thousand, again according to the AJC, who also report that the crosswalks are only expected to last 10 years. Many local queers are left to wonder, why not have used the money to help the LGBT+ money in more relevant ways, like helping house and feed local homeless youth?

Since the news of the net neutrality repeal hit the blogosphere, I’ve seen think piece after think piece about how open access to the web is vital to queer life. This point underlines both the broad importance of net neutrality and how much the internet—with its radiant array of chat rooms and forums and other newfangled communications—forever changed how queer people interact and organize. For those of us who came of age in a time before AOL or Myspace, finding the words, resources, and communities we needed to understand our queerness could seem like an impossibility—especially in the rural South. After chat rooms, social media, and other kinds of virtual communication technologies erupted into reality, many queer people found within them a way to communicate with other people who shared their experiences for the first time. Teens who were struggling with dysphoria or trying to conceal same-gender crushes on their classmates connected with mentors who introduced them to the lexicon of queer experience: Gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, questioning, queer. In the glowering blue of the computer screen, new worlds materialized.

Fortified with the power to create custom screennames and homemade avatars, queers both young and old found that, online, they could begin to play with identities that had seemed fixed in the real world. They named themselves and remade themselves. They shared stories and doled out support. They founded communities and introduced new forms of slang. Hell, they even virtually dated—a practice that has become continually essential to queer love as more and more of us ditch gay bars in favor of tidy and convenient virtual correspondences. What the internet heralded was revolutionary and, for some, a cause for celebration. But the changes were also precarious, and not everyone welcomed them.

Before the internet, queer people had myriad methods of finding and connecting with one another. Once virtual communication took off, it seemed like older forms of connection were dying out. So much of the gay liberation movement had been built on pen and paper. Here in Southwest Virginia, gay activists in the 70s and 80s spent long hours creating mailing lists and newsletters that were meant to bring disparate queer communities together. The newsletters were a labor of love: filled with biting editorials, comics about the wretchedness of Reagan or the vindictive Christianity of Falwell, and jokes about local attractions and popular culture. In an oral history interview, a gay woman from Roanoke describes the work her and other lesbians put into their newsletter Skip Two Periods as a reflection of “how we presented ourselves to the world.” It was more than a slip of paper that circulated around a small group of insiders—it was a microcosm of what it meant to be queer in a particular place, at a particular time, with a particular community.

SW Virginia History Project's digital archives

Newsletters were used primarily by activist groups; individual queers and underground collectives had other ways of communicating. In the 80s and 90s, some produced zines—DIY, self-published magazines. Zines—cheap and easily distributable—brought LGBTQ art, politics, and perspectives into the hands of diverse audiences. Each zine was singular, powerful, and—like the newsletters that came before it—often representative of a particular place, time, and community. In the 21st century, when social media became more quotidian, some of these Zines were archived in places like the QZAP Zine Archive. Likewise, old LGBT Newsletters were also archived on the web. The Southwest Virginia LGBTQ History Project is in the process of digitizing Southwest Virginia’s historical gay newsletters, like Skip Two Periods, in an online repository that can be accessed by anyone around the world. Indeed, online digitization can serve to democratize information—giving those who may have never stumbled across (or been able to publicly engage with) a zine or newsletter access to thousands of such publications instantly. Considering the innumerable queers who were too rural or poor or otherwise marginalized to claim a material community, this ease of access is a major boon—one that could bring more people together.

On the other hand, the popularity of virtual communities and artifacts can erode physical queer space and physical queer organizations. During the internet’s beginnings, many feared that virtual reality would subsume actual reality. Now, deep in the age of virtuality, we know that the internet has profoundly affected the way we see the world and ourselves. This effect is not intangible—what we do online echoes in real space and time. “Queer community” means something different now than it did thirty years ago. Distinct gay spaces and gayborhoods have withered away, in part because more queer families are mainstreaming and achieving “homonormativity,” but also because of emerging virtual queer communities that transcend geographical closeness.

Via Queer Zine Archive

Via Queer Zine Archive

The work of queer activist organizations has also transformed online. In the 1970s, for example, one of Roanoke’s earliest gay activist groups, The Free Alliance of Individual Rights, was founded in a single apartment complex by a ground of friends. Their membership was small, and their visibility limited. Now, The Southwest Virginia LGBTQ History Project—also based in Roanoke—uses Facebook and Instagram to connect with hundreds of people, some local—some national and international. As queer activists living in the South, the increased visibility we’ve achieved online has given us much needed allies, but it has also made our initiatives more complex. A broader, more diverse community at our fingertips means we must continually work to build bridges and unite audiences for collective action—but what “collective action” amounts to in virtual spaces is fuzzy at best. In social media’s point and click culture, keeping people’s attention and stoking their passion is difficult. Plus, increased visibility can lead to increased hostility. As we work to build coalitions, jingoistic factions like “the alt-right” work just as hard to make virtual reality as violent and inequitable as actual reality.

For everything the internet has given to queer people, it has also challenged us—our histories, our communities, our sense of self. Whether the good outweighs the bad is too simplistic a question—technology is here to stay. It will continue to revolutionize the way we live, and that’s why it is so essential that we all have affordable, open access to it—full stop. The task at hand for queer activists and community builders is figuring out how to use the internet holistically, equitably, and creatively—minimizing consternation and maximizing radical potential. Many of us also seek to establish a balance between virtual connection and real-world impact. A combination of online and face-to-face tactics seems necessary to confront a world reeling from rapid change.

This past year, I tried my hand at publishing a queer history and activism themed Zine—the first of its kind in Southwest Virginia, as far as I know. I remember sitting in my favorite local coffee shop, picking up the print version and feeling its slight weight in my hands. The realness of it sitting on a bookshelf, taking up space in the same world that my body lived in seemed holy to me. I imagined people stumbling across it by accident, and the unfiltered surprise or delight or confusion or anger that would follow. Its physical existence is inherently confrontational, and that makes it powerful. The following week, I mailed a copy of the Zine to Alaska—an old community member that had moved away long ago read about it online, and wanted a copy for herself, some 3000 miles away in a place entirely alien to me. That felt powerful, too.

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RM Barton is a writer and activist living in Roanoke, Virginia. Originally from Maryland, she moved to Southwest Virginia for school some five years ago, and has since become invested in queering southern space. She is the co-lead of The Southwest Virginia LGBTQ History Project and the publisher of The Southwest Virginia LGBTQ History Project Zine, which aims to illuminate queer history through queer art and storytelling. She blogs at rmbartonblog.wordpress.com

Photo: Alex Franco

As is the misfortune of any American living abroad, I am the frequent recipient of questions about American politics. Despite teaching English, my students seem convinced of my political acumen, but as long as the conversation happens in the target language, I don’t mind too much.

The day after Trump proposed moving the US embassy to Jerusalem (a woefully shortsighted political play, which merits an article in and of itself) the euphoria in my small, southern Israeli town was palpable. The residents of Mitzpe praised the move as everything from “long overdue” to “biblically prophesized”, and generally saw it as nothing but positive. Trump, already beloved for his seemingly bullish stance on Israel, was heralded as a hero. With great enthusiasm my students asked me, “Alex, you love Trump?” It was with more than a little surprise that they received my emphatic NO. “But why,” they lamented, “he is so good!” As best I could with language they could understand, I explained how Trump’s policies hurt many people I loved, myself included, and why I disagreed with him. “So you love Obama?” they countered, believing one to naturally follow the other. I told them that, yes, I did, but before I could expand upon why, the student in question huffed out an exasperated breath, waved me off, and said, “Obama is just a n****r”.

This wasn’t the first time I’d heard an Israeli—student or otherwise—use the n-word. Though rarely employed as a pejorative (I heard it most often employed as a term of endearment between friends) any use of the term by a  non-POC, I would argue, is reprehensible. Struggling to contain my frustration, I endeavored to explain to my student why what he’d said was not only unacceptable, but highly offensive. He listened with the same, glass-eyed stare most commonly seen when going over the finer points of present perfect progressive. Try as I might, I simply could not convey to him the magnitude of African Americans’ suffering and why there was no acceptable use of that word by someone who isn’t black. The cultural gap appeared too large to bridge.

The issue is not contained simply to racial slurs either. While grading papers, a coworker remarked that one of his students, while describing an imagined trip to Thailand, had used an insulting epithet for trans women. Laughing, he shook his head, saying, “well someone needs to have a talk with the principal.” I agreed, but for completely different reasons. My coworker believed that sex was a topic ill-suited to school, while I found the flagrant use of transphobic language repulsive. Once again, I stressed the issue to my coworker, and while he seemed to understand in the abstract, the linguistic divide offered a sort of absolution. Yes, what the student had said was wrong, but he’d said it in English, which made it, if not okay, than at least less bad. I could not help but wonder about his reaction if the situation were reversed, and I were to say something offensive in Hebrew—I imagined he would be far less accepting.

Unfortunately, foreigners are not the sole perpetuators of offensive language. Back at the end of November, Dominic Sherwood, of Shadowhunters fame, was caught on Facebook Live calling his coworker Matthew Daddario (who plays canonically gay Alex Lightwood) “fag.” From the short clip, Sherwood’s intention doesn’t appear malicious, but more in line with the sort of bro-ish comradery that enjoys flinging inflammatory slurs. In response, Daddario warns him that they’re live, and the video cuts out shortly thereafter. That same day, Sherwood uploaded a tone-deaf apology to Instagram, lamenting his use of language that “perpetuates negativity and hate and intolerance.” While claiming the incident as a one-off, such behavior is learned and practice. One can only be led to wonder how much we don’t hear when the cameras aren’t rolling.

Photo: Alex Franco

It comes with no surprise and little fanfare that I abhor the use of any derogatory term when it’s wielded against the community it seeks to name. But what about us faggots? Can we say it, and if so, when? Should we only refer to ourselves as faggots—allowing our fellow queers to decide for themselves—or do we have carte blanche to apply it liberally to our brothers? And what of our beloved divas? Are they exempt? One need only look at the bevy of mixed reactions following Ariana Grande’s “faggots make some noise” to see that the issue divides us.

I am neither the first, nor, I imagine, the last to wrestle with this question. Youtuber Michael Henry posted a video this summer asking the very same thing, and any number of queer thinkers have pondered the relative merits of reclaiming faggot. As with any issue, both sides posit valid arguments: on the one hand, the word has been used pejoratively for centuries, and reopening those wounds could stunt many queers’ much needed healing, while on the other hand, by claiming faggot as our own, we can defang it and celebrate, not what the word meant, but what it has come to mean for us.

To understand what we are undertaking, we must travel back to the word’s origin. Louis CK, when not forcibly masturbating in front of unsuspecting women, included a poignant scene in the first season of his television show Louie where his friend explains the (false) history of the word, attributing it to the faggots, or bundle of woods, used to light bonfires, onto which queers were thrown. The truth is that women, tasked with gathering the sticks for the bundles, were called “faggot gatherers”, and the term shifted to describe effeminate men as well. “Gatherers” was eventually dropped to give us faggot, which has of course become a term used solely towards queer men. The misogynistic origin holds with most gay slurs—nancy, sissy, queen—all having originated with women, their purported rancor deriving from the (imagined) horror of being likened to women. Thus by reclaiming faggot, not only do we combat queerphobia, we also tackle misogyny. Gay is okay indeed, but so is womanhood.

Throughout history, faggot has been used to call queer men weak, womanly, to ascribe to us the flouncy, fabulous qualities so often derided by heterosexual men, who must, I think, be saddled with crippling jealousy. To them, no worse insult exists than to be called a woman, and thus we, by eschewing toxic ideals of masculinity, have become faggots. And so what? I, for one, am a big ol’ faggot. I paint my nails, wear furs, and strut in heels. With a snap of my fingers I’ll cut you off at the knees. That’s because, for me, faggotry embodies strength, fierceness, an unshakable sense of self, and the wardrobe to match. To be a faggot is to know exactly who and what you are without living in the shadow of shame. To be a faggot is to look hate in the eye and spit.

In 2018, I challenge my fellow queers to confront homophobia and misogyny, not only in our wider community, but within ourselves. Too often do we encounter “masc4masc” parading as preference, when all it is is woman-hating gussied up to appear otherwise. Let this be the year we abandon our groveling desire to emulate bros, and instead let us claim our power and proclaim ourselves as the faggots we know ourselves to be. Let us embody and embrace femininity, radical self-love, and unapologetic queerness. We have nothing to lose but our chains.

cw: Racism and Racist Language

Do you know your local LGBTQIA+ bar owners?

WUSSY was sent some damning screenshots by a former employee of one of Atlanta's most popular drag bars, which appears to be from the Facebook of Burkhart's Pub owner, Palmer Marsh. The posts date back to 2015, and the former employee, who chooses to remain anonymous, said the screencaps were sent to them by a fellow employee. 

The screencaps have recently been making the rounds on Facebook, causing many local community members to call for a boycott of the Atlanta gay staple.

Burkhart's, which hosts popular drag nights Thursday-Sunday, boasting some of Atlanta's most legendary queens, has been owned by Marsh for the last thirty years according to Georgia's business registry. Former RuPaul's Drag Race contestants Manilla Luzon and Laganja Estranja are scheduled to appear there in the coming months.

Amber Divine, a former member of Atlanta's oldest drag troupe, The Armorettes, took to Facebook last year to publicly express her feelings about Burkhart's.

"Just so you'll know the group has decided to leave the Hideaway and go back to Burkharts," Divine wrote. "A decision that I did not support due to the fact that Burkharts is a racist bar it condones racism and uses the N-word predominately."

Marsh did not immediately respond when asked for comment.

WUSSY will update as this story evolves.

PHOTO: Austin Frantz

Well, it looks like Atlanta could quickly lose another one of its major drag bars.

Burkhart’s Pub, one of Atlanta’s oldest and most popular drag destinations, has been at the center of controversy this week—even making national news. On Friday, we shared some screenshots from the owner, Palmer Marsh’s Facebook account, one in which he called Barack Obama “a stupid n*gger”.
 

The following day, Burkhart’s general manager Don Hunnewel released a statement via Georgia Voice, stating that he would leave the bar once everything was settled with his employees. “I have an immediate obligation to those dedicated souls and once their lives are stabilized I will seek new opportunities.”

As of Wednesday, the bar had completely disabled their Facebook account amidst a sea of angry reviews and comments. The owners have not responded at length for comment, but Mary Marsh did give WUSSY the thumbs up emoji.

As the story broke nationally, social media buzzed with anger and confusion—some calling for a swift boycott and some demanding action from the drag queens and employers who work at Burkhart’s.

Popular drag entertainer, Angelica D’Paige Brooks, wrote on Facebook this Thursday that she would be quitting her job after performing and hosting shows for many years.

“About 3 years ago Ruby Redd and I were hosting a karaoke there another employee( who will remain nameless) said the word N***** of course I was offended in the beginning and still am offended but the person tried to justify saying the word I spoke to the Ruby about it she immediately went to the person and to management were they try to justify it again, the next day our budget was cut and she decided to leave because we felt like we were being punished because we said something about something that was wrong she stood up for me when I couldn't stand up for myself. I was told if I said one more thing about racism that that was going to be the end of my employment. I needed that job I need this job but last night I ended my employment with Burkhart's Pub..."

Ruby Redd, along with Amber Divine and several other Atlanta entertainers, quit working at Burkhart’s in 2016 after similar allegations came to light.

Later on Thursday night, Atlanta queen and entertainment director for Burkhart’s (and formerly Jungle), Phoenix announced that she would be putting in her resignation along with the entire staff of entertainers. “It pains me and also terrifies me to say, that Ive officially turned in my resignation, beginning now. Also, as a whole, all entertainers that are under my direction have turned in their resignation.”

Brigitte Bidet, host of the Sunday night show Tossed Salad, also announced on Saturday that she would be quitting along with the rest of the Burkhart’s queens. “No matter how you spin it, the money ends up with the owners. Their silence on the situation is disturbing, and that’s just not ‘how things are’ or how things should be. My heart goes out to the employees and entertainers who kept that place going.”

Tossed Salad will move to My Sister’s Room at 10pm starting this Sunday.

The Atlanta activist group, ATL Activate, will be hosting a public meeting on Saturday about the Burkhart’s situation, with the goal of coming up with organized solutions or actions. You can find info on that here.

WUSSY is proud to present two poems by NYC transfag, Cyree Jarelle Johnson.
If you would like to send in a writing submission, please contact Nicholas Goodly. 

 

YES! It Was I Who Sucked Extras Out of Your Holes!

DAT ASSSSSS! Exclaimed my manager as I teetered
off stage each Sunday, three song set sweatily ended
— an auction packed with feckless, hard-dicked breeders
palming their cocks through their pants, tongues extended
and grabbing my, then, Apollonian biceps, my family-feeders.
I dangled from a trinity of vertical rails, artfully suspended
and showed runaway girls my tricks so they wouldn’t need the stroll
cause they could get that money up on the pole.

Slow day desperation and hunger at the month’s nadir
I count the number of dudes who may want some head
like a neon lion in a slingshot and clear heels sniffs bloodless air,
hoping I didn’t fuck up and pick a cop who would steal my bread.
(Didn’t want to end the night locked up or dead.)
A white guy, with two grown sons in hockey jerseys, appears;
his glass of warm beer glows in blacklight as if hewn from lead,
and cries out DAT ASSSSSS! as I dance for the mirror.
I slip into their party, inform each of my price;
the dad calls me a nigger, slides $200, says it twice.

An Elegy for the Family (W)Rex

“O Lord, Sula,” she cried, “girl, girl, girlgirlgirl.”
                                      — Toni Morrison, Sula

Your heel, a shiv slicing open the hide
of some heedless, anonymous creature
                   creeping beneath the El’s wide lip shimmer,
                   circumspect to the stomp of your danger.

Six blocks of rank asphalt & ruined sidewalk
beyond the splintered door jamb you shot out
                   screamer, big-talker, inevitable
                   drifter. Wind and tight handfuls of glitter

thrusted among Philadelphia’s blood
stained Japanese Maples, ridged Watchtowers
                   — their covers splatter-painted, rain tie-dyed.
                   You showed your nipples at my old home club
                                       ATLANTIS: THE HIDDEN TREASURE, awash
                                       with resign. What you want, you’ll never find.

Just resign. What you want, you’ll never find.
Non-profit motivation, still employed
                   (Not in denuded halls I once haunted,
                   but in carpeted cubical devoid

of lucrative potential.) Skeptical
slash resentful of sheltered coworkers.
                   I’d hear my call to the stage DYNASTY
                   LIKE-NO-OTHER! as I snoozed through meetings
                                       snorted awake, afraid of defunct fees.

                                       Together we were The Family (W)Rex
                   Every night, we staged our plays. Seven days
                   a week. Your ass went on for forever,
my plush thighs broader still than dinner trays.
The Brocade Sling! The Vintage Ermine Muff!

One silk slingshot, one vintage ermine muff
four limp black wigs: real hair and plastic thread.
                   You stashed vices in spider holes: codeine
                   tabs, Xanax, and cash. You gathered toys spread

out on the floor into trash bags. My niece
barely had any before you arrived.
                   Her uniform spotless, her blankets rags,
                   a glowering, sullen streak in her eye

for which I don’t blame her. A child, scared.
She rages, mopes, and cries until she chokes
                   opposite Auntcle as novice au-pair.
                   Her mother elsewhere, swathed in Newport smoke
                                       devoured by the slick beast that bore us.
                                       On your leave, at first, I felt empowered.

On your leave, at first, I felt empowered
by my sole successful attempt to set
                   boundaries. (I’d later have so much to grieve.)
                   In the moment, I was spiteful. Contempt

tinted my view of you. More than old friends;
at sixteen, we were closer than sisters.
                   Once we sprinted through Exit 10, Tercel
                   sputtering towards some strained family scene.

                                       Your gossamer Joyce Leslie dress was lewd
                                       as you bent over the rosewood casket,
                   to peer into the face. It looked like you.
                   Zipped up in plastic...that’s it as we bumped
Jay-Z. You clipped your hair, served Amber Rose.
Will you stay awake as the illness grows?

Are you falling asleep? Just in repose?
Does your gown bag like white tees in 00s videos?
                   Does the cocktail leave you gaunt and morose?
                   Do you know of your fate? Is it sour?

I’m far away, but misting as you breathe.
Around me veins split, perineums tear.
                   Infants twist inside their cozy pouches.
                   Comrades shit as they bleed out in bathtubs.

                                       You wane wan, drawn as you blanch in moonlight.
                                       But you’ve beat the piss out better things
                   with nerve enough to try you. O sick sage,
                   I can’t protect you from what the lump brings
but I’d’ve stayed on for the ride and rubbed
your heels as the shiv sliced open your hide.
 

-----

Cyree Jarelle Johnson is a poet, essayist, and editor living in New York City. They are a Poetry Editor at The Deaf Poets Society and a candidate for an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University. They have given speeches and lectures at The White House, The Whitney Museum of American Art, The University of Pennsylvania, Tufts University, and Mother Bethel AME Church, among other venues. Their work has been profiled on PBS Newshour and Mashable.

Follow them on Twitter at @blackTiresias and find their work at cyreejarellejohnson.com!

WUSSY Presents: First Wives Club at Plaza Theatre

Galentine’s Day is an unofficial holiday that every Parks & Recreation fan knows falls on February 13th, the day before Valentine’s Day. It is a fictional holiday, created by character Leslie Knope (played brilliantly by Amy Poehler), that has since become real to many womyn since the episode aired on NBC way back in 2010. Now, all over the world, women and women-identifying folx celebrate Galentine’s Day with their best babes and special sweeties. It’s a holiday focused solely on the power of women and women relationships.

We could do a simple listicle of where to go in Atlanta for Galentine’s Day, but we thought we’d twist it up and make it a tad gayer for our readers - so this is WUSSY’s Comprehensive Best Spots in Atlanta For Galentine’s Day Based On Where You Fall in the LGBTQ+ Alphabet Soup.

Whether you’re a single lady, dating a lady, or identify as a lady (or, like me, you don’t let anyone call you “lady”) - we’ve compiled the perfect lists to celebrate Galentine’s Day in style in Atlanta - because who needs guys when you’ve got your gals?

Asexual - Go on an IKEA trip for some new sheets

Hear me out. I’m a mom, no - don’t flip to the next article, I promise I’m not going to show you pictures of my toddler (you can DM me for those if you want, though, because she is the best and an absolute genius, and Idk why you wouldn’t want to have pics of her. Unless you’re a creep, then don’t do it) - and there’s nothing in the world I want more than to sleep. I want to fucking nap once in a while. So, please, for me - have a nap date. Go to IKEA with your girl, pick out some new bed linens, go home, put them on your bed - and take a 2 hour nap. Let me know how it goes. You can also DM that to me, #napporn.

Bisexual or Pansexual - Jeju Sauna in Duluth

This 24-hour Korean spa is sometimes famous, sometimes infamous, but one thing’s for sure - everyone’s gonna be naked, so you gotta be cool with that! Reviews state that the staff is, ahem, not exactly known for their customer service, but that could very well be a language barrier. Other spa-goers cite confusion as to where it’s okay to be naked, and where it’s not okay to be naked (wild guess, you probably have to have clothes on to go into the cafeteria), so being body-positive and friendly is a must for this Galentine’s Date Night suggestion - because you never know who you’ll run into! This spa is open 24-hours, so go anytime you feel like journeying OTP and treat. yo. self.

PHOTO: Dr. Bombay's

Demisexual - High Tea at Dr. Bombay’s Underwater Tea Party

Go on a romantic walk in Candler Park, then stop in for high tea at Dr. Bombay’s Underwater Tea Party (I mean, c’mon - haven’t you always wanted to do high tea ever since you started reading British romantic novels at age 13? No? Just me?). High tea hours are Tuesday - Friday from 3:00pm - 5:30pm and from 12:00pm - 5:00pm on Saturdays and Sundays. A 24-hour advance notice is required for High Tea, so keep that in mind, and take pics for us of you feeding your gal macaroons.

Gay - Starlight Drive-In

What’s gayer than doing an activity that’s just begging you to wear a bowtie and/or a poodle skirt? Go see cool flicks at the Starlight! An Atlanta mainstay, this drive-in movie theatre has everything: jumper cables in case your car won’t start, a horror movie starring Helen Mirren as a daffy older woman, a snack bar owned by an independent operator - you name it. Enjoy your double-feature, ya double divas!

Via Historic Oakland Cemetery

Genderqueer or Queer - A walk at Oakland Cemetery, then coffee (or drinks) at Octane

Your sexuality isn’t ordinary, so why do any old boring activity on the best day of the year? Go be adventure squirrelfriends and take yourselves on a mystery tour of Oakland Cemetery (just, ahem, breeze past the Confederate soldier part). After you’ve thoroughly scared yourselves, wind down with some coffee or alcoholic beverages at Octane, right across the street. Hot ATLien tip: there’s a small parking lot that’s free right off of Oakland - we recommend leaving your car there, then walking over, because parking around this area can be hellish.

Lesbian - Arabia Mountain

What better way to get your Sporty Spice lady hours in than to enjoy a scenic picnic, or hike/bike/run at Arabia Mountain? This historic site is the perfect place to while away the weekend hours with your best gal pal or lesbian lover. You can even get in touch with your spiritual side by visiting the granite monoliths, located at the “spiritual center of the Heritage Area.” Tbh, I would sneak back there at dusk and try to have a seance for a scary Galentine’s Day treat, but I’m a spooky witch, that’s just me.

Polysexual - WUSSY’s showing of The First Wives Club at the Plaza Theatre

WUSSY’s monthly campy feature for the Month of Love is a showing of The First Wives Club at the Plaza. Hi, hello - this is perfect for poly couples, because multiple wives, get it? And yes, I know that that’s not what the film is about (or what the sexuality is about), I was born in the late eighties after all. This is even better if you’re a thruple (and yes, I hate that I just used that word, too) - because the three of you can pick which wife you are!

Oh - did I mention you can win prizes for your best Goldie, Bette, Diane, Sarah Jessica, or Maggie lewks? You can. So you must. And you should.

While it is the day after Galentine’s Day, that doesn’t mean that you have to be all heteronormative - you make Valentine’s Day your Galentine’s Day. Or, if you really want to prep the day before, go shopping right next door at Buffalo Exchange for your costume contest fashions.

Trans or Intersex - Erotic & Exotic Interactive Valentine’s Day Art Event

This is another one that’s not technically on Galentine’s Day, as it’s held February 14th at Healium Center in Atlanta, but it is one you can prep for the day before by going on a date with your sweetie. Think of it as foreplay for the main event, which is the erotic art show, featuring free (ya’ll heard me: I said FREE) sexy chocolates and blow job cocktails (while supplies last). This art exhibition celebrates all body types, no matter how you were made.

Go find your people with your BFF, have a drink or two, then crash into bed, covered in glitter. It’s the only way to go to sleep as your authentic self, truly.

---

Anna Jones is a writer and producer currently based in Atlanta. She is the proud owner of digital copywriting agency Girl.Copy and independent film production company Tiny Park Productions. She loves a lot of stuff, but mainly: her husband, kid, and cat, writing and filmmaking, coffee and Diet Coke, millennial pink, sushi, gay stuff, and horror films.

cw: sexual assault

We met on Recon, but it could have easily been Grindr, or Scruff, or any one of a dozen other apps. We chatted over the weeks leading up to my weekend in Tel Aviv, trading pictures and banalities. Despite my prodding, he remained taciturn about his preferences. You’ll find out when you’re here, he’d said, and the air of mystery, I’ll admit, only added to my anticipation. We arrange to meet at his place Thursday evening, and not even the rain could dampen my excitement as I stood outside the gate waiting to be buzzed in.

Tal* answered the door in his underwear, which, granted, isn’t so out of character for a hook-up, except for the fact that we’d agreed to eat first and play after. I’d skipped dinner and was starving, which I told him.

“Don’t worry,” he said, waving off my concern, “you’ll have a snack now and we’ll eat when we’re done.” The ease with which he dismissed my discomfort and our agreed-upon plans should have been enough to warn me, but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

As we moved into the bedroom, he asked me if I’d like to have a movie on the in the background while we played. Though he said anything I picked would be fine, he rejected no less than five suggestions before we decided on Pacific Rim. Settling onto the bed, it became apparent at this point that by “watch a movie while we play,” what he’d actually meant was “blow me while I watch a movie.” I am nothing if not a good sport, and instead of getting up and leaving, I stuck around, hoping that the spirit of reciprocity would eventually make itself known.

It’s a strange sensation to hear the action of a movie—the screech of metal ripped asunder, the cries of battle, the plot-explicit dialogue—while you stare at a whorl of pubic hair and the red-pocked skin beneath it. I’d seen the movie before, and could thus judge the passage of time by the cinematic markers in my memory. When Raleigh meets Mako, I thought, he’ll remember I’m down here, and then, when Newton drifts with the Kaiju, and finally, surely by the final assault—but no. When he did deign to remember me, the interaction was still one-sided, tilted towards his own desires, ignoring mine. At one point he produced a leather belt and proceeded to spank me, despite my use of a safe word. I had to wake up to the sad fact that Tal was more than a bad fuck—he was abusive.

With less than half an hour left in the movie, I decided to leave. I got up to pee, and when I came back, I started to get dressed, explaining that I just wasn’t feeling it, that I was tired, and that I was heading home.

"Sexual assault is not only violence—it’s also ignored or wrongly assumed consent"

“What about dinner?” he asked, with a forlorn, kicked-puppy whine to his voice. “I was going to make us pasta.” While that might have been appetizing over an hour ago, I told him that I wasn’t hungry and really just wanted to go home to bed. “You can spend the night here if you’d like.” I didn’t, and told him that I needed to take my contacts out, and had neglected to bring any solution with me. “You’re in luck!” he said, dashing to the bathroom, “I have a spare bottle!”

Thus began an interminable thirty minutes where Tal refused to hear my clear and emphatic NO for what it was. When pasta failed to entice me, he offered me hummus and pita, and then some freshly boiled chestnuts. He tried to engage me with conversation better suited to the start of an evening (Where are you from? How do you like Israel?) than its dismal end. While standing in his foyer, it began to rain harder, and Tal refused to let me walk to the bus stop without an umbrella.

“I know I have one somewhere,” he said before bursting into show tunes. Though he claimed to be looking, I failed to see how his umbrella could have possibly ended up in the fridge (from which he offered me yogurt and potato salad). After about five minutes of searching, he returned empty handed, saying he must have lost his umbrella, “but you can just wait here till the rain stops.”

That wasn’t an option. While I’d been genuinely motivated by fatigue and a lack of arousal when I’d first tried to leave, Tal’s insistence on my staying had steadily darkened my mood to a chilling anxiety. It felt hard to breathe, and I crept closer and closer to the door. Tal sensed my trepidation and moved to block my way.

PHOTO: Alex Franco

“How about a cup of tea before you go? I promise I won’t take advantage of you.”

I’d be lying if I said the fear hadn’t crossed my mind before that moment. I was, after all, going to a stranger’s house to engage in kink, and a healthy dose of fear seemed par for the course. But it wasn’t until Tal promised he wasn’t going to rape me (or worse) that I actually began to worry about it, because such assurances should be a given. I don’t, when shopping, inform the tellers that I won’t rob them, because why would I? There’s a tacit agreement engendered by participation within society, further reinforced by kink negotiations, both of which Tal shattered when he tried to prevent me from leaving.

Tal had picked me up with one arm earlier to show me he could. At the time it’d turned me on—it didn’t any more.

“I’m trying to be a nice guy,” Tal had explained, ignoring that there was nothing nice about trapping me in his home and ignoring our previously agreed-upon limits. This tactic, all too common in the hellscape of modern dating, seeks to push blame onto victims by insinuating that they’re at fault for not “going with the flow.” It amounts to little more than gas lighting, turning one’s own righteous indignation against them, casting them in the role of villain (or shrew, or prude, or, ironically, slut) while the abuser maintains a moral high ground, the poor, victimized “nice guy.” It’s also an insidious part of rape culture. Sexual assault is not only violence—it’s also ignored or wrongly assumed consent, it’s using privilege and pressure to coerce others into our beds, it’s turning a blind eye to verbal and non-verbal clues that our partner is no longer willing.

"One need only be groped in a crowded gay club to know that this problem extends beyond the world of smart phones."

The past few months have seen a slew of women come together to speak out against assault and harassment, especially within Hollywood. The men in question (for it is almost always, inevitably, regrettably, men) wield their influence to coerce women into their beds. Even when consent is initially given (as was the case with the recent scandal surrounding Aziz Ansari), these men’s power enables them to pressure their partners through their reluctance, either tacitly or explicitly threatening to ruin their careers. Even though Tal wasn’t famous, there was an element of power implicit within our interaction—he was a citizen, while I was a foreigner, we were in his home, he was older and stronger, etc. It is crucial to realize the ways in which power differentials play into relationships and how those who choose to can abuse them.

Recently I saw on Facebook a friend commenting how, in the wake of #metoo, queer men and women had to prepare for our “Me Too” moment, when we would be forced to confront our own community’s history of ignored consent and the ways in which queers are complicit (or active) in rape culture. With apps like Grindr and Scruff promoting the ease with which you can meet men, we have created an environment of “assumed consent,” where your very presence seems to give permission for any and all acts. Think of the number of unsolicited dick pics you’ve received, and then apply that same attitude to an in-person meeting. One need only be groped in a crowded gay club to know that this problem extends beyond the world of smart phones.

We can either start the work now, making clear-communicated consent a foundation of our interactions, or we can wait for a scandal to ignite and thrust us front and center for the media to deride, pointing and saying, look, what we believed about them was true all along. To avoid our own implosion, we must begin to examine the ways in which power becomes unequally distributed within sexual interactions and strive to balance it. Victims must be given voice, and more importantly, we must listen. We must construct a world unwelcoming to abusers. We must make life impossible for anyone who would deprive others of their agency and autonomy. Time, at last, is up.

*Name not changed because fuck him.

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Alex Franco is the queer son of an immigrant and a southern belle. He hails from Atlanta, GA, and now teaches English in southern Israel.