I dyed my hair earlier today. And when I go home in two weeks, you will know.
Sex, literature, and food shopping should all be freeing indulgences we’re able to mix up.
I don’t think as a 10-year-old I knew what sexuality was, but I knew Billy and Marcello were outside of the term’s norm. And being that “If I Could Turn Back Time” was on every mixed tape I burned, I knew I probably fell outside of that norm’s perimeters too.
What do queer guys do? We stigmatize those who are positive out of fear that we too will one day have to list a POZ status on our profiles.
I’m chubby, have plenty of overriding stretchmarks, and probably haven’t shaved my pubes in over seven months. Who would really want to see any of this, anyways?
Internet writers (who contribute immensely personal stories to online publications like Thought Catalog, Broadly, and Medium) have been quoted calling their work “contributions to the Millennial narrative.”
A mobilization of activists is almost expected to ensue.
See, boys (and reality) kind of suck. I witnessed dreamy, life-after-blowjob love tales in Saved by the Bell and Boy Meets Girl amid my tender, overly sculpted youth and their numb-minded oral sessions almost always resulted in forget-me-not, lovers forever storylines.
Hooking up with someone hotter than you is fun; dating someone hotter than you—eh, not so much.
I have AIDS—probably, maybe, I think.