Hoe, But Make It Queer Art

DoubleTap is an interview series highlighting creatives whose work explores sex, body, and identity.

Grindr, a modern advent that has, in many ways, picked up where the bathhouses left off, is equal parts sexy, hilarious, and demoralizing. The hookup app is what most cis gay men use to find no-strings-attached sex… and queer photographer and anthropologist-lite Andrew Harper has been watching this space for the sake of art and a nut since he was 18 years old.

If you are unfamiliar with the Grindr interface, it displays “looking” users within a 1-mile radius. The messages between interested parties are often brief and nude-laden. Think OkCupid if OkCupid were a focus group of primed and geographically compatible gays — with triple the dick pics. Since it launched back in 2009, the platform has developed a notoriety for its members’ candor (folks say the darnedest things when they’re horny!). Harper, originally from Florida, takes these exchanges and superimposes them over pictures of himself and his friends. The result of which is the popular Instagram account Gaytona Beach.

It’s a simple enough concept, but by pairing real communications with photos of actual queer bodies, a bit of our reality is laid bare on our feeds. Featuring conversations ranging from sweet affirmations to troubling displays of internalized racism, fatphobia, and femme-shaming — Gaytona is a mirror for the community.

Harper set out to explore the dynamics of gay men negotiating sex, and in the process he is uncovering the cultural and social influences that take us to bed.

What was the initial inspiration for Gaytona Beach?

Harper: When I was living in Daytona Beach, I felt like I was the only openly gay guy around. I had, up until this point, created an identity for myself from all of these things coming of age in coastal Florida, like sneaking margaritas in to-go cups onto the beach, dancing to New Order until we drove our downstairs neighbor into moving out, going on long drives through the swamps at night and turning our headlights off to really see the stars.

But up until 19 [years old], I had never explored the parts of my identity that related to sexuality. You can imagine that when I first downloaded Grindr it was an immediate addiction, because for most of my childhood and early teen years the majority of gay culture came from Tumblr and porn. So I felt that I had virtually nothing but sex, sin, and conflict to attribute to being gay.

I was surprised by how venomous and angry people could be [on] the app, and how easy it seemed for complete strangers to be just as abusive online as [the people who] shouted slurs at me from their pickup trucks. I started documenting the wild conversations I had, and over the course of a few years, compiled a folder of something like 3,000 screenshots (no joke). I was also in school for photography at the time, and so one day I was going through my photos and found one that reminded me of a conversation I had screenshot-ed and bam — the rest is history. I began telling these stories with these conversations and pairing them with real moments of life around me in that city, and it felt humorous and cathartic.

I have to ask, are any of these interactions staged? Are these really all things people have said to you on Grindr?

Believe it or not, they’re 100% real! For the first half of a year or so every message I posted was one [that was] sent to me. Like I mentioned, I had thousands of old conversations and messages to work with. Now I’d say about half of the ones that end up on the page are ones that have been submitted to me. You know how some people get those “Saw this and thought of you!” texts or DMs and it’s like a cute gif of a cat? I get those same messages, but instead it’s a screenshot of a stranger saying “Piss in my ass.” I still pull from that original folder all the time, though.

You’re a photographer and — correct me if I’m wrong — but the majority of the images you use for backdrops are other people’s selfies/nudes. What’s the inspiration behind this?

Yes, the majority lately has been that way, but originally this wasn’t the case — it developed over time with the growth of the project itself. Actually, when KAAST and I first met, I was predominantly still using beach landscapes and photos of spring breakers. Using other people’s selfies started when I first started taking submissions, and it happened kind of naturally because I was already using photos of other people but only ones I had taken. Because I was using images of people with anonymity to convey a story, it only made sense to start incorporating selfies and nudes because that’s the majority of photos being passed along on Grindr.

Would you ever consider taking your own photos to pair with the app exchanges? Or would that undercut the authenticity of what you’re going for?

I love this question because for the people who have been following the page from the beginning or know me IRL, you can actually spot a lot of photos of myself on there. For a while, I was also using a lot of my portrait work — I spent some time in Orlando before moving to New York last year, and I was working for a commercial studio. My mom also owns a studio in a small coastal town called Ormond Beach, so I had a lot of studio work to play with. I wouldn’t say it undercuts the authenticity because the focus of the page is each individual message, and the photos are just a way of bringing them to life and giving them energy or translating them visually for people.

Your posts really run the gambit, hinting at all sorts of queer realities. Are there specific topics you try to tackle with your work?

This changes all the time. Almost weekly, actually.

First I should say I listen carefully to input and criticism. I never expected the project to transform into something that has a sense of responsibility to it, but that’s what’s happened. The topics started as my own personal ones that I encountered — online harassment, drug use in the gay community, the internalized homophobia of others, etc. — these were all things that I was directly exposed to in Daytona Beach. And after documenting those interactions, I decided to express my own perspective.

One time I addressed the local police officers for a homophobic raid they performed (using Grindr!) and tagged them in it. Sometimes [posts are] more lighthearted and humorous, like sugar daddies and small town gossip, but the more interactions I posted for anyone to see, the more responses I got of people being able to relate. Eventually I left Daytona and along with that came a very clear shift in the types of conversations I had and topics that came up (obviously). The bigger the city, the more you see, hear, and experience, and so slowly but surely the page has gravitated towards bigger social conversations. Topics that come up now range anywhere from mental health to body image, and even to things like the response to Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico. This might be my favorite part about the page, honestly. If you look at it as a timeline, you can visually track the mindset and journey from small town to big city.

How has your approach changed over the years?

As soon as I opened it up to be collaborative, I assumed a sense of responsibility to focus on diversity and inclusiveness. The project used to be just me and my experience — whatever was immediately around me in Daytona Beach. But that’s obviously changed a lot. My surroundings and my community have transformed.

In your professional opinion, what are some of the biggest differences between Grindr in Daytona and Grindr in Brooklyn?

Well, the most obvious difference is the density. Here, the person at the bottom of the list on Grindr is at most like 1,000-2,000 feet away. Back In Daytona, the fourth person over from you could be miles away. Forget about the bottom of the list, they’re usually in the next town over. But to really get an idea of how intensely unique that experience was, you have to take a step back and look at Daytona Beach itself: it proudly wears the locally-crowned title “World’s Most Famous Beach.” It’s the birthplace of NASCAR, a fixture of the American Spring Break phenomenon, and the location of the final showdown between Aileen Wuornos and the law. You can imagine it’s an outlandish group of people down there.

Have individuals whose messages you’ve featured ever gotten salty [that you’ve posted them online] after the fact?

Nope, but I never really expected them to anyways. When I first started [Gaytona Beach] that was what felt the most daring about it — I would get these messages that were sometimes so violent or hateful and [would then] posting them for anyone to see. If you were the person who sent that message, you would A) never want to out yourself for it and B) probably not want to talk to the person that you said it to again. I figured they would never reach out to me via Instagram and reveal any personal information by doing so. Besides, the focus of these posts is the dialogue itself — not the person who said it. My intent was never to create a public roast, but instead to evaluate an experience I was dealing with — which I later learned was a universal experience.

Basically, in order to get salty with me about something you said, you would have to address what it was in the first place. On the other hand, I also don’t post any content that would be harmful to someone or reveal their identity, so that would be the only other time I could see someone being salty with me.

Gaytona Beach definitely deals in the lead up to a hook-up. Would you ever consider exploring the aftermath of it? I could totally see your format applied to themes like ghosting, unrequited crushes, STI scares, etc.

I think you’re on to something here….

Grindr probably has a more artistic connotation for you than most of us. Do you still use the app for pleasure?

Yes! I have this account linked to my profile, but I still mostly just use the app for the same reason anyone does. Eventually I want to [unlink the project’s Instagram account] from there, but for now it generates a lot fun conversations.

What does the future for Gaytona look like?

Bright! Last year I learned a lot, and I’ve made the promise to myself this year to circle back to why it all began in the first place. Growth is fun, change is fun — but its background is what made it interesting. Something else you’ll see more of is an integration between this and my day job [Andrew works in healthcare services].

I’m currently designing a system for people who take (or want to start taking) PrEP to get it them affordably, help with office visits and testing scheduling, as well as answering questions and connecting them with LGBT focused medical providers in the city. I realized there’s a lot I can learn from the diverse following of the page. For instance, if you ask your doctor about the side effects you think you’re having on PrEP, they’ll likely say something like “a small portion of people report experiencing side effects but this will go away soon.” I doubted this for a while, and I recently ran a poll of around 350 Gaytona followers that revealed half of them [have at some point] experienced side effects. Out of that group, around 10% of them experience ongoing side effects from their PrEP.

I’m not completely sure what that will look like for the page, but I’m excited about it. I’d really like to use the page to help New Yorkers connect with affordable LGBT care. Aside from that, I have a couple things I’m crossing my fingers for, but you’ll have to wait to see.

All photos provided by Andrew Harper. You can follow Gaytona Beach here.

Let’s Redefine Virginity

I’d like to suggest we all do something slightly radical. Something that is super personal, but on a larger scale, could transform our understanding of sex and sexuality for the better.

Despite our inevitable variety in sexual experiences, preferences, and knowledge, one thing we all share is our initial state of inexperience. The word “virgin” is defined as someone who has never had sexual intercourse — but there’s a number of problems with this narrow interpretation.

Firstly, it prioritizes the physical act of sex, the definition of which has always been hijacked by heteronormativity; sex is assumed to be a penis entering a vagina, and this is sex in its most socially valid and accepted form. Therefore, according to the dictionary, any person who has had a penis in their vagina or vice-versa, is no longer a virgin. The emotionality, intimacy, pleasure, consent status or personal significance of this experience is overlooked in this understanding of sex. But what if we prioritized pleasure over our obsession with penetration? What if we expanded “valid” sex to include non-hetero sex by default, too? How, then, would virginity change?

In addition to this, our current idea of virginity is upheld by centuries of patriarchal dominance over sex; it is anti-womxn*, anti-queer, blind to consent, and continues to be weaponized against womxn all over the world in so many ways, often as a way to prevent our sexual expression and development. The myth of the hymen (aka the vaginal corona) ‘breaking’ is supposed to be proof of whether a womxn’s had penetrative sex or not. It is completely nonsensical, there is actually no reliable way to tell. This practice came about from paternity fears, back when it was more difficult to identify who the father of a child was other than ensuring that the mother had only had sex with one man. People wanted to know a child was theirs for sure, so that political and social power and wealth could be properly inherited.

So, the patriarchy commodified womxn’s virginity, she would only then be valuable and marry-able as a virgin. The myth that people would be able to tell from the state of her vagina if she’d had sex with someone was supposed to act as a kind of mental cock-block; an imposed deterrent for womxn to embrace their sexuality. This patriarchal form of control in turn influenced many religious doctrines and continues to dominate social views on virginity, even in the 21st century.

Womxn are told to expect sex to feel painful, we’re told we are of less value to society as sexual beings and that ‘innocence’ is a currency that once sacrificed, cannot be redeemed. Not only does this deny us our right to pleasure, it suggests that the essence of womxnhood lies in an absence of independent sexuality. No wonder our pleasure is so often disregarded in conversations around sex, in pornography, and unfortunately for us, in real life.

Social and historical fetishization of virginity is also the origin of slut-shaming; the stigma around sexually active and experienced womxn, or simply any womxn who slightly transgresses society’s desire for us to be ‘pure.’ One of the paradoxes of patriarchy is that while these forces attempt to chastise womxn’s sexual expression, they simultaneously also hyper-sexualize and objectify womxn; we are permitted to be sexualized by men, but sexuality that is not an extension of or an aid to male pleasure is forbidden.

With the current language we use, our concept of sex is tainted before we’ve even had a chance to experience it; sex is demonized, maybe even dreaded by some. According to the popular verbiage, virginity defines our worth. We say we’ve ‘lost’ our virginity, as if something precious has been permanently taken away. For womxn especially, this is a statement laden with negativity. Removing this reductive rhetoric from discussions of first sexual experiences could cause a huge shift in our feelings towards the growth of our sexual identities.

Rather than subscribing to an archaic, oppressive framework, I challenge us to redefine virginity. I suggest we revolutionize it, so that its meaning is one of fluidity and independence; a definition that each individual has autonomy over, one that isn’t fundamentally a means of controlling and commodifying womxn.

Let’s define losing virginity as gaining pleasure, obtaining new connections, as learning, as intimacy, as an experience rather than an act. Let’s define it as a brick in the building of one’s sexual identity (the construction of which begins far prior to shared intimacy). Let’s define it as plural, as able to happen multiple times in different ways. It is a beginning, rather than a singular event that has no future. A watershed moment in each individual’s sexual history. Let’s define is as not contingent on another person, as able to be experienced alone. We should view it as an exchange, extending the sentence “I lost my virginity” with a “and gained…” whatever it may be in that instance; intimacy, orgasm, pleasure, knowledge, experience, confidence, satisfaction, self-love, appreciation, passion…

By prioritizing our positive sexual experiences, negative experiences that may have felt like definitive ‘firsts’ no longer have the power to control and define us. Why force everyone’s idea of virginity into one template when we are all so different and varied in our identities? If we give ourselves the freedom to self-define virginity, perhaps we will discover the moment we ‘lost’ it, hasn’t actually happened yet, or we will be surprised by it happening again in a different context.

For me, the first and most transformative experience of losing my virginity so far — where I felt I gained something completely new — sexual power and complete intimacy, was receiving oral from someone I was emotionally invested in for the first time. After that, penetrative sex actually felt pretty un-important; that act changed me far more in society’s eyes than it affected my personal sexual identity and growth. The first time I had sex with a girl changed me again in a very different way. With this “virginity loss”, I gained a entirely new understanding of my sexuality, shared intimacy, my body and female pleasure… So, take a moment to revise your sexual history, whether you’ve shared your body intimately yet or not, and try to figure out which virginity losses have given you the most, which have felt most personally significant, which ones changed you. Perhaps they’re not just moments, but people or a period of time, an act or a feeling.

Whatever you discover, from now on, you define your own sexual history, and only you own your virginities of the past, present, and future.

*The writer uses womxn here as an alternative to ‘women’ as it is more inclusive and not a defined by a relationship to men.

Photos (in order of appearance) by Jairo Granados, Alexa Fahlman, and Kama Snow.

Making Peace With A Bad Childhood

For me, childhood was a broken constellation of discontent. I am still trying to piece together the shapes formed by the fragments of my memory. Thoughts come to me in bursts. Every particle of the story swirls around, shifts, changes form. Nothing is stagnant.

Our earliest ideas of love come from the people who raise us. The powerful sensitivity of words, the comfort of touch, the complexity of building a home together — these are things we can only learn through human interaction. Usually, it is our parents who teach us these lessons. And sometimes, what we’re taught gives us a strange conception of love.

My parents weren’t around very much when I was growing up. My mother was finishing her PhD and my father was busy with the family company. Caregivers came and went from my life. I had babysitters, after-school programs, grandparents, etc., etc. I didn’t spend enough time with any of the adults in my life to develop deep attachments.

From the ages of five to six, I wrote notes to my mother, nearly every single day. She has them taped up on the walls of her home office now, half-hidden amidst her piles of academic papers. She didn’t mention them to me for years. When I finally rediscovered my notes half a decade after the time of their composition, my mother told me, with an innocent smile, how much they had meant to her. How they had helped her feeling connected to me even when she wasn’t home.

Part of me is grateful she kept them. More of me is hurt, bitter, confused. If she had the time to decorate, why couldn’t she have said something to me sooner?

My parents used to call me “hugby” when I was a toddler because I liked to hug people so much. This will probably come as a surprise to anyone who knows me today. I am many things, but physically affectionate is not one of them.

I feared touch for a long time. Part of it may be a cultural thing. I grew up in Japan, a country not particularly known for its fondness of physical contact. Then again, I am half-American, westernized, non-traditional. There must be other reasons for why touch feels like a foreign entity to me.

I don’t remember my hugby days. In my earliest memories, my parents and I are already in separate worlds. I fear my father for reasons that will only become clear to me years later. My mother only pays attention to me when I disappear from the room. They do not kiss me goodnight. When they hold my hand, I pull back so hard that I habitually dislocate my arm. If I was born a hugger, what happened to me after?

The first and only time I tried to run away from home, I was seven years old. In my mind, I had it all figured out. I packed a few days’ worth of clothes, all of the money I had, a toothbrush, my DS, a flashlight, and my favorite stuffed animal (an anthropomorphic elephant wearing a plaid jumpsuit, very chic). I would pretend to go to bed 9 p.m., but then rise again at 11 p.m. to make my escape. Where would I head? A nearby tunnel — dingy but sturdy, able to protect me from the elements. I’d read a memoir about homelessness so I knew what I was about.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting down the minutes until I could make my way to freedom. As the clock finally struck eleven, I gently peeled off my covers and placed my feet onto the floor. I then tiptoed over to my desk and, as quietly as I could, opened one of the drawers to look for my keys.

“Hey, what are you doing?” A sleepy voice rang out in the darkness. I looked back. My half-brother had been staying in my room for the past few days. Apparently I hadn’t been quiet enough because he was now sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“Nothing!” I said in a loud whisper, nearly a shout in the silence of night. I slammed my desk drawer shut and climbed into bed, cursing my unwise choice of day.

Normalcy is ill-defined. We call only what we have experienced “normal.” How many people must experience the same event for it to be considered normal?

I think I was eleven when I realized I had never said the words “I love you” to anyone. The realization came when I heard one of my friends talking to her mother on the phone. The one-sided conversation consisted mostly of uh-huhs and yes/no’s, but a set of words stood out to me.

“I love you too.” With that, my friend promptly hung up the phone. I did not even think to hide my astonishment as I asked her, “What? You just say that? Like, after the end of a call?”

“You mean ‘I love you’?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s nice, you know, to remind each other of that.” Pause. “Don’t you do that with your parents?”

“No, I don’t.” Longer pause. “Is that normal?”

My first girlfriend was much older than me, older than I care to admit now. She kissed me first (my very first kiss), liked kissing me, at times very delicately and at other times like there was nothing else. I only remember kissing back a handful of times. Not because I didn’t like her but because I had learned a while ago that sometimes pulling away gets you more than remaining close. She let me stay over when I was too scared to stay home. I always left before morning so my parents wouldn’t find out.

I was fifteen when I decided that I wanted more of a family. It took hours of convincing myself and several deep breaths, but I managed to walk myself over to the couch where my father was sitting. He was watching a video on his phone, completely oblivious to me.

“Dad,” I said. He kept looking at his phone. “Dad,” I repeated. He waited several more seconds before pausing the video at an opportune point. He looked up, seemingly confused. I understood why. This didn’t usually happen, this whole me-talking-to-him business.

I sat down next to him. “Dad, I’ve been thinking a lot lately and I — well, I don’t feel like we ever really talk. And I’d like that to change. I really would. But I don’t feel like I can.” Deep breath. “So I was wondering if you’d be willing to try therapy. So we could, you know, learn to communicate. And all that.”

My voice sounded too staggered. I bit my tongue as soon as I’d managed to spit out the words I’d planned. My father remained silent too long for my comfort. But in the end, after a sharp inhale through the nostrils, he said, “I’ll think about it.”

An immense weight evaporated off of my chest. I smiled and went to bed happy. The next day when he picked me up from school, my father told me he’d decided that I was full of shit. The words “your feelings don’t matter” were thrown around at some point.

Secrets either divide or they protect. I have yet to figure out which of these statements is correct.

My grandfather died when I was sixteen. On the plane ride to the funeral, my mother finally clarified my past. “I know your dad only says bad things about his father, but his feelings are more complicated than that. Your grandfather was abused by his stepfather so that’s the only way he knew how to act. He didn’t know how to show affection in anything other than material presents, and he didn’t know what to do with himself when he was upset. But he really did love your dad, and I know it doesn’t seem like it to you, but your dad really loved him too. It’s just hard for people like them to express how they feel.”

She said more but I don’t remember. I just kept nodding.

Senior year of high school was the first time I ever heard the words used for me. “I know it can be difficult to live in a household with an emotionally abusive parent, but I want you to remember that it’s not your fault.”

I was sitting in my school counsellor’s office. It was a bright afternoon, too bright for the atmosphere of the room. I didn’t look her in the eyes; I couldn’t. I kept my focus on a spot of sunlight on the wooden coffee table in front of me.

I had opened up to a teacher about my home troubles for the first time. It was the beginning of the school year and I was trying to juggle academics, extracurriculars, college applications, and getting a license. I had to consult my father about my future, which inevitably resulted in tension. The previous night, he had told me to leave the house. Then he apologized a few minutes later. The usual pattern.

The teacher I had spoken to suggested I go see the counsellor, so there I was. It was harder for me to speak than I expected it to be. I’m a writer. Words shouldn’t be difficult for me. And yet.

It made sense once she said it, but I had never really considered myself a victim of abuse. I had made my peace with the fact that I didn’t have the best relationship with my parents, and I had left it at that. I never liked the word “victim.” It takes a certain amount of agency away from the person it refers to — someone that does not perform an action but is performed upon. It is a powerless position, an identity bestowed by others. I never wanted to align myself with such a term.

Just a few weeks before I graduated high school, one of my teachers told me something that has stuck with me. “You’re very emotionally aware for your age, and I think that comes from having to navigate a household you shared with someone who is quite the opposite.”

That one simple sentence turned the tables on the status of my victimhood.

I think that forgiveness is an ongoing process. It’s not about looking at the past, shrugging your shoulders, and going, “Well, that’s that.” It’s an active struggle to redefine how you see your own life. I think my childhood will always be a painful memory, and nothing will ever change that. But there is a reason why I describe this period of my life as a constellation: it is an object of projection and an arguably beautiful thing, because in the end, it is the place from which my strength of character comes.

My idea of love might be more broken than most. This I admit. But I would like to think that I am also more aware of my capacity to change than most. Because I have seen myself grow in the short time that has passed after leaving home for college. Every day I find myself flinching a little less when a friend lays an affectionate hand on my shoulder. Every day I find it easier to say “I love you” to the people I care about. Every day I feel a new sense of tenderness growing in my heart.

I wrestle with the stars each and every day. If they are the ones that spell out my destiny, then I will use every force in my power to move them towards a better future. Luckily for me, nothing in the universe ever stays the same.

Photos by Kaela Smith.

I Talked To My Mom About Coming Out

No two coming out stories are exactly alike.

It was a hot August day when I told my mom I was queer. I sat in the front seat of the car with tears welling up in my eyes. I was 19 years old and home from college for the summer. I had just returned from a party with my high school friends where, upon coming out to them, I was sexually harassed by my ex boyfriend who had been drinking heavily. This is not about that night, but the events that led to the front seat of my mom’s car will unfortunately always be a part of my story.

Three years later, I decided to interview my mother to gain her perspective on my coming out story. Below is an edited transcript of our discussion.

When did I come out to you and how did I do it?

Mom: Well, you did it in a way that you didn’t intend to. It was in the context of telling me about something else, and you couldn’t avoid telling me about your sexuality — that you identify as queer — without telling me about this really bad experience that you had. We’ve talked about it since then, and I think you wouldn’t have done it that way if you had been able to choose the time and place, but that’s the way it happened.

Are you disappointed it happened that way?

I wish it had been more of a positive experience for both of us because I think it could’ve been.

I couldn’t fully process it at that time. In retrospect, [Nora’s ex]’s actions were even more harmful than he intended because he robbed us of the opportunity to have a positive conversation about it. I think your queerness could’ve been the focus, and we could’ve concentrated on the positive feelings around it rather than the negative feelings. I wanted to protect you and shelter you from the hurt that that person caused you. It could’ve been more celebratory but it wasn’t.

Do you consider coming out a cause for celebration?

I think it is because it’s you. It’s not something like, “Here’s my new hair color” for example — it’s not a choice like that. It’s just you revealing more of yourself, and that feels like a cause for celebration.

I like that sentiment. I think being yourself should be a celebratory thing.

Yes, exactly.

How would you have liked me to come out to you? Should I have done it in song?

*Laughs* I would’ve liked it if you had said to dad and me, “Hey guys, here’s what I’ve discovered about myself.” Then your parents, as a partnership, could’ve said, “Great! We’re so glad that you found that out and you’re sharing it with us.”

I’ve been thinking about why I was so hesitant to tell dad, and I’ve realized it actually has a lot to do with the way I had to tell you. That was such an unpleasant experience that I came to associate talking openly about my sexuality with [that] bad experience. It never had anything to do with dad as a person, and I knew that the whole time, but I really struggled with the “why” of it all. I love dad and I never have problems telling him anything but I remembered the way I felt coming out to you, and I just didn’t want to feel that way again.

That makes sense. I think he would love to hear that. He gets it.

I wonder what Nana would’ve thought if I’d had the chance to come out to her.

Well, when one of your cousins came out she said something like, “It doesn’t matter, I love you anyway.” Like my dad, she was very devout, but her love for her family came first, so it didn’t matter to her. There were other times when other people’s children needed support and she and Grandpa gave it to them despite the teachings of the Catholic faith.

As a millennial, it’s really easy to make assumptions about the opinions of older generations. I’ve certainly made assumptions like that. I always just assumed that if Nana and Grandpa were alive now they wouldn’t approve of my sexuality, but it’s surprising and wonderful to know that that wouldn’t be the case. It’s a weight off my chest.

People can surprise you.

What do you wish for other parents of young queer people?

What do I wish?

Yeah, I’m big on wishes in 2019.

Okay. I wish for them a close, loving relationship with their child so that whatever happens for their child and for their relationship, they have that foundation. If you love your child, you celebrate what they discover about themselves. You celebrate it all. So I wish that… and the strength to help their children be strong.

Good wishes.

* * *

After my mom and I talked, I thought it was only fitting for me to make a wish too, a wish for the kids like me, the queer kids (and yes, at 22 years old I still feel like a kid).

My wish for you is to come out whenever you want, as often as you want, to as many people as you want. There’s no one way to do it. If you want to tell the whole world or just one close friend or family member, you can. For you, I wish authorship of your own story. It’s your coming out story, so write it however you damn well please.

Photos (in order of appearance) by Sofia Amburgey, Jess Farran, and Olivia Renouf.

Japan’s Sex Crisis

Having grown up on an island off of Seattle, then moving to Japan to study, I have experienced major culture shock in my life. When thinking of Japan, you probably conjure up images based on its other-worldly and eccentric nature. My mom is Japanese, so from an early age, I had spent plenty of time in the country. It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with the food, the polite people, and their culture in general.

However, it wasn’t until I moved there that I uncovered some of the negatives of Japanese society.

While I still have a lot of fondness for Japan, some of the things I discovered are simply inexcusable and necessary to talk about. It was a slap in the face to realize that the country I had come to love was not as safe as I had once thought it was. The moment I realized this was when I was walking back home and in broad daylight, and was followed by a man who was masturbating. I was shocked, and left to process the whole encounter for hours and hours later.

One thought this encounter provoked in me was the need to discover the nuances and less spoken about realities of the Japanese sexual culture. When people talk about Japan, they always ask me if it’s true that there are love hotels. It’s true, they are scattered throughout. They are used solely for sex (referred to as “rest”). Customers pay by the hour, renting out a room for a few hours, or even the day. There are girl and boy bars — places that you can pay for drinks and the comfort of talking to a cute person of either sex and be made to feel important. Then there are Red Light Districts in Tokyo, where you can pay for oral sex (sometimes even penetrative sex), and oftentimes there are porn magazines in convenient stores. It is commonly said that whatever your sexual desire is, Japan can fulfill it.

The irony lies in the fact that, despite what many would consider an oversaturation of sex in Japan, the citizens are underexposed to the negative impacts of such an environment. The age of consent in Japan is 13, there are train carriages specifically designated for women, and the shutter sound on Japanese phone cameras cannot be muted — a governmental effort to deter perpetrators from taking creepy up-skirt photos. It is not uncommon for women to get groped on the train (hence the need for women-only carriages). My friends have experienced this firsthand and have even had indecent photos airdropped to them on trains.

In a country as overexposed to sex as Japan, one would hope that people would freely speak out about sexual harassment and assault, but unfortunately, the opposite is true. Japan is incredibly hush-hush about sex. In 2013, The Guardian reported that people under 40 have been losing interest in having relationships and sex in general. In 2017, the BBC found that 43% of the population aged 18-34 claims to be virgins. An aging society is growing in Japan, as birth rates are decreasing. Sexism in Japan — and how it culminates into sexual violence — plays a significant role in this decline.

Japanese laws on rape were not changed for 110 years until 2017. This led to rapists serving shorter prison sentences than those convicted of theft. Does Japanese society think of an object as having more importance than a woman’s body? During police investigations, police have been known to make victims reenact the incident with a sex doll. Imagine the trauma and re-traumatization that victims must endure throughout this process.

A brave woman, Shiori Ito, recently came out publicly after having been raped by renowned journalist Noriyuki Yamaguchi. She came forward in a society where topics such as rape are taboo to talk about. In the face of police reluctance to even take her case at all, Shiori showed the police footage of her unable to walk through a hotel, propped up by Yamaguchi who had drugged her just shortly before. He claims that she got too drunk. Finally, after officials started to take the case seriously and were close to making an arrest, the case was called off — theories include the involvement of the Prime Minister to aid the perpetrator. Shiori received wide scale backlash and threats, leaving her unable to go back to her house for three months.

Solely looking at the statistics, Japan seems to be a safe country. In 2017, The Japan Times reported that, “In fiscal 2015, 1,167 rapes and 6,755 cases of indecent assault were reported to the police across Japan.” The article goes on to take into account what police figures do not: widespread unreported rapes. Working with figures from the Japanese government, 95% of rapes go unreported. That is to say, “the real figure for rapes in the country could be more than 27,000.” In 2018, The Japan Times again reported on a similar issue, demonstrating that “1,750 cases of groping or molestation were reported in 2017, of which 30 percent occurred between 7 and 9 a.m.” Just as with rapes, a high percentage probably go unreported.

I share this knowledge to spread awareness of the current social climate in what seems to be a relatively safe place from the outside. It’s hard to live in a society that is so hush-hush and has such evident double standards regarding sex and its consenting participants and non-consenting victims. I did not discover what was occurring beneath the surface until I lived in Japan myself.

The #MeToo movement is not that big in Japan, but after Shiori Ito spoke out about her assault, some changes are starting to occur. Despite the oppressive taboos that still surround discussion of this dire issue, I hope that women can continue to find their voices. Stories of girls and women being groped on packed trains can no longer be a norm — and a norm that gets brushed aside, at that.

(To learn more about Japan’s cultural attitude towards sex, I’d recommend watching the BBC documentary, Japan’s Secret Shame.)

Photos (first two) by Jairo Granados, and third by Sofia Amburgey.

Navigating Faith And Sex

If only this site had existed when I was in my 20s. I’ll be 33 years old in March, and though I am a vastly different person than I was in grade school, the residue of theologically induced guilt has clung to my adult years in ways I hadn’t expected. As a bullied kid with glasses in junior high, my local Catholic church was a sanctuary where I could find companionship free of judgment, or so I thought. I took the congregation’s refrain of “all are welcome” deeply to heart, and our pastor was a man of true benevolence and uncommonly progressive values.

But when it came to the topic of sex, the sole message preached from the pulpit was to avoid it until marriage. I’ll never forget the homily delivered by a guest pastor, who had all the lights in the church dimmed as he recited a list of sins that would place us further and further from God’s light. When he arrived at “masturbation,” the room had become completely dark.

My faith remained intact until I agreed to return home and perform in a Passion Play during my freshman year in college. The guy assigned to pen the production that year clearly modeled himself after Mel Gibson, and the script he wrote was so monstrously offensive that it bordered on self-parody. During Jesus’ agony in the garden, a screen projected a montage of the alleged sins for which he would give his life. Amidst all the images of war and genocide, there were two men holding hands. Contraception and abortion were also decried as unforgivable. As soon as the first nail was driven into Jesus’ flesh, signaling the lights to be switched off, I threw my costume on the ground and fled the building, never to return.

Though I was no longer bound by the church’s puritanical culture, I still couldn’t make the first move when it came to exploring my sexuality, even after moving into a studio apartment prior to my junior year. I never considered the thought of masturbating until my girlfriend offered to give me a handjob in the shower. It was the first time I ejaculated while fully conscious, and the experience was life-altering, to say the least. Suddenly I had found a release for the tension that had been building up within me throughout my adolescence, and it didn’t feel at all shameful.

When my girlfriend and I allowed ourselves to be unclothed in front of another, there was a sense of mutual exhilaration and validation transpiring between us that felt unmistakably spiritual. The only time I felt any sort of divine presence in church was when I’d lock eyes with a fellow parishioner, and we’d wordlessly share a warmth and understanding not unlike the intimacy one experiences with a partner.

With my sex drive having literally been jump-started by my girlfriend, I would become aroused by her mere presence. Yet I never agreed to go all the way with her, and I’m certain that at least part of my decision was due to the nagging belief instilled in me by scripture, that intercourse had to be delayed until we were married. Her struggles with bipolar disorder also frightened me away from doing anything that could potentially bring new life into the world, considering how unequipped we were to care for it. Our break-up was inevitable long before it occurred the summer after our graduation, and it sent me spiraling into a deep depression.

Several months passed before I finally took my routine urges into my own hands, quite literally, and gave myself permission to masturbate. Whenever a film would portray a young man’s sexual awakening that was similar to my own, I found the scenes so erotic that I started to wonder whether I was, in fact, gay. Over the period of a few weeks, I dated a guy just long enough for me to realize that my sexuality does indeed exist on a spectrum, though it only affirmed my physical attraction to women.

The heartache and bewilderment of my early 20s would continue to haunt me until I fell head over heels for someone who quite nearly was the great love of my life.

Neither of us had been in a serious relationship for years — five, to be exact — and we found a degree of comfort with each other that was rare and rejuvenating. She loved learning about other cultures, knew multiple languages, and despite her father’s steady diet of Fox News, was a champion of immigrant rights, often volunteering to teach English to various people in her community. I could’ve easily seen myself spending the rest of my life with her, but there was a catch in the form of her evangelical Christianity.

All the brilliance and empathy she naturally possessed would become clouded as soon as religion dominated the conversation. It wasn’t enough to simply be a good person, one had to accept Jesus Christ as humanity’s sole Lord and Savior, or else be banished to the island of misfit heathens. How could I have possibly erected a wall around my own reasoning in order to give this sort of fanaticism a fair shot? Perhaps the simplicity of her worldview provided a refreshing escape from the complexities of our modern world, while enabling us to remain in an arrested state of not-quite-adulthood. She made no secret of her purity ring, though there still were nights when we’d caress each other’s clothed bodies, daring to explore terrain existing far beyond the godly region.

Without question, the most romantic moment of my life remains the one where I first said aloud that I loved her. We were lying together in bed, and I actually made the first move, leaning in to plant a kiss on her mouth. My lips were closed, but I felt her tongue, and what followed was a night of glorious, albeit PG-13-rated foreplay. The next morning, however, she was overcome with pangs of guilt, and asked me to join her in praying for forgiveness. This would occur every subsequent time we became physical during the year-and-a-half of our time together.

As we grew closer, she opened up to me about how her stepfather had sexually harassed her for years, often when they were in the same room as her seemingly oblivious mother. He’d fondle himself in front of her or whisper suggestive things to her, as if to demonstrate that he could get away with anything, even in the presence of his wife. Once my ex courageously began telling her family about the abuse, her mother did the unspeakable. Rather than file for divorce, she shamed her daughter into forgiving her husband, silencing the victim’s words through the guise of religious clemency. Now prioritizing evangelism above all else, my girlfriend broke up with me the instant I was able to admit to her — and to myself — that I could never be part of a belief system that chooses to cloak itself in denial while imposing its prejudices on others. We permanently parted ways, I tore my Bible to shreds and haven’t prayed since.

Memories of the trauma endured by my ex came flooding back to me last January, when over 260 survivors of the abuse administered by convicted child molester and former USA Gymnastics doctor Larry Nassar amplified their voices at his trial, many of them making on-camera testimonials. Among the youngest was Emily Morales, a profoundly eloquent 18-year-old who addressed Nassar directly, locking eyes with him in an attempt at achieving closure. “I want to forgive you, but I also want to hear you tell me that you regret all the hurting you’ve caused,” she replied, fighting back tears. Morales was one of numerous “sister survivors” who demonstrated during the trial how a person of faith can offer grace and forgiveness without burying truths or failing to hold abusers accountable.

If the #MeToo era has taught us anything, it’s that our stories matter more than we may ever have believed. Removing the stigma from our sexuality may be our greatest method for combating the flagrant misogyny and misinformation championed by our disgrace of a president. Only by embracing the full extent of ourselves can we become capable, at long last, of seeing the light.

Photos by Maddy Pease.

Old Kesha Was A Feminist, Too

Kesha, nee Ke$ha, was only formally welcomed into The Discourse™ around the time she went public with accusations of sexual assault and abuse against her long-time producer, Dr. Luke. This was circa 2014, long before we collectively seized upon the #MeToo movement, and a lengthy lawsuit ensued as Kesha fought to be released from her contract with Kemosabe Records. She was hailed by many for her courage in coming forward. Often, such praise would begin, “I don’t care for her music, but…”

By the time Kesha released her first album post-lawsuit and rebranding, people were ready to listen. They wanted to support Kesha, and 2017’s Rainbow made it easier to do so than any of her previous efforts. It was largely slower, more reflective, less produced. It didn’t espouse the virtues of stalking or boyfriend-stealing or pissing in the Dom Perignon. It even boasted a Dolly Parton feature on a tune co-written decades ago by Kesha’s own mother. It was a “defiant comeback” (Vanity Fair), a “cathartic roar” (Variety), anthems of “a woman unchained” (The Guardian). It was a serious album.

There is nothing wrong with a serious album. But if we couldn’t love Kesha at her sellin-our-clothes, sleepin-in-cars, dressin-it-down, hittin-on-dudes hard worst, do we really deserve her at her healthy-glow, feminist-icon best?

It was Ke$ha-with-the-dollar-sign who released Animal in 2010, and that was the Ke$ha I would blast in fourth grade when my mother was out of the house. (But only the 30-second previews — the whole family shared an iTunes library, so I couldn’t download the songs.) I loved Ke$ha and her sometimes-companions 3OH!3. I didn’t really know much music, but they seemed so worldly and unconcerned, and sounded so different from the CDs my father played in the car. Animal is sublime in that it achieves exactly what it sets out to. Every song clocks in at under four minutes. The lyrics don’t try to be smart. The sound doesn’t try to be black. It is an uncomplicated, unproblematic exploration of a young woman doing fun shit.

Post-Luke lawsuit, Kesha has conceded that we cannot spend our lives on the dancefloor. Her Twitter of late is littered with Ruth Bader Ginsburg quotes, nods to the March For Our Lives movement, and — what else — reminders to register to vote. She is also keen on saving the orcas. Her current music’s messaging leans more toward empowerment, self-love, and authenticity, and less toward the oral hygiene properties of Jack Daniels. Clubbing and hooking up, incidentally, can be empowering and authentic too — and pro-woman, though Ke$ha (and certainly those around her) may not have intended it in 2010. But they make for less palatable imagery when you publicly transition from pop singer to sexual assault victim.

As far as we know, Kesha exists now as her best self. She rebranded not insidiously, not politically, not at the urging of a PR team, but in order to live genuinely in the world. But I wonder if she knows that she didn’t have to. “Tik Tok” is just as feminist as suing your rapist.

This is not to say that we shouldn’t enjoy and support Kesha as she evolves artistically and as a woman. It is not to stake some petulant claim that the sluts had her first. Gently, it is just a reminder. Sometimes our broader discussions about victim-blaming can grow so criss-crossed and convoluted that we find ourselves invoking the logic of the other side: Well… the senior citizen or the 7-year-old or the infant wasn’t dressed provocatively. Well… Christine Blasey Ford only had one beer.

But even as we may try to divert the narrative away from them, women who like to drink and sleep around and dress skimpily can and do get raped, too. There is no perfect victim, goes the rhetoric. But not everyone can be a poster child for the cause.

Kesha is 10 years older than I am, but we have, in my mind, these kindred timelines. We had our wild days around the same time, when we were so voiceless and so loud. I did my eating disorder rehab stint a little before she did, so I felt a big-sisterly twinge when we all learned of her admission to Timberline Knolls (TK). Around that time, I was taking a lot of phone calls from TK — my rehabbing had stuck, but that’s rare-ish and a lot of the women I met at the Renfrew Center were back in treatment. Dalia was one such case.

She was very sweet. When we were inpatient together, one day her parents brought her pet snake when they visited. I thought it was funny that this was allowed, considering how vigilantly visitors were patted down for drugs and food and sharp edges. This snake wasn’t considered contraband; maybe he was an emotional support snake. She let everyone pet him. By 2014, Dalia was still doing the rehab circuit, but this time, she was at TK — with Kesha. They made each other birthday cards. I thrilled to hear about this a few months down the road when I visited Dalia in a psych ward. I could hardly believe my friend had been in rehab with Kesha and they had made each other cards.

Now, Kesha and I are adults, and we both seem to be doing well. We have corralled our eating and our drinking and our sex lives back within the realm of acceptability. I recently had my wisdom teeth removed, and when I woke up, “We R Who We R” was playing on the radio.

“Oh my fucking god,” I said. “It’s Kesha.”

Prior to the procedure, when the laughing gas wasn’t working, the oral surgeon had asked me what kind of music I liked, and I stoically replied, “A little of everything.”

Now, he smiled indulgently. “Oh,” he said, “do you like Kesha?”

“Yeah,” I said, pretty high, “Yeah. I really do.”

Original photos by Jairo Granados and Jess Farran, respectively.

When Your Parents Don’t Love Each Other

The following may be triggering to those affected by domestic violence.

When my mother was my age, she was engaged to my father.

At 18 years old, she was set to marry a man twenty years her senior. Arranged marriages in the Indian community are a commodity, brought upon by circumstance — or necessity. Before getting married, my father sent sweet introductory letters to my mother, which changed after they flew to Los Angeles together from Fiji. This was the closest my parents would ever get to loving each other. All of a sudden, my mother was stripped of the right to talk to her family and go outside. He was afraid she would cheat on him or find someone else. She was oftentimes locked in a tiny, suffocating apartment, homesick with no one to turn to.

My mother was subject to his berating tantrums and his intense physicality, which often culminated in visits from police officers. By the time I was five, I had cultivated an indifference towards the hurtful occurrences in my home. Violence had become so normalized in my household, that I couldn’t even imagine home without it. The first time I saw my mother struck by him, I meekly stood there. To this day, I still do the same.

I love my father with all my heart, which hurts to say, but I have an internalized fear of him that I will never be able to shake off. The look he gets in his eyes when he raises his voice and edges closer to raising his hand at me or my mother makes me flinch every time. It’s the reason why I jolt whenever someone tries to high-five me or why I am so stiff when they lean in for a hug.

The sorrow in my mother’s eyes, the accumulation of bruises, and her hushed sobs into her pillow eventually translated into deep periods of depression and bouts of anxiety. My father undeniably became my mother’s trigger and later became mine. We found ourselves finding solace in our prescription drugs; Xanax and Ativan became crutches. Whether it was deliberately spending hours at a time at a park to avoid him, or making sure the house was spotless, there was no denying the treatment that was to come.

I’ve tried to attribute my father’s behaviors to the undermining of women perpetuated by various Bollywood films and Hindu customs. Despite having a myriad of goddesses, who portray femininity as divine, women are seen as the dregs of Indian society. Is the learned, general lack of respect for women the cause of his violence? Or is it his upbringing he never mentions? Pinpointing the root of this is hard to determine, but I realized that the patterns that entail abuse are essentially the same. The systematic dehumanization that comes with it starts slowly, beginning with controlling the person’s every move as a “protective” pretense, keeping tabs on the person, not allowing them to see certain people or do certain things, which cripples them so they’re essentially bound and limited. My mother wishes she could have left my father, but divorces in the Indian community were frowned upon then, and doing so would’ve tarnish her family’s reputation by labeling my mother as a failed housewife. She also had my little sister and me. She didn’t have the heart to leave us with him, knowing that he’d make it so she would never see us again if she did leave.

My mother can’t hold a job because of her mental illnesses, and my father uses it as a means of blackmail. He uses it to show her she has no financial security without him. What’s important to realize is that abusers diminish the meaning of individuality and independence in the process….

Surpassing abusers means recognizing the signs early on and distancing yourself.

All photos by Jess Farran.

Tunnel Vision

Save an Uber, Ride a Cow*person is a column exploring queer millennial sex culture. The stories presented here are based on true events. Identities have been changed to protect the privacy and reputation of those involved.

“hmmmm i’m only asking cus i’m drunk lmao but would you wanna fuck soon? but also no rush YKWIM”

Rina stared at her phone, frozen in place. She had only gone on two dates with Fae that week, and they’d been amazing — it was almost painfully corny, honestly. And yet, a wave of panic started to drown her thoughts. H-how am I supposed to reply back to this? The shock was a mix of things; first surprise, then flattery, some curiosity, but mostly anxiety. Actually, all of it was anxiety.

It’s not that she didn’t want to fuck Fae. Of course she wanted to, but Rina had only had sex with one person before — her ex. Maybe she was living up to her lesbian stereotype, but Rina felt feelings hard and fast and unfortunately, sex was no exception. She just couldn’t separate her emotions from the action, and this wasn’t something she wanted to change either way. Rina knew that when the time came, she’d be giving more than body to Fae.

But in this moment, she was standing in a pit of hundreds of people, waiting for a concert to start… still unsure how to respond to this text. Even in a crowded venue, talk in the air and under ultraviolet lights, she almost forgot where she was.

Finally, Rina collected herself to reply back. “LOL maybe next time i see you, we’ll see ;)”

Sent. Sigh of relief.

* * *

That ‘next time’ was already within the next 24-hours.

On her way to Fae’s dorm, Rina couldn’t help but question why she felt so strongly about tying her emotions to sex. Uncertainty began setting in again. It’s not like anyone would object to her getting laid. If anything, so much of the queer community encourages hooking up, whether it was the liberation from heterosexual norms or just out of bored horniness. But being an idealist romantic was always the way she was; its roots ran deep. But still, a part of her wished she could detach herself to make hooking up easier — easier to see Fae, too.

She suddenly felt isolated, not only from the heteronormative world but also from a blaring factor that defined what queer culture in your 20s looked like. Rina had never doubted her sexuality, but she is beginning to question her validity in a community that was able to experience so much freedom, thrill, and consensus in a sexual expression that she couldn’t imagine doing herself.

Why can’t I just fucking relax? I can’t believe I’m thinking about sex THIS hard, my god, Rina stepped out the elevator and proceeded to Fae’s suite. The next few hours were blurred. Weed was smoked, clothes were off, lips were locked, and the rest escalated faster than Rina’s memory could grab onto. As she was coming down from her high, she found her arms wrapped around Fae, lying by their side. Her mind was still reeling from what just happened — how did I get here?

Whatever happened, she found a great sense of ease in herself again. Perhaps Rina had more self exploring to do on what love, sex, and romance really meant to her, but maybe now was the time to begin that exploration. She felt dumb for thinking that a queer identity can only be outlined by one definition, one lifestyle. Truthfully, isn’t that the whole point of it all to rebel and challenge what a majority has assumed for us and to create our own meanings instead? Fucking Fae for the first time was meant to be casual, but Rina found immense liberation. Not just from the sheer pleasure but from ridding such uncompromising thoughts. It was all new and exciting territory, and for once, Rina wasn’t afraid of wherever she was going with this new person.

Rina exhaled, still gliding her fingertips down Fae’s arm. Now, to tell them that I’ll probably catch serious feelings for them, if I haven’t already…

Photos (in order of appearance) by Leila Weinraub, still from Bruce LaBruce’s The Misandrists, and Donna Gottschalk.

Summer Love

Save an Uber, Ride a Cowboy is a column exploring queer millennial sex culture. The stories presented here are based on true events. Identities have been changed to protect the privacy and reputation of those involved.

“How old are you?”

“I’ll be 21 by the end of the summer,” admitted Lucas.

After chatting on Grindr and a few subsequent blow-and-go hookups, Scott and Lucas exchanged their real names. Both were careful to share safe details of their personal lives in between discussing wall art or sports memorabilia. Scott was 54 and lived by himself in the neighborhood Lucas grew up in; he never married but was once engaged to a woman.

Lucas was always attracted to the thought of being with an older man, even when first exploring his sexuality. He fantasized about freely walking through a house, perhaps with a joint perched in his hand, flaunting his youthful body under the gaze of an older admirer. With the warm summer air, Scott’s house afforded him space to indulge in these fantasies by drinking beer and chatting or getting down on all fours — in the bedroom, the living room, the shower, or the back porch.

For much of their time together, Lucas refused to let his guard down. This was the consequence of the age discrepancy — he didn’t want to be taken advantage of or feel out of control. Scott was very sensitive to this and made extra efforts to make Lucas feel comfortable and build trust.

“Do you mind if I move here…?”

“Can I touch/lick there…?”

“Would you want to experiment with…?”

“Hey, whatever you’re comfortable with. Remember, I am no drama.”

Never overly pushy, Scott was always respectful, letting Lucas set the pace. For them, consent was not choppy; Scott modeled organic, honest, and sexy—albeit sometimes awkward — negotiation. It was refreshing, nothing was left to a tacit understanding, opening the door to an enriched and comfortable playtime. “No, I’m not ready to be tied up… but you mentioned a blindfold?”

Lucas was grappling with a hypersexual stage in his life. He was knowingly out of his depth; what was he doing and why did he keep going back? The weight of the secret bolstered his self-image, and of course, the orgasms brought him back. Not only was it sexually gratifying, but it was satisfying to put himself in a strange and uncomfortable situation and come out the other side unscathed. It was transgressive — a total fucking turn on.

Quickly, Lucas was arriving and getting naked almost immediately, an assertiveness and comfort that made Scott awkward in his own home.

Conversations became more natural as they established more of a routine. Lucas began to share more about his day-to-day life: academic interests, summer travels, and weekend plans, but he also told Scott some of his more personal stories, such as his experience coming out in high school. Scott was attentive and supportive.

“You’re easy to talk and listen to. I just think you are a cool guy,” the elder would tell his younger lover.

It wasn’t much, Lucas’ desire for admiration and attention was easily placated. Being admired for his body and youth as much as his personality and passions encouraged Lucas’ ego. During their time together, Lucas perpetually performed that image: sultry and educated, youthful yet mature and sophisticated. It was a subtle power trip, a mediocre measure of Lucas’ sexual prowess and his audacity.

Eventually, Scott showed Lucas old photos of himself, first as a goofy college boy with a good smile, then a handsome man in the 1980s with pomp hair. He shared stories of his first sexual experiences with both girls and boys, his “coke days,” and his mid-life exploration of his sexuality. He grew up in a household that didn’t discuss or acknowledge things such as sexual fluidity or even bisexuality. He admitted that he had never dreamed of kissing a man until he was 40. Of course, now he was on Grindr and that brought new issues for him, too.

“Why would you ‘ghost’ anyone? It’s just rude, I think it’s really strange. People will stop responding as soon as I send a picture. I would never do that,” he’d confess.

“Oh, it sucks but it happens all the time. It’s just the way it works. Grindr is so game-like and digital, don’t take it personally. I do that, sometimes often, it’s easy,” Lucas would assure him.

Scott possessed so much more life experience than Lucas did and yet Lucas was light years ahead of him. Lucas would never be able to understand the stifling pressure of being in the closet into one’s 40s because he had proudly preferred dick since he was 15-years-old. Scott’s experience made him something of a mentor to Lucas, a reminder of his privilege to come of age in the Obama years and have his whole life ahead of him as an openly gay man.

Lucas was a selfish lover, while Scott was always very self-less. He loved to give pleasure orally while Lucas loved to receive it. Lucas came dozens of times, but Scott never did, not even once. He was adept with his hands and used lots of lube.

“Isn’t that angle just pure pleasure?” The alliteration “pure pleasure” becoming a sort of hedonistic mantra that echoed through their encounters.

Scott was more generous and patient as a lover than Lucas had ever been; his experience made Lucas feel green and regretful of his self-centered-ness in other sexual relationships. What role did he play in the demise of any number of past romances by selfishly terminating sex immediately after he came? In one instance, Lucas turned to Scott and said, “You’ve been patient with me,” but Scott shook his head, insisting that Lucas was the patient one. The conversation, the sex, the communication, and the relationship all bloomed in tandem.

By this point, Lucas would message Scott: “is your door open?” and simply walk in minutes later. But still, they never made the move towards anal sex, never seriously considered it. This was surprising, by comparison Lucas’ previous romantic relationships seemed stuck in a rut of impatient fucking — where was the intimate massage or creative outer-course? Why had he spent so much time racing to orgasm when the pleasure and tension of getting there were tenfold?

Scott was never his sugar daddy, but Lucas did mention the idea of a gift to him. Scott gave him his present a week before the end of the summer: a vintage leather Coach bag which contained two thongs, oil and water based lubes, two vibrators, a bottle of poppers, and a cock ring. He was literally giving Lucas the tools to explore and develop his sexuality.

Now, Lucas was prepared to be the generous partner, he could give a generous erotic massage while channeling the patience and playfulness that Scott had shown him. With a starter pack of sex toys, Lucas was overcome with unbridled excitement. Scott was proud, he knew he had done well.

Scott was an ideal summer lust. He was passionate, kind, and understanding. He showed Lucas new positions and perspectives surrounding sex. He demonstrated being a sensitive and non-judgmental partner beyond any of Lucas’ past experiences. Lucas’ time with Scott allowed him to bask in his youth, his libido, and his own kinkiness, but summer was ending and soon he would leave for school.

It wasn’t just one hook up, they were friends and both would come to miss the other. There were no strings attached; they would find new partners and go on with their separate lives. It was a clean break, an enlightening contrast to Lucas’ emotionally messy relationships, but still no less valuable or enduring.

Short-lived and real, they enjoyed their summer together.

Photos by Mikael Chukwuma Owunna and Nan Goldin.