Anonymous asked: how did you know you were a top?
shortly after coming out there’s this thing called the deciding- the high elder gays and bi men assemble and a lock of your hair is thrown into a fire, if the fire turns green you’re a top, if it turns blue you’re a bottom and if it’s red you’re vers. It’s actually a really beautiful ceremony.
My favorite words today: muscle-belly, floatplane, espresso.
Monday: I saved someone from a castle pinned deep in fog, hacked down thorny bushes and forded ice-slush rivers the whole way there. I fought a dragon made of pine needles and sulfur ash, while dragging a fear-struck steed behind me. All of this to rescue something a figure that could’ve looked like you. In the end it was just a beautiful heap of sticks, which I built and burned in effigy of a bear. I slept back to the blaze that night—I was all warmth and smoke and orange-red light.
Tuesday: At thirty feet tall, I could skim the tops of small buildings with my fingers. I went downtown where we once saw a kid lose hold of his balloon. We watched it catch under the awning of a townhouse and you sighed while slowly stirring your coffee. I reached towards the sky and plucked the balloon like a ripe berry. When I returned it to the kid, he looked shy at first and I walked away. Soon, he ran after me and threw himself around my leg, muttering Thank you into my shin.
Wednesday: I took a Greyhound to New York, but we busted a flat next to a field of brass antiques: serving trays, doorknobs, spinning candelabras, everything soaking up sun. I dial for a cab or a friend and all my contacts are pet names I’ve never thought to call you—pineapple, trumpet, madrugada. I call every last entry, but the only answer I get is the clash cymbals reuniting.
Thursday: In the waking world, I bought myself a reward for doing so well, sleep-wise. You always said black wingtips looked too wedding or funereal—both starts and ends—for everyday wear. But I liked pebbled leather and the tight Oxford lacing. You would have hated the burnished cap toe, but I needed the heeltap to click when I walked, to echo where I’ve been, to sound out where I’ve yet to go.
Friday: I was lost in a thatch of woods, which with each step became a flooded alley, a hallway of pinball machines, the playground I learned to ride a bike. Eventually everything opened into a field of purple tulips. I carefully picked all the flowers with my teeth. I cleaned the whole field green and naked. I made a glorious purple pile of flowers and planned not to give you a single one.
Eric Tran was voted most likely to steal your man.
art: i gave you everything,
and this is how you repay me?
i’ve decided to unironically become an accountant
and start inquiring around town
about how much it might cost
to employ somebody handsome
to spank me with my favorite childhood toy
i swear i only cry during sex
when i think it’s the last time
i’ll get to have sex
Candace Holmes was voted most likely to get caught pretending to understand a pop culture reference.
We sit down on the carpet.
Us two, the only girls
Smashing Pumpkins “1979”
looping as boys fill the room
with lean breath. Richard. Dave. Dru.
Rupert. Garrett. Riad. Army of the lost
holds a tactical meeting on how best to die
before the burnout. Skateboards? Acid?
Tepid QuikCheck coffee? The basement is hot
& crowded as my tongue in my mouth.
See them, the lanky weeds
willing to go & grow anywhere.
John Poverty, tattooing grapefruits,
then his own thigh, then the insides
of offered lips. Sean rank with chemical
roses from the perfume factory.
Joey, on a flight to Lithuania
in a few hours, banished
to a country without vowels.
And us two, compact, backs against the unmade bed.
You steal my notebook, wrote in whisper script
I have had sex with far too many people
in this room. I grab & hold your writing hand
wanting to absorb the panic of a place
with no mystery left.
Emily O’Neill was voted most likely to finish her vocab quiz obnoxiously early.