#clearly i am no longer ashamed of being a lesbian

[theaccidentfactory]

10 year old me: I need to get a bible. to fix me. (plagued by internalized homophobia and religious guilt about liking girls)

19 year old me: I need to get a bible. to fix me. (so I can write the crazy yuri sex in my blasphemous biblical horror podcast more accurately)

[anachronisticcrab]

I can't win with fucking allo people.

I love being aroace. I'm proud of it, I'm not ashamed of it, all of that. I don't want romance or sex or anything along those lines, and I'm happy with that.

But in a society that puts romantic love at the highest peak of importance, I'm left out

I've lost more friends than I can count because they got a partner and no longer wanted me around as much, because they asked to kiss me so I would know what it's like cause how could I not want to, because I wasn't comfortable playing dating sims with them.

I can't win with cishet allo people because they can't conceptualize it. They want things to be in their field of understanding, and I don't fit into that, so they question me. About everything. Then they get a partner and I lose them to some degree.

Its possibly even worse with queer people. My queer friends place so much of their identity in their sexuality that it's nearly impossible to fit into those spaces when your sexuality and romantic preference is nonexistent. Queer liberation has massively been about how love is love, but I don't fit into that and I never will.

Allo people would prefer it if I wanted to want a romantic relationship, I think. If I wanted to want it, then I wouldn't be broken. Then they could make dirty jokes about me instead of just with me. Then they could joke about how we were basically married without me ever recoiling in disgust.

Then they wouldn't feel as guilty when they forget about me when they get a romantic partner.

But if I wanted to want, allo people would double down on how I haven't met the right person or that I'm confused. If I'm not 100% happy being aroace all the time, I'm not aroace enough. And I'm clearly wrong.

Side note: Why do allo people think it's ok to wish they were aro and/or ace? It's not funny to joke about it when u are one of the people who fucking ostracize me for it. It's not funny when youre not dating anyone and call yourself aroace, it's not a choice and it's not silly. It's not cute when straight women call themselves lesbians because they're annoyed with men, it's not cute when straight men call themselves gay because they're annoyed with women, it's not funny when people joke about being aroace because they're annoyed with romance. Also, why do allo people not think before they say shit like 'if u don't fuck/date, what do u do? How are u human?'

I don't put a ton of stock into my new friendships with allo people anymore because I just fucking can't. If I do, I will be completely fucking crushed when they leave because I know that when I do value a friendship, I will always care more about the allo than they do about me. I am sick of caring about others more than they care about me, but this won't change until I meet another romance repulsed aro, who I haven't met yet because (shocker) being aro? Not the most common sexuality.

Tl;DR: I just... I can't fucking win. I'm too queer for straight ppl, not queer enough for queer ppl, too aroace if I don't go along with amatonormativity and not aroace enough if I don't. I'm lonely, my allo friends will always value others over me, and I constantly have people undermining my sexuality with stupid jokes and offhand comments. I'm sick of allo people.

[jackalopes-pen]

Experimenting

Summary: Henrietta questions her sexuality and decides to figure it out the old fashioned way. In practice.

Characters: Henrietta Biggle | Michael (Tall Goth)

Word Count: 535

A/N: We're back, we have content. I really need to update other fics atm but take for now while I play catchup and try to transfer an entire fic to AO3

Henrietta had never really questioned her sexuality. She slowly came to this realisation as she read poetry in her room. She had never asked that question despite consistently being bullied and mocked for likely being a lesbian. Maybe she simply always figured she was straight because no one ever really peaked her interest. In fairness, she was never looking in the first place. After all, her standards leaned towards alternative people, not some conformist jock or cheerleader. She started to wonder if there was a way she could test this. 

An idea slowly popped into her head. The conformists often claimed she was dating Michael. It made sense in theory, since the two of them were the sort of leaders of their group. Well... leaders-ish. Power structure in a group dynamic is for conformist assholes who feel like they have no power over their life and take it on their loved ones. Whatever- that's a different tangent. She decided to text him and see if he’d be just willing enough to humour it.

“Hey, would you kiss me?” Henrietta texted Michael, nervous. Why did she phrase it like that? That's so awkward. He would probably think it as spam or her dumb little brother. She waited for a while before he finally responded.

“Ig.” Michael responded

It wasn’t promising, but it was consent. She texted him to come over to her house. They lived across the street from each other, so it wasn’t a hassle by any means. All that made it longer was his limp. She just sat in her room and waited for three knocks. Henrietta found it weird how calculated he is. It was always three knocks or always placing his pencil in the same way. Maybe it was just some kind of neurodivergence. 

Knock Knock Knock 

“Yeah?” Henrietta shouted at the door. 

“I’m here.” Michael deadpanned. He walked in, closing the door after him, and leaning against his usual spot on her bed frame.

“I know it sounds super conformist, but I just didn’t think about this kind of thing. Y’know it’s not super goth to think about love so I just didn’t.” Henrietta said, kind of rambling. She was kind of making an excuse for herself as to why she asked him to be here.  She knows he doesn't give a shit. However, in her mind, she needs justification for asking her best friend to kiss her.

“Okay. So why am I here? Just for you to experiment?” Michael said. 

“I was wondering if you would kiss me. Just- just to test and see if I’m straight or not. I don’t know what else to do.” Henrietta admitted, clearly a bit ashamed. Her cheeks turned a soft pink under her white foundation.

Michael moved forward and tipped her chin up. He seems almost bored at the idea but willing. “So… just kiss you?”

“Yeah.” Henrietta whispered out.

“Okay.” Michael hummed against her lips.

Michael closed the gap and kissed her lips. His lips were soft and warm, but it felt so gross. It felt like kissing her brother or maybe a stranger. but definitely someone she shouldn't be kissing. They both quickly pulled away. Henrietta grabbed a mint from her dresser and popped it in. 

“That was awful.” she said clearly, still reeling from it. She even gagged slightly from it.

“I’m never doing that again.” Michael said, trying to maintain his facade of apathy, but failing as his body compulsively gagged.

“Wait- you… hated it too?” Henrietta laughed slightly, amused.

“... yeah.” Michael said kinda sheepishly.

Their silence hung in the air like a tense balloon. The quiet realisation of their orientations setting in. Maybe in the back of their minds they quietly figured they were straight but any inclination of that was shattered.

“We will never speak of this again.” Henrietta stated firmly.

“Agreed.” Michael said quickly, offering his hand to seal the deal.

They shook, and from that day forward if anyone asked they said simply were gay and that was not up for debate.

[forgottenyear]

[tw: CSA and child abuse - implied without elaboration]

--

It is not like I am in such a bad place in life, or like I would be so much better off were the circumstances different. Had the parents not done what they did, I would not choose for my present outcome to be substantially different. But the parents did not engineer this outcome.

I am where I am because of impossible chance. Because my partner and Angela happened to share a few friends. Because my (female) partner’s closet has a glass door, if you will. (My partner insists that she is straight, but nearly all of her female friends are out as lesbian, and she was first attracted to Angela.)

But where I am is not the result of the parents’ actions. (Given they are/were xenophobic conservatives with white supremacist leanings, I suspect they hid/hide reservations about me marrying a ‘Jewish princess.’)

I say I do not live in reality because I know where I come from. I know we would not likely have survived more than a few months longer, before my partner came along. I know I cannot survive that (again).

Without the impossible chance, I would not be here, there, or anywhere. The destiny the parents created was that we would not live long enough to matter.

What the parents did was to deprive us of self-determination.

Was to deprive us of self-preservation.

Of self-defense.

It takes nearly superhuman strength to argue my own defense when I am accused of something. When I am accused, the accusation becomes reality. It becomes reality, and then I can only compound my offense by arguing – by lying – my defense. (I have written about this, at length, before.)

The parents had immediate gratification, then spent the rest of our childhood destroying us so they would never be held to account for this act. I have no (narrative) memory of the act, but the entire life of this body has been one of bouncing about with the current.

I have vague memories of a rudderless life being the end goal of certain religions / beliefs. But it should have been my choice. I should have known I had a choice.

And they beat the * out of the child until I have all these * parts and I don’t know what the * I am.

--

I need to calm down. [and clean up my language]

--

I would have thought the mother complicit only in the cover-up, in the destruction of our life. But she saw one last opportunity and could not resist. She could not do what was arguably medically necessary and let the chance pass. I have enough memory to know that it was probably a disappointment for her to have to stop before even someone as stupid as I am would realize this was not right.

--

I do feel stupid. And complicit. And I am so ashamed of this disgusting body because it clearly has never had shame for itself. I hate this body so much.

--

And I do not know what I am writing, so I had better stop here. This is stupid enough.

[langtanfarvingar]

I was born in Boston in

1949. I never wanted

this fact to be known, in

fact I’ve spent the better

half of my adult life

trying to sweep my early

years under the carpet

and have a life that

was clearly just mine

and independent of

the historic fate of

my family. Can you

imagine what it was

like to be one of them,

to be built like them,

to talk like them

to have the benefits

of being born into such

a wealthy and powerful

American family. I went

to the best schools,

had all kinds of tutors

and trainers, traveled

widely, met the famous,

the controversial, and

the not-so-admirable

and I knew from

a very early age that

if there were ever any

possibility of escaping

the collective fate of this famous

Boston family I would

take that route and

I have. I hopped

on an Amtrak to New

York in the early

‘70s and I guess

you could say

my hidden years

began. I thought

Well I’ll be a poet.

What could be more

foolish and obscure.

I became a lesbian.

Every woman in my

family looks like

a dyke but it’s really

stepping off the flag

when you become one.

While holding this ignominious

pose I have seen and

I have learned and

I am beginning to think

there is no escaping

history. A woman I

am currently having

an affair with said

you know  you look

like a Kennedy. I felt

the blood rising in my

cheeks. People have

always laughed at

my Boston accent

confusing “large” for

“lodge,” “party”

for “potty.” But

when this unsuspecting

woman invoked for

the first time my

family name

I knew the jig

was up. Yes, I am,

I am a Kennedy.

My attempts to remain

obscure have not served

me well. Starting as

a humble poet I

quickly climbed to the

top of my profession

assuming a position of

leadership and honor.

It is right that a

woman should call

me out now. Yes,

I am a Kennedy.

And I await

your orders.

You are the New Americans.

The homeless are wandering

the streets of our nation’s

greatest city. Homeless

men with AIDS are among

them. Is that right?

That there are no homes

for the homeless, that

there is no free medical

help for these men. And women.

That they get the message

—as they are dying—

that this is not their home?

And how are your

teeth today? Can

you afford to fix them?

How high is your rent?

If art is the highest

and most honest form

of communication of

our times and the young

artist is no longer able

to move here to speak

to her time…Yes, I could,

but that was 15 years ago

and remember—as I must

I am a Kennedy.

Shouldn’t we all be Kennedys?

This nation’s greatest city

is home of the business-

man and home of the

rich artist. People with

beautiful teeth who are not

on the streets. What shall

we do about this dilemma?

Listen, I have been educated.

I have learned about Western

Civilization. Do you know

what the message of Western

Civilization is? I am alone.

Am I alone tonight?

I don’t think so. Am I

the only one with bleeding gums

tonight. Am I the only

homosexual in this room

tonight. Am I the only

one whose friends have

died, are dying now.

And my art can’t

be supported until it is

gigantic, bigger than

everyone else’s, confirming

the audience’s feeling that they are

alone. That they alone

are good, deserved

to buy the tickets

to see this Art.

Are working,

are healthy, should

survive, and are

normal. Are you

normal tonight? Everyone

here, are we all normal.

It is not normal for

me to be a Kennedy.

But I am no longer

ashamed, no longer

alone. I am not

alone tonight because

we are all Kennedys.

And I am your President.

Eileen Myles, An American Poem

[baileye]

Eileen Myles, performing “An American Poem” in the late 80s/early 90s.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hRsift2tfZU

I was born in Boston in

1949. I never wanted

this fact to be known, in

fact I’ve spent the better

half of my adult life

trying to sweep my early

years under the carpet

and have a life that

was clearly just mine

and independent of

the historic fate of

my family. Can you

imagine what it was

like to be one of them,

to be built like them,

to talk like them

to have the benefits

of being born into such

a wealthy and powerful

American family. I went

to the best schools,

had all kinds of tutors

and trainers, traveled

widely, met the famous,

the controversial, and

the not-so-admirable

and I knew from

a very early age that

if there were ever any

possibility of escaping

the collective fate of this famous

Boston family I would

take that route and

I have. I hopped

on an Amtrak to New

York in the early

‘70s and I guess

you could say

my hidden years

began. I thought

Well I’ll be a poet.

What could be more

foolish and obscure.

I became a lesbian.

Every woman in my

family looks like

a dyke but it’s really

stepping off the flag

when you become one.

While holding this ignominious

pose I have seen and

I have learned and

I am beginning to think

there is no escaping

history. A woman I

am currently having

an affair with said

you know  you look

like a Kennedy. I felt

the blood rising in my

cheeks. People have

always laughed at

my Boston accent

confusing “large” for

“lodge,” “party”

for “potty.” But

when this unsuspecting

woman invoked for

the first time my

family name

I knew the jig

was up. Yes, I am,

I am a Kennedy.

My attempts to remain

obscure have not served

me well. Starting as

a humble poet I

quickly climbed to the

top of my profession

assuming a position of

leadership and honor.

It is right that a

woman should call

me out now. Yes,

I am a Kennedy.

And I await

your orders.

You are the New Americans.

The homeless are wandering

the streets of our nation’s

greatest city. Homeless

men with AIDS are among

them. Is that right?

That there are no homes

for the homeless, that

there is no free medical

help for these men. And women.

That they get the message

—as they are dying—

that this is not their home?

And how are your

teeth today? Can

you afford to fix them?

How high is your rent?

If art is the highest

and most honest form

of communication of

our times and the young

artist is no longer able

to move here to speak

to her time…Yes, I could,

but that was 15 years ago

and remember—as I must

I am a Kennedy.

Shouldn’t we all be Kennedys?

This nation’s greatest city

is home of the business-

man and home of the

rich artist. People with

beautiful teeth who are not

on the streets. What shall

we do about this dilemma?

Listen, I have been educated.

I have learned about Western

Civilization. Do you know

what the message of Western

Civilization is? I am alone.

Am I alone tonight?

I don’t think so. Am I

the only one with bleeding gums

tonight. Am I the only

homosexual in this room

tonight. Am I the only

one whose friends have

died, are dying now.

And my art can’t

be supported until it is

gigantic, bigger than

everyone else’s, confirming

the audience’s feeling that they are

alone. That they alone

are good, deserved

to buy the tickets

to see this Art.

Are working,

are healthy, should

survive, and are

normal. Are you

normal tonight? Everyone

here, are we all normal.

It is not normal for

me to be a Kennedy.

But I am no longer

ashamed, no longer

alone. I am not

alone tonight because

we are all Kennedys.

And I am your President.

[starshipsofstarlord]

Online dating

darcy lewis x reader / masterlist

summary; darcy decides to try a dating app, least to say, the guy isn’t anything like his picture. and thus she ditches him, and finds someone else in a hot second / warnings; the oc guys in this fic are dicks, homophobia, darcy being bae, swearing, mentions of sex and cheating, mentions of joy x reader.

he was a polar opposite to what he had portrayed his online self to be, screw the internet! this date was truly tragic, darcy had plenty of things that she could be better using her time for, rather than sitting opposite this oaf, that was licking his unappealing lips, and staring at the waitress when he thought that she didn’t notice.

“huh?” the scientific doctor pulled her phone out, ushering a puzzled expression on her face as she stared at the blank screen. she of course recognised that no one was making any attempts to contact her, but he didn’t know that. “one second.” she held her finger up, bringing the phone to her ear as she blabbered into the speaker that was inherently catching nothing that she was saying.

“slow down jane.” darcy falsely ushered, using her hands to exaggerate the conversation in her head. she put the phone down, a facade of panic elaborating behind her spectacle adorned eyes as she grabbed her belongings in a frenzy, standing upright and out of her seat. “im so sorry, my friend has just hit some guy with her car and she needs some moral support. tonight is going to have to be cut extremely short.”

short was a relief, but the hopeful expression on this dude’s face wasn’t. perhaps it was cruel to leave this guy hanging, and well, she couldn’t blame him for wanting more, she sent him an awkward smile as he began to speak. “we should do this again some time - properly.” darcy wasn’t dumb, she noticed how his eyes sped to the side as the curvy waitress walked by.

“sure...” no, definitely not. darcy was well aware that she was wasting her time with this moron, she didn’t need a man, let alone a dweeb of one. a quick wave was all she bade him as she exited the coffee shop, only to become engrossed in a scene erupting on the local streets. there was a woman, flinging shirts, and a bra within the bundle that looked as though it was not her size, what was she thinking, clearly it wasn’t, at said example of figurative masculinity.

“screw you durkus!” any guy named ‘durkus’ was basically a label confirming that he was a dick. “i don’t need you, nor the next man! i am a well established woman who has done more for this country than you could ever know, you’re dust beneath my feet, a pathetic layer of residue that i want nothing more to brush off.” perhaps she was being harsh, but it sounded like he deserved it.

from the red lipstick, that the woman was not at all sporting, from the random bra that she had flung at her partner, it was a safe bet to assume that he had cheated on her. darcy plodded closer, listening whimsically in, and realising that her life was pretty calm, there were no longer asguardians or dark elves infiltrating her life, nor the work that she had attained to field in.

she had only recently earned herself the title of doctor, and it was frustrating that people would assume that she opted for a profession in a hospital room, or they would forget the professional endorsement all together, and address her as ‘miss lewis’. she was no one’s puppet, she had scaled herself up the ladder of her career to be where she was now, but another thing that she was alongside such a wave of potential was a feminist.

this dick was shouting in the streets, calling her inexplicable names such as a ‘whore’, and a ‘two faced bitch’. having the ability to hear the insults brew anger in her stomach, she couldn’t just stand there. “what are you going to do, turn into a complete lesbian?” now that was the last straw, it had darcy marching over, and promptly she shoved the guy, making him drop all the items that were grasped in the basket of his arms.

a flabbergasted ‘huh’ was riveted from him, and it made darcy smirk as she attuned his attention towards her; the stranger that had gotten involved in his public display of disrespect and homophobia. “how about you watch your damned mouth before i make sure you can’t open it again. and whilst you’re at it, get some new shirts, you’re not a model, unless you’re the kind that are put on prison pamphlets.”

“who the fuck are you?” he spat his saliva on the ground by darcy’s feet, establishing her with the information that her first impression of this dick had been correct. women just knew with this kind of thing, they could sense trouble from a mile away. “you know what, keep that crazy bitch. maybe you can help her store her katanas, and go on double dates with danny rand and his plus one. rather you than me.”

“don’t ask.” the woman shook her head, tired of the drama that durkus always seemed to bring. she had enough trouble, involving work and extracurricular night time activities, without him adding to them. darcy presented her with a sweet smile, picking up the box of random bits and bobs that was on the floor. “that’s just work stuff, i’m moving offices and as i came to collect some things from our apartment, and i found him- well let’s just say he wasn’t alone.”

“that was pretty easy to pick up on. how’d you not realise that you were dating a total sleaze?” she was blunt with her enquiry, though the woman shrugged, a guilty expression cowering upon your features, like an ashamed shadow. a small, attractive smile graced her lips, secrets hidden beneath the span of the expression.

“oh, i knew. i just had to pretend to be happy, so that my ex, or well now, my other ex joy would stop chastising me, claiming that i haven’t got over her. she’s so up her own ass sometimes and it drives me- shit, i’m sorry, you don’t know me, nor do you need to hear about my problems.” the y/h/c haired woman shook her head, stretching her hand out to miss lewis. “i’m y/n, thanks a bunch for helping me out back there.”

darcy accepted her handshake, completing the action as she smiled. “i’m darcy.” this woman didn’t need to know about her doctor title, in fact, darcy was keen on knowing everything about her instead. “so’d how you meet him?” referring to the person that had most recently became y/n’s ex. y/n was relieved that darcy had shown up, she was sure she’d have used her martial art training for more than composition; she’d have kicked durkus’ flat ass.

“on a dating app.” it was a normal answer, she wouldn’t share the intel that before that she had saved his ass whilst wearing a black hood, stopping him from getting mugged in the dead of night. perhaps she should have saved someone else that particular late evening. darcy couldn’t help but let a small laugh out, finding both their circumstances quite amusing. she was sure a similar situation would have unfolded if she had decided to regularly see the date that she ditched.

“online dating man, it sucks, am i right?” it had quite the reputation, for the two of them especially. “maybe we should just date each other.” she joked, though she was being partially serious. it felt right, they had bumped randomly into one another’s faulted situations on the same day, it almost felt like fate, though that subject was too cheesy to say aloud.

“well doctor lewis, i would not at all mind going on a date with you.” darcy frowned at the title that she had been called, pointing at the side of the woman’s jacket, that had a recyclable label stuck upon the material. “so you majored in science, if i am correct?” finally, someone got it! she could get used to that.

y/n did not appear as a deity nor a creature from another realm, she was normal. or so as far as the eye could tell, in fact, she did not suspect a thing from this woman, much less to be a defender of the earth that worked in a small and less know league than the avengers, yet still roamed the us to protect its people.

darcy though had won this battle for her though, giving her a moment of peace from fighting, and had idly sent durkus on his route far away. y/n could get used to not being the hero all the time, more so if this doctor was her knight in shining armour.

[bourbonbees]

Suptober Day 6- Cemetery Boys

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34336042

Rating- G Jack POV

Jack has discovered there are a great deal of things that he loves about being human, he loves eating cake, taking his dog for walks, and swimming, but there’s nothing he loves more than his family. His family is not conventional, he’s got three dads, one of which is an angel, but all of them love him unconditionally. It’s rocky at first with Dean but after some quality time spent listening to Zep and going fishing together, the grumpy hunter warms up to him. It also doesn’t hurt that Jack’s first dad, Castiel, is also Dean’s partner and therefore holds a lot of sway over him, whether he likes it or not. Sam, his third dad was the best! He’s the one that establishes family movie night, Jack’s favorite night of the week!

Sam lets Jack pick the movies pretty much every week, much to Dean’s dismay. This week Jack chooses Ghostbusters as his pick. It’s great, he especially loves the jokes and the Stay Puffed Marshmallow man. He isn’t sure where the writers did their research for the movie though, his experiences with ghosts contain a lot less whimsy and a lot more salting and burning. The movie is just wrapping up when it hits him, they don’t have a name, every great team of heroes has a name.

“Hey, why don’t we have a name?” Jack poses the question, looking to Dean for a response.

“Kid, how much candy have you had? Are you sugar crashing? Remember, me Dean, you Jack, that annoying guy over there, Sam, this adorable ray of sunshine, Castiel.” Dean is concerned, he feels Jack’s forehead and looks him over, his parental instincts kicking in.

“No like a team name! Like there’s The Avengers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, uh The Fellowship of the Ring.” Jack lists off, Sam sending him a proud smile at the last one.

“Jack, hunters don’t really do teams. We’re kinda solitary, it’s our nature.” Sam explains, causing Jack even further confusion as he looks around at his family. They do everything together, live together, celebrate wins together, spend holidays together, work together, is that not a team?

“We’re not a team? Isn’t a family a team?” Jack frowns, worrying that he’s misread a long series of social cues. He is prone to that sometimes, his brain working a bit differently from his dads, neurodivergent, that’s what Sam had called it.

“Jack, oh, of course we’re a team. But more than that, we’re family.” Cas swoops in, reaching over and patting Jack on the shoulder. Cas is always the gentlest of his dads, he gives really good hugs, and is the one Jack goes to on the days where being a human is too much to deal with.

“Would it make you feel better if we had a team name?” Dean offers, following Cas’ lead. Jack doesn’t miss when Cas sends Dean a small nod of approval. Dean has a different parenting approach, sometimes he’s a bit harder on Jack. Jack doesn’t like that but he understands that Dean is trying.

“Yeah, I was thinking Cemetery Boys!” Jack says right away, looking around the room expectantly. Sam chokes slightly on his beer while Cas smiles approvingly, Dean laughs softly, shaking his head at Jack.

“Well we do spend a disproportionate amount of time in cemeteries, so it makes sense to me.” Jack defends, his cheeks feeling hot, blushing, that’s what Sam had told him it was. Sometimes Jack hates being human, blushing is embarrassing and makes him feel a bit like a baby.

“Shouldn’t we be cemetery men?” Dean questions, raising a quizzical brow at Jack.

“Technically speaking, Jack and myself are neither male nor female. So, no.” Cas supplies, shrugging his shoulders at Dean and earning an eye roll. Jack doesn’t understand why his dads enjoy teasing each other so much, maybe annoying someone was another human way to express love?

“So, you’re telling me, I came out as bisexual for nothing because, I’m not really dating a man?” Dean blanches, gently smacking Cas on the shoulder. Hitting people is another love language Jack has learned, but not too hard, he learned that after accidently punching Sam a little too enthusiastically on the shoulder. Play fighting is good, actual violence is bad, he had explained that to him.

“We’re non-binary! Claire taught me that.” Jack is happy to interrupt, always happy to share the latest things he’d learned. He loves Claire for that reason, she’s always full of new things to learn, she is an excellent big sister. “Claire, Me, Cas, and Dean, we’re all LGBLT? Or is it LGBTQ? Either way, Claire is a lesbian, she also taught me that. And Dean, you’re a bisexual! Cas, you’re gay, I think? So, you didn’t come out for nothing, you came out for your non-binary partner.” Ha! Jack is very proud, this is one area he feels confident he knows more about than Sam, Dean, or even Cas.

“You’re surprisingly well informed for a toddler.” Sam compliments, tipping his beer bottle at him.

“The toddler age range ends at 3, I assure you, Jack is 4. He is no longer a toddler. I read all the development books.” Cas corrects, earning a laugh from Dean and a groan from Sam.

“He did, trust me Sammy, made me read some of them as well. Babies are weird man. Glad you came out fully formed kid, it was a relief.” Dean chuckles. Jack is relieved he came out fully formed too, it’s a lot more fun hanging out with his family when he can talk to them like this.

“I’m a celestial being, age doesn’t exist for me. I am as old or as young as I want to be at any given minute. Isn’t that neat?” Jack prides himself on choosing this form, a teenage body, he likes it because he can help his family. He likes going hunting, driving cars, and helping Dean cook dinner, a baby couldn’t do any of that!

“He really is your son-uh I mean they really are your child?” Dean self corrects, Jack notices he does that a lot more lately, again he really is trying to be better. Jack admires that about Dean, it’s something he tries to emulate as best as he can, always working to be a better person and make his mistakes right.

“Oh, I’m comfortable with he/they, just like my dad! I do feel like a boy most of the time.” Jack looks to Cas who nods along with him. They’d talked about it once, Cas explained that Jack could change a number of things about himself if he wished, if it would better match his soul. But Jack is really and truly happy with who he is. So is Cas.

“Yeah that’s my son.” Cas says fondly, pulling Jack into a hug. This is a good hug, the kind that makes Jack feel safe and cared for. Cas always makes him feel like he belongs, that no matter what he has a place in his arms.

That night, Jack sets a plan into motion. He waits until everyone is asleep and gets to work on creating gifts for his family. He uses his powers to manifest a set of matching black crew neck sweatshirts with the words ‘Cemetery Boys’ embroidered on the front in white thread. He then designs a magnet, putting a little ghost and tombstone on it. Once he’s satisfied he goes through the recycling and finds a box to put the sweatshirts in.

The next part is the most dangerous. Jack, creeps down the hall to the door that leads into the garage attached to the bunker. His eyes glimmer when he finds his target, the black 67 Impala, sitting dead center in the garage. Dean had just waxed her the day before so she was extra shiny. Jack likes when Baby is shiny, it makes the sun reflect on his face, nice and warm. He takes the magnet and carefully places it on the bumper, making sure not to scuff or scratch the shiny metal. Then in a flash, he is back in his room, laying in his bed as if nothing has happened.

Dean doesn’t notice the magnet until they are packing for a hunt the next day, a simple salt and burn case in Wisconsin. The whole family is going! Dean has even promised Jack that he will take him to Wisconsin Dells if it goes well and they will go to a place called Deer Park where he could pet and feed a bunch of deer. Jack likes animals, sometimes more than people, they’re much less complicated.

“Oh my god! My Baby is a whore! You gave her a tramp stamp?” Dean gasps, pointing to the offending ‘Cemetery Boys’ magnet on the bumper.

“You like it? I made it myself!” Jack beams with pride, hoping Dean was speechless because he was blown away by his ability to create magnets.

“Also, the term you’re looking for is sex worker. You need to be more sex positive Dean, especially for someone, who from the sound I hear coming from your room at night, seems to enjoy sex a great deal.” Jack blurts out nervously when Dean doesn’t respond. Jack tends to do that, he wishes he could stop, another part of what makes him different from most people.

“Oh, for the love of Christ. Please Jack, no.” Sam is doing something Claire told Jack is a facepalm, meaning he was either embarrassed or frustrated, perhaps both?

“Do not be ashamed of our healthy sex life, Dean. But do but ashamed of your gendered slurs and generally overdramatic demeanor. The car is unharmed, it’s a magnet.” Cas steps in, doing the teasing thing again. Jack really doesn’t understand his dads, but he’s glad they seem happy together.

“I swear one day Baby and I will drive away and leave you all behind. Traitors.” Dean threatens, this is a joke, Jack measures. Dean does that a lot, uses sarcasm and empty threats, at first they used to confuse and frighten Jack but now he just accepts it’s part of his nature. Dean is grumpy. Loveable but grumpy.

“See your theatrics are quite comical. You couldn’t leave us if you tried. Who would open the pickle jars for you, darling?” Cas smirks, Jack remembers witnessing this scene, Dean saying all the “no words” at a jar of gherkins as he struggled for a good 5 minutes, until his dad took the jar and opened it within two seconds.

“It was one time! And I swear I loosened it!” Dean glowers, clearly ashamed by the great pickle debacle of last week.

“Dads, stop. I will remove the magnet.” Jack decides it’s his job to play peacemaker, he steps up and gently takes the magnet off baby’s bumper, Dean visibly sighs in relief. Jack tries to hide his disappointment, he’d meant the sticker as a gift.

Cas notices his mood shift and is by his side, pulling Jack into a side hug. “Hey, you can put it on my truck.” He offers, rubbing Jack’s back and making him instantly feel better, must be magic dad powers Jack figures.

“Thanks dad, this is why you’re my favorite.” He says without thinking, Sam and Dean giving him matching offended expressions.

“Uh-what about me, I’m the one that sneaks you candy when Cas isn’t looking.” Sam makes a good point, he is exceptionally good at sneaking. He and Jack have so much fun together, that’s how they ended up with Miracle the dog. Sam had helped Jack smuggle him into the bunker and once both Jack and Cas had bonded with the dog, Dean couldn’t kick him out. Though Jack knows that Dean loves the dog just as much, he’s caught him slipping Miracle some of the good bacon when he thinks no one is looking.

“No Dean is the one that gives me candy. You help me pull pranks!” Jack laughs as Dean, flinches, quickly busing himself with packing all their bags in the trunk along with the weapons they’d need.

“Dean!” Cas says in his low, ‘oh no you’re in trouble,’ voice. “We’ve dicussed this, Jack’s intake of high fructose corn syrup is frighteningly high. He needs to eat real food.” He adds. Nougat is a food, Jack thinks privately, nougat might be his favorite food in fact.

“He’s a kid, he’ll be fine. Dean and I lived on that shi-stuff as kids and we turned out alright.” Sam, usually the vegetable police, surprisingly comes to Jack and Dean’s rescue, earning a matching raised brow from them both.

“Did you though?” Cas challenges, hand on his hip, sometimes dad gets sassy. Jack likes when dad gets sassy because it’s funny, makes him laugh.

“Well damn, don’t sugar coat it or anything babe.” Dean says in disbelief, opening the passenger door for Cas, Sam climbing into Baby’s backseat before Dean motions for Jack to come sit behind him. “Do I even want to know?” He sighs as he spots the box Jack is carrying.

“Well you’ve all been distracting me, I almost forgot.” Jack pauses as he opens the box and holds up the Sam sized sweatshirt. “I made us all shirts! Team shirts, we’re the Cemetery Boys!” He says proudly, shoving the shirt at Sam, then two at Cas, one for him and one for Dean. Jack pulls on his own shirt right away, stretching his arms and modeling it for them all.

“Can you all wear them for me?” Jack pulls out his trump card for this one, using the ‘look’ that Sam had taught him. He made his eyes big and kept them open just long enough so they were watering slightly, then bit his lip.

“I really screwed myself when I taught you my secrets. Really, using my own puppy eyes on me. Really short sighted of me to teach you that.” Sam sighs as he pulls on the sweatshirt, Cas doing the same.

“Nope, still not doing it. I don’t do matching shirts.” Dean holds firm, shaking his head at Cas when he holds out the sweatshirt to him as they pull out of the garage.

“Dean, the couch in the library is awfully uncomfortable. It’d be a shame if you had to sleep there.” Cas is firmly on team Cemetery Boys, pulling out the big threats to get Jack his way.

“Ugh fine, but no one can ever find out about this!” Dean groans, waiting until he’s at a stop sign at the end of the road to pull it on. Jack lights up, his team is complete, all three dads are wearing his shirt!

“It’s funny how easily emasculated you are Dean. Life is a lot more fun when you stop caring about gender expectations.” Cas smirks, Dean rolling his eyes at Cas and mimicking his know it all expression.

“Dean is sensitive, dad, and he’s really good at making pies! I think he cares less than you think he does.” Jack pauses, pleased when Dean makes eye contact with him in the rearview mirror and smiles. “Besides, I saw the pink underwear he hides when I helped with that laundry that one time.” He adds, Dean’s smile quickly disappearing, his eyes wide as he tightly gripped the steering wheel.

“Jesus Christ, kid, stop selling out all my secrets.” Dean grits between his teeth, now he is blushing. Jack knows Dean hates blushing just as much as he does.

“Oh that’s good! Can’t wait to tell Claire that one!” Sam barks out a laugh, taking his phone out of his pocket.

“You wouldn’t!” Dean hangs his head in shame when they stop for a train.

“Already did!” Sam sing songs, holding up his phone. Jack is sometimes thankful that Claire doesn’t live with them, living with your sibling seems exhausting sometimes, if Sam and Dean are any indication.

“Alright that’s enough Jack, don’t spill all the coffee. Your dad is allowed to have his secrets.” Cas intervenes, gently patting Dean’s thigh.

“Tea, dad, its spill the tea!” Jack sometimes can’t handle how out of touch his dad is. Guess that’s what happens when you’re millions of years old.

“Oh right, what’s the difference?” Cas sighs, laying his head back against the headrest as if he’s exhausted, Jack knows it’s just for dramatic effect because Cas doesn’t sleep.

“Cas, there’s big difference! One is the nectar of the gods and the other is glorified leaf water.” Dean defends, holding Cas’ hand, it’s meant to be a private gesture, but Jack can see it and it makes his heart happy.

“Tea is good.” Sam tries.

“I rest my case.” Dean counterpoints.

The case is a rough one, it turns out to be a bit more than a simple salt and burn. The ghost, a family annihilator was coming from beyond the grave to try to kill his son who had survived his attack. They had split into two groups, Dean and Cas at the cemetery burning the bones and Jack and Sam with the victim, trying to keep him safe.

“Do you think maybe we can take a photo together in our shirts?” Jack asks offhandedly as he and Sam roam the house looking for any objects that might still tether the ghost to the house.

“Why do you care so much about these shirts and taking a photo together?” Sam asks curiously, making Jack pause to think for a moment.

“Because, I’ve been watching a bunch of shows and movies, and all the families in them, they have all these photos together. They make all these memories together and they display them in their houses for everyone to see. I want that. The fact that we don’t have that makes me kind of scared, like this isn’t real. Like you all are prepared to run at a moment’s notice if I go nuclear.” Jack explains, using air quotes around the word nuclear.

“Oh. Oh. Jack, hey, it’s not like that. I guess, well we’ve been so busy saving people and hunting things, we’ve lost track of normal family things. You’re family Jack. Promise.” Sam says right away, pulling Jack into a crushing hug. Sam is strong, Jack hopes to be that strong someday.

“Can we take a photo then, a family portrait?” Jack asks hopefully.

“Family portrait? Family portrait. Shit! Jack, the family portrait!” Sam gasps, letting Jack go and looking around the room with wild eyes.

“Huh?” Jack is trying to catch up before he spots the family portrait hanging above the fireplace, both the victim and his evil departed dad in the photo. He rushes to grab it off the wall and tosses it into the fireplace. Sam pulls out a container of salt and lighter fluid, coating the portrait, then Jack tosses a match, lighting it on fire.

“Good work kid.” Sam grins as the ghost appears and then bursts into flames. “I think you’ve earned that portrait.”

True to his word, the first thing in the morning, Sam helps Jack use the laptop to find the closest portrait studio. It happens to be a JC Penney portrait studio, making Dean groan and complain about cheesy backgrounds and awkward poses that they’d likely endure. With much coaxing and further threats from Cas to relegate Dean to sleeping with Miracle on the dog bed, he agrees to the photoshoot.

Jack gets several copies of the photos made. He hands out wallet sized copies to Mary and Eileen who both coo over how adorable they look. Cas gets it framed and hangs it in the library, Dean never admits he likes it, but Jack catches him stopping to look at it every day, a proud smile on his face.

This is Jack’s family. His team. His Cemetery Boys.

[needs-to-stop-looking-at-yigas]

Weak sauce, give us SEXY lesbabes, coward

You want sexy lesbians??? Aight let's fucking go.

"Thanks so much for this, Urbosa."

"Of course Impa. The boy has been taking his fair share of vacations, it's about time you have a turn."

Impa was finally able to take a small break from everything, and what better place to relax, than a place full of pretty women? Not to mention the hot sun, and plenty of cold drinks. She took a sip of her noble pursuit, relishing in just how refreshing it was.

"I just, don't like taking too much time away from the princess. But she said I was too stressed out, so she sent me out here. Not that I WOULDN'T want to spend time with you, lady Urbosa."

"No need for formalities, Impa. You’re a guest here. One so close to Zelda, yet one I realized I don’t know very well. I know only the things everyone else knows.”

Impa watched her as she plucked a wild berry from one of the plates. She was very generous with the food she provided, and they both seemed unable to control their appetites.

“That everyone else knows? Like what?”

“That you’re young, that you function well with a kodachi, and of course the obvious one.”

“Obvious one?”

“That you like Zelda. A little more than most.”

Impa opened her mouth to protest, but her raised brow let her know that it was pointless. She sighed, hiding her blushing face in her hand.

“Okay, yeah. I do like her. A lot. Am I THAT obvious?”

“To everyone but Daruk. Told him last night, he didn’t believe me at first. He was also the last one to know about Mipha’s feelings for Link.”

“Seriously?”

“I know, that’s what I thought. Regardless, you have no reason to be ashamed. Zelda is a lovely young lady, and knights falling for the princess is a tale as old as time. If anything, I saw it coming a mile away.”

Impa wanted to just leave. She would have honestly, had Urbosa not wrapped an arm around her in clear comfort. Impa looked up at her smiling face, and Impa understood that Zelda trusted her so much. So kind, so understanding. Impa sighed.

“So it’s not...BAD that I like her as much as I do?”

“Not at all, little one. I think your only problem is you, if I can be frank with you.”

Impa folded her arms across her chest in thought, before she pulled one hand away, using it to wag her finger at some imaginary being in front of her.

“I just don’t see how she can like ME like that! I understand why she’d like Link, but I’m not HIM! I’m me! Link would know what to do here, I don’t.”

Urbosa chuckled, lightly patting the top of her head.

“You just struggle with your feelings. You’re so nervous around girls, I can tell.”

“Not ALL girls! Just...the really pretty ones.”

Impa found herself shrinking into her side as one of the many servants came in to fetch one of the plates. Urbosa shook her head as she saw Impa looking. The plight of the lesbians, she understood it perfectly.

“I understand, Impa. You know, I was a lot like you at your age. Only difference was, I never stood a chance. Don’t tell Zelda this, but...I used to be with her mother.”

Impa looked at her in shock, and she could only smile. The reaction was fairly appropriate.

“You were with the QUEEN?!”

“For a short period of time, yes. In fact, we planned on running away together upon hearing of her arranged marriage to King Rhoam. Then...something happened. She actually fell in love with him. He’s as stern as an oak now, but back in the day, he was quite the charmer.”

Impa was quiet for a moment, clearly interested in the story.

“How did you agree to be allies with his majesty after this?”

“I almost didn’t. I was about to start a war over her hand. But then she asked me to instead, stay by her side. No longer as her lover, but as her best friend. I almost didn’t accept it. But love is funny like that, so I vowed I would be there for her. Then, I vowed to be there for Zelda. So...here we are. I still love her, deep in my heart. So when I say I understand what you’re going through, I mean that.”

Impa sat there in thought, letting Urbosa take more nibbles of her fruit, before her eyes were back at the tempest.

“How...did you two even happen?”

“Funny story. I was TERRIBLY shy around her when we first met. Then my friends dared me to kiss her. I was so full of pride back then, I never refused a challenge, so that’s what I did. I kissed her. It went downhill from there. Who knows, maybe that’ll work for you and Zelda, eh?”

She nudged the little lady at her side, which made Impa blush something fierce.

“I...I’ve never kissed ANYONE before, honestly. I feel like If I tried, I’d just make things weird.”

“I could show you.”

Impa froze. No way did she just hear what she thought she heard. Their eyes met, and Impa chuckled. Clearly she was misunderstanding.

“I’m SO sorry, Urbosa, for a second there I thought you suggested you teach me how to kiss-”

“I did suggest this. You want to practice, I have a lot of experience. If you aren’t interested, that is fine. But Zelda having her first kiss is a good one...well, I’m sure that’s something you want.”

Impa opened her mouth to tell her how crazy that idea was, when Urbosa leaned down to hold her chin, lifting it up as she bent down a bit.

“You miss every shot you don’t take, Impa. I will not force you, but I fail to see why this isn’t a good idea.”

Impa thought about it. No one would know. It’d be just them. It’d be good practice for her. Not to mention...well. Who could say they kissed THE Urbosa? Arguably one of the hottest ladies out there? She dwelled on it, before meekly nodding.

“I...okay. So long as you’re patient with me, I guess.”

“I can assure you, I am a very patient teacher. Now, why don’t you go first, let me see what I’m working with?”

Impa leaned in, which was apparently funny, given how she covered her lips behind her hand. She felt her own face turn beet red.

“What?”

“You’re too tense, and you’re keeping your eyes open. Relax those shoulders, close your eyes. It’s not a fight, it’s a kiss.”

Impa took a deep breath, before nodding. There was not a thing to be scared of here. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and leaned in. Urbosa leaned in at the same time, and Impa tried not to freak out. She was sitting right here, kissing Urbosa, right on her lips! The tempest pulled away after a moment, nodding in thought.

“Not bad, but you surely need more practice. Let me show you how I kiss.”

Urbosa leaned in again, pressing her lips against hers. It was a kiss, just like before, only...way different. Urbosa’s lips were so firm, while simultaneously being so soft. Urbosa even placed her hand right at her stomach, pushing her flat onto one of the pillows she had thrown around. She held her down, all while she continued to kiss her, softly groaning into her mouth. Urbosa pulled away after a moment, carefully wiping her smudged blue lipstick as she looked down at Impa.

“Elements of surprise really make a kiss more memorable. I take it you won’t forget this one, and not just because it’s your first.”

Impa gave a light shake of her head, with the room spinning a little bit. What a kiss. Urbosa leaned down a bit, with her nose poking Impa’s.

“Now, your turn. Do it again, but add a little something to it. Go on, surprise me.”

Impa nodded, leaning her head up a bit in order to press her lips against Urbosa’s. She put a little more ‘oomph’ into the kiss this time around, even getting bold enough to stick her tongue into her mouth. The feel of someone’s tongue was something else. So wet, so warm, it made butterflies in her stomach. Urbosa pulled away with a chuckle, sensing that the little one needed to breathe. Impa cleared her throat, smearing blue lipstick that had spread over her mouth.

“So...surprised?”

“It wasn’t bad at all, honestly. It helps that you’re such a pretty girl.”

Impa could squeal. Helpless lesbian she was, the idea of a big, strong lady calling her ‘pretty girl’ made her just weak. She shook a bit as Urbosa’s finger trailed from her lips, down to her chest.

“If you’d like, I can show you other tricks aside from kissing. Not that there’s any pressure on my end.”

Impa looked around, unsure. This wasn’t weird though, right? Couldn’t be. She nodded, a bit more eagerly than she intended to. Urbosa chuckled, and got to work. Sheikah clothes were a bit conservative, with quite the amount of layers. It took her a good minute to get Impa in just her underwear and bra. Urbosa clicked her tongue.

“I understand it’s the clothes of your people, but you dress so modestly. It’s such a shame. You have such an adorable frame.”

Urbosa’s lips trailed from her cheek, to her neck, stopping just short of her chest. She was about to pull it away, when Impa held a finger up. Her cheeks were on fire, and her amber eyes were defiant.

“Hey, YOU’RE still dressed! That’s not fair!”

Urbosa blinked in surprise, before throwing her head back in laughter. Fiery little thing. She sat up, straddling the girl at this point.

“Alright, fair point, little sheikah.”

She reached behind her, undoing her chest armor, and her bra she often wore right under that. She wasn’t surprised when Impa stared at her well endowed chest, clearly having a gay panic. To taunt the poor thing further, she stood up, peeling away her skirt, tossing her black panties right at her chest, and showing her red pubic hair. Minus her heels, she was pretty much fully nude now.

“Happy?”

“I...uh...I…”

Impa was at a loss for words. Surprise surprise. Urbosa let her get a good look, before she knelt down, and pulled away her bra. She chuckled, honestly swooning over her cute little body.

"Oh you are precious. Such a lithe little frame, and such a cute chest."

Her chest was nowhere near her size, but rather, on the small end. Not that Urbosa minded, a chest was a chest. Though Impa didn't seem to agree, given how she covered her chest in clear embarrassment.

"I-i get it, okay? I'm kinda...small, especially compared to you and-"

She was silenced by Urbosa’s finger yet again.

“Don’t put yourself down now, Impa. Women like confidence. You have a lovely body, I daresay our little princess would be fond of it. If you’d just open up a bit.”

Urbosa was careful as she held her hands, slowly pulling them away from her body. Her actions were bold, but oh so delicate, and poor Impa didn’t stand a chance in hell. She got so nervous, but she made no marks to stop her. This was all advice given to her by a stunning woman? Who was she to refuse? Any doubt in her mind was erased the second her tongue grazed over one of her breasts. That actually happened. Her body froze in surprise, but Urbosa wouldn’t let her process it; kissing and suckling at her breast with one hand, with her other hand holding her body oh so close to her.

“That’s...new. Definitely new. But I don’t think the p-princess would let me do that.”

Urbosa kept at it for a moment, smearing more or her lipstick on her body as she suckled on her, letting her talented tongue graze across her perky little nipples. By the time she decided to take a break, Impa was laying there, a shaking, trembling mess.

“And why not? I have yet to find a woman who doesn’t like this, provided they know what they’re doing. Not to mention your nipples are SO eager, it’s rather cute. Why don’t you practice a bit on me?”

Urbosa sat back up, before laying back amongst her pillows. Impa somehow made herself sit up to get a good look at her. A huge set of breasts, nice wide hips, and a pussy that looked good enough to eat. She gulped, before nodding to herself. For the princess. She crawled up to her, cupping them both in her hands.

“Geez, I didn’t know they could GET this big. Really surprised the armor holds it all.”

“I’m no bigger than most Gerudo women, actually. I do however, taste better.”

She put her hand behind Impa’s head, and pulled, forcing her face into her chest. Impa took the hint, and helped herself. She massaged at her chest, slowly and deeply, while her mouth nibbled and suckled at her tits, occasionally tugging on the nipples with her soft, soft mouth. Then Urbosa moaned. It was as sensual as a moan could get; loud, with her head tossed back in pleasure. She chuckled as her eyes met with Impa’s.

“Mmmm...you aren’t half bad. But then again, it’s been a while since I’ve had a cute little vai in my arms. You’re so pretty, sucking on me like that. You like this, don’t you? Like how you feel smothered by them?”

She pressed her chest together, stuffing Impa’s face full of prime Gerudo boob. And holy shit, did it make her twitch. Urbosa chuckled, moving her chest back and forth for a moment, before finally letting the poor girl breathe. Impa was full on panting now, eagerly suckling on her breasts in a means to please the incredible woman in her arms. Urbosa was giving her just that, letting Impa have free reign while she rubbed at her wet pussy in fast, small circles.

“Oh that’s it little vai...suck on me, make me feel SO nice and wet.”

Impa was ashamed that she could feel herself dripping on the floor, but at the moment, she didn’t care. She just knew Urbosa looked so lovely, writhing and moaning and pleasuring herself. It came to a halt when Urbosa pushed her head away, Impa caught with her tongue out.

“You really like tasting. Try this.”

She stuck her wet fingers right into Impa’s mouth, and she didn’t refuse them. She was sitting here, with Urbosa’s pussy juices being shoved into her mouth. And it tasted SO good. She held onto her hand, slurping and sucking the fingers, in a desperate attempt to get more. She laughed, letting her have her moment.

“You like how I taste, don’t you?”

“Yes, Lady Urbosa. You’re so good, and so rich...it’s better than any dessert I’ve ever had.”

“Well then. Why don’t I treat you?”

She pulled her fingers away, and Impa mourned the loss. That is, until Urbosa parted her stunning legs, lightly biting her nail as she looked at Impa oh so alluringly.

“Devour me, little sheikah girl. Make the great Urbosa cum in her own home.”

“Yes, Lady Urbosa.”

Impa practically dove right in, shoving her face right into her, with a monster grip to her big, meaty thighs.

“Oh! EAGER little fox!”

Urbosa laughed, wrapping her legs around her head, keeping her nestled right where she was. Impa didn’t know if she was doing it right, but that didn’t keep her from enjoying the rich, sweet juices she was pouring down her throat.

“Oh that’s it….ooh you’re SO thirsty for a drink. This IS the first time you’ve tasted a woman. Wait till you make me cum. It’s so sweet, it’ll flood your pretty mouth, and you’ll only want more.”

Impa believed her. It was so delicious, suckling at the folds that hung out of her, watching Urbosa grope and pinch at her own chest in an attempt to make her cum faster. Impa had no idea sex was like this. Full of discovery and interest. She pulled away for air, for but a brief moment, shaking as if she was exhausted.

“PLEASE give me a taste, Urbosa! I NEED to know how a woman tastes when she cums! Please please please!”

Impa did her part, diving right back in. It smelled...different than how she imagined. It didn’t smell like roses or candy, but smelled musky, lewd. And she loved it. Impa loved how it tasted NOTHING like she had thought they would. It was so much better, knowing the truth. Even the sounds were better. Cute moans were nice, but Urbosa was LOUD, hungry to chase her orgasm.

“I’m SO close, I’m SO close, just keep DEVOURING me!!”

Her moans were passionate, so full of emotion, it was breathtaking. But not as breathtaking as when she dug her nails into her hair, forced her nose into her pubic hair, and came. She cried out as she did so, and Impa was stunned. So much hot fluid spilled into her mouth, feeling hot as it trickled down her throat. Women...tasted SO good when they came. Urbosa swore a bit in relief, letting Impa’s soaked face finally be free. Impa sat there, panting, cum covering her face, before she spoke.

“That...was incredible. Women taste so...so good.”

Impa dove in for another kiss, which Urbosa accepted, simultaneously digging her nails into her ass. Impa moaned loudly, FAR louder than she had to anything else, and that made Urbosa chuckle.

“Hmmm...something to explore later. For now, let’s focus on something other than eating, you’re already pretty good at that, even by eagerness alone.”

Urbosa laid on her side, pulling Impa right up to her. Urbosa kissed her cheek, before she hiked one of her legs over hers.

“U-urbosa-”

Urbosa’s fingers slowly rubbed her soaked little pussy in small, slow circles. All while her other hand was cupping at her small, soft breast. She chuckled into her cute little ear, loving how it shook her whole body.

“Pay close attention to how this feels, Impa. First, we rub the outside, nice and slowly. You treat your woman like art. With tenderness, passion...a bit of awe, even.”

Impa couldn’t say anything as Urbosa trailed kisses up her neck, all while oh she oh so slowly rubbed at her outside. So slowly and tenderly, smearing her own pussy juices across her own pubic hair.

“Take this time to sweet talk her. Tell her something you like. For example, I like how you’ve never shaved. It’s the right amount of cute little hair down here, and it’s oh so precious. See? You whimpered at that.”

Impa was hiding her face in her hand, trying not to moan like crazy. The way she held her legs open, the way her hands massaged her in a way her own hands never did, even the way she whispered in her ear.

“I didn’t...know I’m supposed to shave.”

“You don’t have to, most do however. It just really shows that you have so little experience. It’s SO cute, you’re lucky I didn’t bring my guards in here, they’d eat you up.”

She even nipped at her neck, as if that’d prove her point further. Impa put her hand over Urbosa’s, trying to get a feel for that slow rhythm she was setting.

“C...can you put it in yet?”

“Mmmm...not just yet, little fox. Unless you’d ask nicely, then I suppose I could speed things up.”

Impa had so much pride inside of her, it was so difficult to swallow it all, but she made herself do just that.

“Please Urbosa...I want to know how to do this properly, for her. I want her to feel like this. Please, don’t make me suffer by not letting me feel you.”

“Oh how am I supposed to say no to that?”

Urbosa chuckled. Kissing her forehead, she finally pushed a finger in. Not too quickly, not too toughly. Just enough to get that breath of hers hitching, and her body shaking. Urbosa still kept it nice and slow, merely teasing her already soaked insides. Impa was already so ready to cum, it was just the cutest thing. Urbosa kissed her neck again, watching her shake even further.

“There we go. See how slowly I’m going? See how I’m looking for that nice, steady pace? I’m looking for something. Something very-”

She swore she saw that shiver travel up her spine. There it was. Her cute G-spot. She kissed at her nose, before keeping their foreheads pressed together.

“Pay attention. Because once you master this, I doubt any woman could keep their hands off of you.”

Once she slipped another finger inside, she began her attack. Normally she wouldn’t do this to such a newbie, but she couldn’t help it. Her pussy was so eager to learn, her body was lithe and soft, and her voice. Oh her voice. Her cries of ecstasy as she fingered her cute little pussy so quickly was enough to make a heart melt. Impa kept crying out in pleasure, squirming as she felt herself quickly being shoved right off the edge. The lewd sounds of her wet pussy only made this more tasty to the Gerudo woman.

“U-urbosa! Oh my GOD URBOSA!!”

“Look at me in my eyes. That’s it, good girl. You’re going to cum, and it’s going to feel so good. Remember it, so SHE can feel good. This is for Zelda. So when you cum, cry for her, understand?”

“Yes! Yes yes YES!-”

Poor thing was near tears. Urbosa could see her eyes get misty in lust, and with a rather adorable squeal, she came, crying out the princess’s name as she slipped into pleasure, the likes of which she had never seen. It was so much, she just sat there, limp like a fish, gasping for air. Urbosa chuckled, slowly pulling her fingers out and taking a long, good lick of them. Ah, the cum of a lovely little virgin. Such a treat.

“Now, if you do all of that, little fox, suffice to say, she’ll be putty in your hands. Assuming you’ll be alright after this?”

Impa, though trembling, gave her a thumbs up.

“H..holy shit...I...i really like girls.”

[figula]

i do feel quite low atm + cried on ben about it for a while earlier

he had to request that i talked about it again and im continually frustrated by myself for forcing a distance that doesnt need to be there - like literally what is the purpose? he has to ask me all the time to not write my problems on tumblr INSTEAD OF talking to him about them irl. and i just find it so fucking hard to talk irl?! :/ i guess the solution is not to just refuse to do things that are hard for me tho (as usual) so i did talk to him about it

im continually stressed / triggered i suppose by this bullshit w/ my sister and the knowledge we’re going back to my parents for christmas has compounded that a lot bc im terrified of my mum commenting on my body, and im terrified of being compared to my extremely thin sister, and i have been weighing myself 2x a day to check that the number is going down rather than up. i did tell ben this and he was immediately in favour of throwing the scales out but i feel that id be more anxious if i didnt know the number. i know how this all sounds, and it sounds like that bc that’s how it is. it’s already a deeply sad + unhealthy mindset to be in, but i don’t know how to get out of it. i’m fine + eating normally, but im sad that i’m doing this again. (by ‘this’ i mean weighing myself in the morning and evening + thinking constantly about my weight + body) and ashamed :(

also as ive mentioned i feel very battered by the relationship OCD + the gay thoughts OCD (lol irl at that phrase but like... it’s what it is) and i spent a while last night doing absolutely stupid shit in response - like reading all these articles about comphet, measuring my index and ring finger WITH A RULER bc of that study that suggested lesbians are more likely to have a longer ring finger than index finger. and just like being totally batshit about it. ben asked for a list of thoughts but going into detail about that specifically just felt Not Doable so ill probably do my usual thing of writing him an email about it lol. im not a fucking lesbian holy shit! the absolute irrationality!!! i did also do some googling + found a number of bisexual women in a similar thought spiral which was quite interesting - the same kind of shit - terrified of being a victim of comphet, terrified of their relationship not being ‘valid’, terrified of not being ‘true to themselves’. i guess i have to wonder how many of them actually have gay thoughts OCD and how many of them genuinely are victims of comphet bc i do bet it’s a non-zero number. however that’s not a very helpful thought for me specifically lol

plus this latest chess bullshit is also just like depressing me to my core bc i have to spend a significant portion of my online life in a group w/ people who like even if previously i thought they had my back they clearly fucking dont. i do think some of them do, but i thought the mod i talked about yesterday did as well so like fucking hell maybe none of them actually do :| and that’s a really desperately sad thought to have when i do despite my understanding of the situation desperately want to be around to help improve the chess situation wrt women. its just fucking sad and too depressing to even think too much about

anyway. i daresay this is kind of all due to the shit about my sister at its core bc i feel like i was fine before that all kicked off. i am gonna think of another diorama to complete bc i always feel much much happier when im working on an art project + i havent been doing one since i finished the last one, and i think i’ll feel much better once i start up something else. other than that: i dunno, just gonna keep keeping on

[breanime]

Can request a bre's boys where their kid comes out?

Billy Russo: “Dad,” your son took a deep breath, “Mom... I... I don’t like girls.” You and Billy nodded, not wanting to rush him. “Okay,” you said, your eyes soft. “I think... I think I like boys,” he finished. Billy stood up then, and your son flinched, and that one movement broke Billy’s heart. He reached out and pulled your son in for a hug. “D-Dad?” He asked, and Billy could feel him shaking in his embrace. “I love you,” Billy replied, “your Mom loves you, and we ain’t never gonna stop loving you, son.” You came over and hugged them both. “You’re not mad?” Your son asked, his voice shaky with emotion. “Of course not,” you answered, “We love you no matter what.” “Plus,” Billy grinned, pulling back a bit, “we kind of saw this one comin’...”

Logan Delos: Logan and your daughter were watching TV, just hanging out, when she looked up at him and asked “Dad, is it possible to like boys and girls? Like... Like like them?” “Oh, for sure,” he answered brightly, “I’m attracted to men and women,” he said, noting her wide eyed response, “what’s important is that you treat people right, and you know your worth.” She nodded, pausing for a moment. “Does Mom know you like boys and girls?” “Yeah, she knows,” he answered, “it has a name, too--liking boys and girls.” “It does?” “Yup. Bisexual. I’m bisexual,” he smiled, his eyes warm, “how about you?” Your daughter smiled back. “I’m bisexual.”

Jax Teller: Your daughter was in tears. She was shaking, and you and Jax were freaking out too. “Baby, what’s wrong?” You asked as she sobbed into your shoulder. “Tell us what’s wrong.” “I’m--I’m so scared,” she sobbed back, “I don’t want you to be mad at me!” “Hey,” Jax rubbed her back, “sweetheart, we’re not gonna be mad, okay? Just tell us what’s wrong. Let us help...” She looked up then, her eyes red. “I’m a lesbian,” she choked out. You and Jax paused. “Is... Is that supposed to be news?” You asked. Your daughter’s jaw dropped. “Darlin’, you realize we live with you, right? And we raised you? We knew you were gay,” Jax added. “Oh, but, you’re coming out to us,” you gushed, “this is a moment!” Your daughter laughed as you and Jax hugged her, feeling so loved and supported. 

Coco Cruz: Coco knew his son was gay since he was a little kid, but he also knew it was hard to be a Latino gay kid in this town, so he didn’t push him. But when your son asked to have a family meeting, the two of you knew what was up. “I have something to tell you,” your son said, fidgeting as he stood in front of you and Coco, “and... and it might make you mad, but... I hope you’ll still love me...” He took a breath. “I’m gay.” You and Coco had been waiting for this day, and you both knew what to do. You stood up and hugged him. “We’re not mad, mijo,” Coco said, his voice carefully level, “we’re proud.” “What?” “You’re such an amazing kid,” you said, cupping his face in your hands, “you’re smart and kind and so, so brave.” “We love you,” Coco added, hugging him again, “nothing you do could ever make us stop loving you.” 

Angel Reyes: “I’m not a girl,” your kid declared, “I’m a boy. I’m trans, I’m sorry, I--” “Dude,” Angel got up and hugged your son, “hey, relax. Don’t cry.” Your son wiped his eyes, looking up at Angel. “Y-you’re not mad?” “I’m your Dad,” Angel said back, smiling, “I love you. I loved you when you were my daughter, and I love you just as much now that you’re my son.” “M-Mom?” You stood up, crying because he was crying. “Oh, mi amor, we kind of knew...” “You did?” “Dude,” Angel said again, “you wanted to wear overalls from ages 2 to 9.” “And you played football all throughout middle school,” you added. “Also, who do you think buys your clothes? Shit, man, you own more jeans than I do,” Angel laughed. Your son laughed too, and the three of you spent the next few hours discussing hormones and binders and making doctor’s appointments. 

Miguel Galindo: Your daughter had been suspended for punching a kid in the face. You and Miguel had tried to get her to talk about it on the ride home, but she wasn’t budging. Finally, when you got home, Miguel made her sit down. “Talk,” he said. “He said I was a slut!” She cried out. “Well, are you?” Miguel asked calmly, sitting in his chair as you sat too. “No, I just--” she stopped herself, a blush creeping to her cheeks. Your eyes narrowed. “You just what?” You asked. She sank down into the cushions. “I just... I’m pan,” she whispered, “I like boys and girls...” “Oh,” you said. Miguel shrugged. “So this guy accused you of being a slut because you’re pansexual?” He asked. She nodded. He stood, walking towards the door. “Dad? Where are you going?” “Back up to the school to let them know they’re letting you back with no suspension, otherwise we’re suing them for homophobia,” he stopped, “Wanna come with me?” Her face lit up. 

Nick Amaro: You’d left Nick a message that your son wanted to talk to him. So when he walked through the door, he wasn’t surprised to see him waiting for him. “Hey,” Nick greeted him, putting his briefcase down. “Dad, I’m gay!” He blurted out. Nick nodded, taking in your son’s nervous expression. He walked over to him and hugged him. “I know,” he said, laughing softly, “and I want you to know that I love you. I’ll always love you.” Your son nodded, tears in his eyes. “That’s what Mom said you’d say.” Nick smiled back. “She’s a smart woman. Now, sit down. We need to talk about safe sex.” “Dad, you already gave me this talk.” “I gave you the hetero talk, this one is about gay sex--why are you running away? Come back, I know things!”

Johnny Tuturro: Johnny was tasked with taking your daughter shopping for her prom dress, and he couldn’t help but notice how nervous she was. “What’s wrong,” he asked after she rejected another dress, “I thought you’d love this.” “I do, Dad, I just...” She sighed. “I have to tell you something...” “Okay...” “I lied to you,” she confessed, “I’m not going to prom with Marcus... I’m going with Martiza.” Johnny paused. “Like...as friends or...?” “Not...not as friends.” His eyes grew wide. “As a couple,” he said. She nodded, biting her lip. “Oh, shit!” Johnny cheered, grinning. “Your Mom owes me $20! I knew you two were more than friends! Oh, does she have her dress yet? You guys have to match!” Your daughter couldn’t help but laugh. “You knew?” “I had a feeling,” Johnny answered, “but...can I ask... Are you bi or pan or...?” “Lesbian,” she answered, no longer nervous. “Oh good,” he said back, “they have a bad ass flag!”

Rio: You and Rio stayed up all night researching ways to talk to your son about his sexuality. You were both pretty sure Marcus knew his brother was gay, but you didn’t want to put him on the spot by asking him. So, the next morning, after Marcus went off to practice, you and Rio sat your other son down. “Papa,” Rio began, “your Mom and I want you to know that we love you. No matter what, we love you.” Your son nodded, clearly nervous. “And we don’t want you to feel like you have to... tell us anything right now,” you added, “you can open up at your own pace, but, we want you to know that we love you--all of you.” “Yeah,” Rio jumped in, “and there’s nothing about you that you should ever be ashamed of, okay?” Your son nodded again. “I...  I want to tell you,” he said, “I’m gay.” You both got up and hugged him, and he hugged you back. “Thank you,” he said, voice muffled by Rio’s shirt. “Nah,” Rio smiled down at him, “no need to thank us--we love you, papa, we love all of you.” 

*******************************************************************************************

Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think! This is the last one, and I am so happy that I can end it with this. Happy Pride month, everyone!

Everything Taglist: @sweetybuzz25  @mrsjaxtellerfan  @rhabakoli  @encounterthepast @realduckvader   @justvnash @knowles-morgan  @ateliefloresdaprimavera @evanlys19  @nyxxnoxx @carlaangel86  @luminex3 @jigsawlover10  @gollyderek @otomefromtheheart  @lexxierave  @amethyst09 @falsehopesndreams  @a-dorky-book-keeper @witchygagirl @glimmerglittergirl @nich0lasmatthews  @ben-c-group-therapy @felicity-x0 @amirra88 @yourfellowangel @vibranium-soul @xserenax-13  @woahitslucyylu​  @gemini0410 @ktiz90 @theoceanhathsolace @starrynite7114 @my-rosegold-soul @papa-geralt-of-cirilla​

[brandonxdylan]

Omg OK so there’s yet another gay 90210 storyline that I feel compelled to offer commentary on, and this one’s perhaps the most frustrating one of all (which is saying something because none of the gay representation on this show has been what I’d call good, and in fact most of it has only served to make me hate these self-involved heteros even more). 
So here we are. It’s season 9, and all the drama is extremely contrived at this point, and you can tell that the writers are basically just pulling ideas out of a hat. What if Val murdered her dad? What if Dylan came back? What if Donna had a heretofore unmentioned cousin who was a pro figure skater and also a pro schemer? It’s from this context that we get “hey, what if Steve’s mom was gay?” 
Personally, I’ve always appreciated the continuity with Steve’s family life. His parents are pretty well-rounded characters with full, consistently plausible(ish) backstories, which is more than I can say for half of the regular characters on this show (*cough cough* Noah). Given that, is it random and contrived for Samantha to come out as a lesbian? Yeah, probably. I don’t think this was some grand plan that the writers had been sitting on for nine years, just waiting to reveal. But I don’t really care because it’s also true to life. A lot of people come out in middle age if not later, and this was a post-Ellen world after all. Being a gay celebrity (Steve’s mom is a sitcom star) was no longer unheard of. However, it was still considered a huge risk to come out as gay and still expect to find work (especially if your work was expected to be “family friendly”). So the conflict here is timely, and fairly realistically written. The actress who plays Samantha, Christine Belford, sells it, and there’s a nice sense of empowerment that comes through in her character, who is clearly not willing to tolerate the bullshit box that society wants to put her in. There’s the makings of a truly compelling story here. But of course that’s not what we get, because man, does Steve piss me off in these episodes, and as per fucking usual, the writers completely let him off the hook. 
When Samantha first comes out to Steve, he’s shocked. Fair enough. But it’s not long before he begins to place lots of unfair judgment on his mother (despite David trying to talk him down by saying lesbians are valid because two girls making out is a turn on…thanks for that David). Eventually he goes so far as to remind the reporter from a gossip magazine who contacts Steve for comment regarding rumours of his mom’s sexuality that’s he’s adopted. Naturally, Samantha takes this as tacit admission that he’s ashamed of her, as she sees this as being Steve’s way of distancing himself from her and her sordid Lifestyle.™ Which it absolutely is. This is where we get the exchange pictured above in which Samantha justifiably questions Steve’s selfish expectations of her and he comes back with this WAY HARSH slap in the face. He immediately regrets it, but the damage is done. His true feelings are crystal clear. 
And to be clear, my issue is not with Steve’s homophobic feelings. I actually think that, especially for the late 90s, Steve’s reaction isn’t that unusual (sad though that may be), and I think there’s lots to be gained from digging into the ways in which latent homophobia can manifest itself in unexpected ways, and how that can cause massive problems within otherwise close families. No, my issue with this episode is with how Steve’s homophobic feelings are resolved. The storyline culminates in Samantha getting fired from her much-hyped comeback sitcom once she’s outed. And it’s not until this happens that Steve finally starts to come around. But this is what pisses me off the most, because right up until then, Steve is only thinking of himself, and how his mother’s sexuality impacts his life. He even goes so far as to question why she adopted him in the first place, asking if it was part of her heterosexual cover up. My good God, this is some hetero nonsense that I simply CAN. NOT. Anyway, when she drops the bomb that she got fired, suddenly Steve becomes protective of her and is furious that she has to suffer such injustice. But…like…BRO. You were literally JUST treating her the same way. The whole thing reads as “you’re my mom, and I can be homophobic and treat you like a pariah, but the rest of the world? HELL NO!” 
And honestly, like so many Very Special Episodes of 90210, it’s not the fact that the characters are flawed that’s the issue. The problem is that no one ever learns from their flaws or has the opportunity to grow in a realistic way. The characters are often depicted as having latent (and sometimes straight up blatant) prejudices, and that is okay, because we literally all do. But almost every time, these prejudices only function to give the main characters an opportunity to simply change their mind and get a pat on the back for doing the bare minimum. Steve’s relationship with his mother changes exclusively as a result of external factors completely outside of his control. He doesn’t have to do anything. He barely even apologizes! It totally feels like the show is condoning Steve’s earlier behaviour, which feels pretty retrograde by today’s standards, and I’m sure was not particularly progressive even by 90s standards. It pussyfoots around the complexities of the questions it raises, and to be honest, that always leaves a bit of an icky taste in my mouth, because it seems clear that the issue isn’t being raised out of interest in exploring it - it’s being raised to pose as a problem for the straight characters. 
Still, I don’t want to speak for all queer audiences, but I for one am very used to accepting scraps. I mean fuck, this blog literally exists because I projected a non-existent romance between Dylan and Brandon on to the show because queer audiences are so used to having to do the work that most shows won’t in terms of creating queer characters. So to see a show like 90210 actually attempting to address queer issues on TV in the 90s (however shallow and frustrating the end result may be), is still satisfying. It was a worthwhile endeavour, and many similar shows did it well. And as much as I’m tearing into this episode, I’m still glad it exists because even though it provides no answers or legitimate commentary (90210 is weirdly centrist when it comes to political and social issues), it at least acknowledges that gay people exist, and that they can be middle-aged mothers, which is a demographic that doesn’t even get a ton of representation now, let alone in the 90s. Most coming out narratives follow teens or twentysomethings, which is fine, but coming out can happen at any age, especially in the 90s when the stigma was only just starting to lift, and many people who had been closeted for decades felt like they could finally come out. And for all my issues with the way Steve is portrayed, Samantha’s portrayal feels surprisingly tender and sympathetic. But, like so many queer characters, she ultimately shows up only to offer complications for the straight people around her before vanishing into thin air, because this was the last episode Samantha appeared in. 
At least this way I can imagine her living her best gay life somewhere.

[kennedycatherine]

things may be shitty but sometimes I'm shittier

I’m overheard retelling half a joke my friends have heard 30 times over. One of the greats in my rotating stock of five. 

“Wait, what’s this about?” Asks someones boyfriend and I lean on an elbow, angle myself toward him with a grin.

“It’s actually a really funny story.”

His girlfriend rolls her eyes, “it’s not funny.”

My eyebrows go up, in, “I think it’s funny?”

“Kennedy,” she begins and looks at me with even eyes, “it makes people uncomfortable.”

She says it like a mother warning her toddler not to pull his pants off in front of the dinner guests, not again. And I feel a lot like he might;

Defiant - it is a funny story, I’ve done the math on which details can stay in, which have to go out, I know where to pause for a laugh or a sigh. He’d probably like it. 

Ashamed - it probably isn’t funny to everyone, perhaps my math was just enough to keep people engaged, the pauses great for a sympathy laugh. He probably wouldn’t like it.

“Another time,” he whispers with a soft, consoling smile and I silently curse his girlfriend. 

Fuck you, Kierstan, you don’t know the first thing about comedic timing.

The story in question is about the time I found my sister cold and unconscious. I thought she was dead. The punchline about my being in a pink velour costume when the EMT’s arrived and the bit about the stolen laffy taffy, oh and her not being dead - fully worth the undeniable emotional lows. 

Believe me when I say that in some circles, it’s a funny story. There are branches of comedy, Netflix specials, peoples entire careers and livelihoods that are rooted in dark comedy - there is a vast market for illuminating and lightening the horrifying. Also trust me when I say I know how deeply unfunny it is to watch someone you love overdose. 

The story is funny now. A few years ago it wasn’t. It was a nearly unspeakable thing. An experience that happened and it wasn’t funny. 

But life goes on. 

You have no choice. 

Around the time of the pink velour tracksuit and the laffy taffy, I found myself laughing uncontrollably at my desk. I’d just left the job I’d gone to college for and found myself in the pit of broken dreams - an 8 to 5 desk job. The absolute thrill of it all - somedays you might file, somedays you might answer a few more calls than usual. Somedays your boss might ask you to bend over and pick up his pencil while you wear the skirt it was gently (but firmly) implied was mandatory. Mandatory only in the sense that no one could tell you that you couldn’t wear pants but they sure were more forgiving of car naps running 15 minutes over if they could glimpse a knee. 

And boy, did I need the car naps. 

It’s funny because I thought I was doing great. Really, for awhile I thought I was the best I’d ever been. I was laughing pretty much all the time, at everything. I’d never found the world more funny. By all accounts, I was having a great time.

So imagine my surprise when one day I found my eyes full, my face damp and my car hurdling down the highway past the exit to my work. When I did arrive, this time with pants, therefor low forgiveness - I was asked to my boss’ office for a closed door meeting.

Why was I late?

Somehow telling my boss that I wasn’t exactly sure the reason but my brain was telling me I should just keep driving, maybe to the next town, maybe for hours, maybe until the border, didn’t really seem like an option. “I think I have the flu.”

Despite all the things I didn’t know, I did know I didn’t have the flu. I found myself laid out in my doctors office anyway.

When he finally threw the door open, all white coated and anxious, just like I like em’ - I sat up. We made a sort of frenzied eye contact and he asked me what was wrong. 

“I think I might be, like, totally fucking losing it.” 

I left with a plan and antidepressants.

It all sounds kind of simple and quaint.

But it wasn’t.

Stopping to consider if you’re a danger to yourself or anyone else so your doctor can qualify if you need counselling, pills, maybe a psychiatric hold isn’t charming. Those first few weeks of pills, even though you’ve been told and you know you’ll feel worse for awhile, they’re simply awful. This isn’t some beautiful woman on HBO popping a white pill with her chardonnay, suddenly noticing a pink bloom on her neglected cactus. This is ugly and painful before it’s anything else.

And slowly it did become “anything else” … most of the time. 

Depression isn’t a joke. But it is a static way of being that loses it’s edge. 

It softens. Like a shitty haircut, you come to expect the blunt, harsh edges. Your body adjusts to the sight of it. It’s still kind of scary to look at but you know what to expect.

Life goes on.

It’s just not precious anymore. 

I could barely say I’d been diagnosed. I only told the people who were close enough to see the new medication was wearing me out. Now it’s an introductory fact, “Hi, Kennedy Catherine, daughter, lover, lesbian, writer, major depressive disorder.” 

I felt for a long time like it was all behind me. The worst was over! Family, outside of some trick hearts, healthy. Depression, diagnosed, plans made, helpful medications on standby. Experiencing another dark episode seemed dull,  ya know? Just a tad fucking redundant. Been there, done it, bored by it. 

Then: March 2020. 

There was a period of limbo. I still had a job, I just couldn’t be there or do it until things got better - hardy har. I packed up my truck and settled into my families cabin for five or six weeks. It was fine, I was fine, I thought. One day I went out for a walk and awhile later watched my sister rumble through a long stretch of prairie toward me on an ATV. My phone was dead and I’d be gone, oh, three hours longer than expected?

“What happened?”

I just kind of… lost track of time? Lost my sense of direction? I don’t know, I thought. I was here but I sort of went away from myself for a second. When I sunk into the bath later with achy muscles and a blister, I felt nervous.

Now, I haven’t scared myself in years. My depression isn’t so severe that I feel unsafe with myself. Anything I did or have done to effectively terrify myself, I shed by the time I was 20. Because that can happen, you can do that. You can change coping mechanisms and learn real, healthy ways to parent yourself. The mood instability that came later, the dark times, I still felt mostly fortified. I felt like I could figure it out, like I still had access to myself to do the figuring out. 

But I could feel myself slipping away this time. 

I was talking fast about something or another when I finally said to my mom, “I think I might need help.” I wasn’t sure exactly what I meant because I didn’t really know how to help myself and I wasn’t really sure what was wrong. 

And that in and of itself is a problem. I didn’t know what was wrong? 

I was out of the job that got me out of bed Monday to Friday for three and a half years, I left the house that had become my comfort cathedral, I hadn’t seen any of my closest friends in months, I was living with my sister and my mother who I hadn’t spent longer than a handful of days with in like five years. There was global fear and uncertainty and the risk of contracting a virus that could or could not kill you but I didn’t know… what was wrong? Well that’s just deeply moronic. 

Sometimes when you need help, or when I need help, that does come in the form of professional counselling or medications or an anonymous support group. Sometimes, it’s just circumstantial and circumstances can change.

I went home.

And in a few weeks, when I’d more or less returned to myself, I could clearly see the hills and valleys my mind had just wandered. I felt strength again, a sense of renewal and excitement about my imminent return to work and society.

Then I actually lost my job.

I know, redundant. I’m tired of myself too. But bullshit is cyclical, that’s just a fact. 

And if there is one thing I’ll give myself credit for, it’s my ability to immediately concoct a backup plan in the face of a threat. Moments after I was officially terminated, texts and emails went out. The idea of not knowing where my next paycheque would come from and how much it would be, having lost the place I strolled into everyday with a sense of purpose and not knowing when and where I’d have that again was simply not an option.

My head went down, I narrowed focus and the efforts resulted in… enough. I’m living. Which wasn’t and isn’t the hope for life. Unstable stagnancy is deeply uncomfortable.

So, generally speaking, things are not great. 

I lost my humbly secure job. A place I comfortably could’ve lived and died if I’d prioritized everything other than work and my sort of crippling ambition. This effectively led me down the path of questioning every decision I’ve made past the age of 16. First and foremost, choosing radio. An industry that was at it’s peak in the 1930’s and on the decline ever since was perhaps not the most lucrative or secure of career choices. 

My romantic life developed far enough to remind me that often times I am a crusty, avoidant crustacean human and suddenly all those popular tweets about my deep emotional inabilities and intimacy issues seemed, well, not that funny.

I decided I probably shouldn’t drink. I don’t have a drinking problem but I do have a problem with drinking. Namely, waking with no memory, my legs shaking and my stomach clenched so tightly I could sense my body wanted to flee - itself, mostly. And let’s not forget the part where I get fighty and mean.  

When shit hit the fan and then shot off the blades into the face of life in my early twenties, it wasn’t my fault. To be clear, mental health is a no fault area. I was always predisposed to depression, mental illness is genetic. I had no control over that. But there were plenty of variables, extenuating circumstances if you will, that I also had no control over but sure as fuck could and did blame other people for.

This is not the same thing. 

This is a moment where it is necessary to discern illness from circumstance and living from coping. 

Like I said, bullshit is cyclical. And it this point, it’s pretty much just my own bullshit on repeat, forever and ever amen. At twenty or twenty three, when the circumstances weren’t my fault, it also felt like my reactions weren’t my fault. I was floundering, I didn’t know better. I learned some hard lessons about how I cope and handle things. I learned that I didn’t really like the person I was when I was figuring out how to survive myself and life. 

I was unkind, a lot. 

I hated the way that felt, I hated the way it affected my relationships and decided to learn from it.

Except, I didn’t learn. I said, great, noted. Dashed a nice little ~fini!~ at the end of that chapter, closed er’ on up and bypassed the bookshelf for the dusty box in the corner labelled, “garage sale.” Because surely no one would need to read that again! 

And then a few weeks ago when I had a breakthrough in counselling, I dug that chapter back up and allowed myself a few days of surprise. Bitch, you been done knew the WHOLE time. This isn’t news, this isn’t shocking. This is the part of you that developed somewhere along the way and it didn’t work and you didn’t like it but! But. It was comfortable. So you gave it a few years and then when things fell out of control again, let it settle back in all warm and snuggly.

You know what they say. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I guess I need to financially prioritize a CBT therapist. 

So here I am, again. 

Only this time feels deeply, deeply different. Because it’s not the first. 

I sat down with a friend to tell her how I was feeling. How much I felt like I needed and wanted to change my default settings. 

I need a factory restore. 

“I think you’re being hard on yourself.”

No, no, I have grace for myself! I actually have a lot of understanding. I’m parenting myself through this which includes showing myself love while I also discipline.

“I just feel like maybe you were doing the best you knew how.”

Well, I mean, sure? Sometimes? But there were moments where I knew I was saying or doing the wrong thing, where I was even challenged by someone else but I wasn’t challenging myself, you know?

“Well maybe that’s just who you are?”

Right… but this is also who I am? And we do actually have a say in that, you know? Like how I evolved from throwing toddler tantrums on the grocery store floor? I could actually just keep doing that, no one is stopping me, but I don’t.

“I think you’re being self deprecating and that is not healthy.” 

Since when is self identifying a problem self deprecation? 

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself.”

… but change is hard? 

I appreciate that people want to protect me from myself or from bad feeling or whatever they perceive that all to be. More often than not, I think they, we, you, I, we’re all just trying to protect ourselves. But it’s not helpful. Pretending that everything is fine and that we’re fine and adopting an overarching, “I am perfect as I am, namas-fucking-te” mantra isn’t actually helpful.

What’s the harm in me saying I have been shitty? That I have acted poorly? That I have neglected to be better when there was clearly a different option? That I wasn’t honestly showing myself to people when I could’ve or allowing them space in me?

That it’s… not nice? That just like the joke about my sister not being dead, it’s not comfortable to listen to? It’s true and it is compassionate to view yourself as a whole, to know yourself and think I actually do like myself and this life enough to want to be better.

Just like what is coined the unfortunate evening of Velour and Ambulances or the depression diagnosis or life being turned on it’s head by a plague sent from hell, once it was deeply painful and then it wasn’t. None of this is precious. Being a shitty person sometimes isn’t a rare affliction. You’ve been shitty before, you’ll do it again, I’ll do it again, hey, you might even be shitty right now! Isn’t that something? 

Things are not great right now. They’ve been not great tens of times before. Only this time it isn’t taking me 2 to 4 years to talk and laugh about it. Because this is a muscle, the shit muscle and it’s exercised. It’s buff. 

And you know what? Things could be worse. They could even get worse now! I’m hoping they don’t but they certainly could, and in the thick of it, we’ll always have that glimmering possibility to hold onto. 

[docholligay]

All Ears

I wrote this “going through a box of childhood items” at I think it was @keyofjetwolf‘s suggestion but now I can’t remember anyway it is deeply self indulgent listen Fluff is really hard for me. 1600 words, the rest of the my OW universe is here. 

Tracer had brought over the boxes to Winston’s slowly developing house, a former warehouse on the edges of what was still a commercial and shipping district. He was making it warm, slowly, as he had money here and there, but money was hard to come by in these days, as good as he was at repairing cell phones and laptops and other such things as the work came by. He’d thrown the money he had into making a room for Tracer, when she’d been recovering.Her family had helped him where they could, of course, but none of the Oxton clan could be accused of being secret millionaires, and so the bulk of his house still had a rather cool air to it. 

It felt more so, now that Tracer was no longer living there, but it made him feel ashamed to say it. It wasn’t fair to Tracer that he had so little in the way of connection, and that he relied on her so much. It was silly, really. He had been protecting her, when he told her she didn’t have to work, that she could stay with him as long as she wanted to, that he was worried about her. But he had also been protecting himself, he knew, and his great fear of loneliness. 

But Tracer had gotten tired of sitting at home, eventually, and managed to talk her way into a job at a little suit shop selling men’s and boy’s fine suiting and accessories, and her boss was even quite impressed with her sales, given as he’d never thought of courting the lesbian market. Tracer had a way of making people feel optimistic and bright, simply by her own sunshine, and optimistic brightness led people to buy extra ties and shoes. 

Eventually, she had done well enough to move back into her little house, and finally resolve to clear out the bedrooms and make the master hers. 

It had been awkward for her, in those brief years after she had come back the first time. She had come home, and her father had been dead, and she had found herself unwilling and unable to clear out what had been his bedroom her entire life, never mind that hers was so much tinier. She was away from home often with Overwatch, anyhow, and it had been a convenient excuse until Overwatch had been forcibly disbanded, and she found herself as much a regular Londoner as she’d ever be. 

So, it was time to take over the master. 

Winston thought this project might be met with grief and sorrow, but he had forgotten Tracer’s natural sense of cheer, and how she could simply roll all of this forward with every other major adjustment she had made in the last year. She had decided not only to clear out the master, but to reorganize the entire place to be more a house that was hers, instead of a house she and her father had shared for twenty-six years, and she had done all this with a sense of embracing the new rather than mourning the old. 

But she did like bringing boxes over to Winston’s when she found them in a closet or the tiny, dank cellar, as if it gave her some pleasure to have someone to relay the memories to while deciding how to proceed. Winston liked it, because he liked to spend time with her, whatever the reason, but there was something he particularly loved about imagining the little girl she might have been. 

And so today, sitting on his couch with a box between them, simply marked “Lena” in what Winston had come to know as her father’s handwriting, was a pleasant enough day indeed. 

Tracer dug through the box. Most of it had been fairly unremarkable. There were a few worn sweaters she had clearly loved--Tracer had laughed when they got to the light blue one with a yellow plane on it, and told Winston how her dad had to hide it from her as it became a crop top--and some old drawings, a few stuffed animals that were not Biscuit and so didn’t matter. They’d chuckled and sipped on a few beers as they’d gone through it, but she broke into a bright smile when she took out a pair of Mickey ears, her name embroidered in looping font on the back of them. 

“I ever tell you about the time me parents surprised me? Took me to Disneyland in Paris?” She was asking the question, but it required no answer, in the way she often asked a question more of herself than anyone else, and so Winston merely shook his head, “I’s four years old, and Mum and Dad told me we was going to the zoo. I loved the zoo, went a few times a month, Mum would pack us an ‘amper, off we’d go. We was walking to the tube when me Mum drew these out of ‘er bag and told me we was going to Disneyland. We was going to ‘ave tea with Alice, even.” 

Winston took a sip and smiled, imagining her vibrating with joy, grinning so hard she might hurt herself. “What did you say?” 

Tracer giggled and leaned toward him as if telling a secret. “Burst into hysterical tears immediately.” 

“What?” He gave a low chuckle. 

“Right then, wasn’t quite as emotionally self-sufficient as I am now.” She laughed again. “Just too excited, too much surprise for me to ‘andle in that moment. Poor Mum. Dad picked me up, asked me what ‘ad gone wrong, and I sobbed out,” she laughed again,”DADDY, I LOVE ALICE SO MUCH.’ ‘e tried to keep a straight face, but me Mum started just creasing up, she did.” 

Winston looked at the tiny ears and smiled. “I’m sure you got over it.”

“Oh, we ‘ad a bloody brilliant time, once I’d calmed down a bit. ‘Ad the whole train ride to Paris, mind, and ‘ad a biscuit or two, so, came out all right.” She pulled out a plastic cup that read ‘Alice’s Tea Party’ and looked at, smiling softly, “They’d just found out Mum was sick, wanted to take me before she ‘ad treatment. Glad they did.” 

Winston placed his hand on her back, but she sat up straight and grinned. “Was when they figured I’d be just brilliant as a fighter pilot, given me total lack of fear on any ride I was big enough for. Loved the thrill best of all.” 

He wanted to share something with her. He envied the way that she had these things, that she could share so much of herself with him. He loved to think of her as an excited little girl who got to meet Alice, to see her carefully drawing a scene from Wind in the Willows for her mother, to imagine her father secreting away that patched and stained and too-small sweater. 

Winston had none of this. He had narrowly escaped the colony with his own life, much less any mementos, and at least that made the conversation easy. He never had to explain that there would have been few to take. Winston was a test subject, and while he believed Dr. Harold had loved him, there were no surprise trips to Disneyland, or regular trips to the zoo, or even any clothes outside of what was given to all the subjects. He had learned math and science, not how to draw badgers or toads. And so he had nothing to give Tracer but what he was now, nothing to communicate how deeply he felt about her and how much he wanted to share with her. 

Tracer set the ears to the side, deciding that they were the one thing she would keep from the box, and stuffed the rest back into it. She tilted her head at Winston, studying him, her eyes darting around as she had a thought. 

“Win, ‘ave you ever been to Disneyland? Paris’s only a few hours away, bet we can find a place to stay, too, right?” Winston realized with a mix of nervousness and love that this was one of those times she was asking a question to herself only. 

“Lena…”

She leapt to her feet. “Right! Win, I ‘aven’t been in years, and you’ve never!” She stood up straight and patted his shoulder. “So I get to be the one to show you. I wonder if they do Alice’s tea sti--no, wait, what would you like, Win? The very least, they still ‘ave a Mickey breakfast.” 

Winston shifted, biting his lip. “I didn’t really ever do childhood things.” 

She jumped up next to him on the couch and hugged him as tightly as she could. “So you’ll them with me.” 

“I--” 

He wanted to go with her. He wanted to go, and he knew if anyone could make it a reality, it was Tracer. But he thought of the park, and of the children, and how they might cower against their parents as he walked by, and a grey sadness came over him. 

Tracer jumped over his lap and knelt in front of him, looking up into his face. “What is it? You love it when we do thing together.” 

“I don’t want the kids to be afraid.” 

He said it softly, afraid if he put any strength behind it, that deep fear and sadness might be exposed, a fresh scab pulled off the wound. 

“Win,” She smiled and shook her head, “if there is anywhere on earth, that kids will be expecting a big guy like you to be a friend, it’ll be Disneyland, right?” 

He thought for a moment, considering her reasoning, considering her love, considering her fierce will, and smiled, hugging her tight. 

“Right.”

[perplexedtechnician]

[1] Hey Tumblr, we gotta talk.

...

...

...

Oh shit yeah, why do we have to talk?

Because I just read two books (essentially back to back) that I need to express so much about.

    Okay, so this is the Nemesis series... which I essentially just call Dreadnought.

[Warning: This post contains spoilers, lots of feeling sharing, talk of abuse, and rambling]

ANYWAY.

      This is the story of Danielle Tozer, a transgirl who just really wants to live her life. The issues though, man: she’s 15, her family’s very clearly not supportive when they find out, she has superpowers.

     Oh right, missed a step.      In the world of Dreadnought, superpowers are increasingly common. And... it’s kinda to the point that seeing a superhero fight is mundane.

“Oh. Great. A superhero fight. Just friggen’ wonderful.”

    She happens to come across a dying hero (Dreadnought), who is basically the All Might of this world, who grants her all of his superpowers. One of those superpowers? Making you your ideal self. And from here, Danny becomes a Victoria Secret model.

...no, really:

“No. I mean, why I look this way. Mom took me to a fancy bra store the other day, and there were posters everywhere of these women that, well, nobody looks like that in real life, right?”

“Except you, and a few genetic lottery winners.”

“Yeah. So my ideal self—” Doc Impossible chuckles. “Is a photoshopped underwear model, I see.”

    And you know what? I get that. I absolutely agree, I fucking wish I was that attractive. ...but I digress. Honestly? No. I'm not digressing. In fact, this is literally why I’m writing this psuedo-essay/rant nonsense.

More on that later.

 ...

    So right, Danny is a transgender superhero that’s... a fucking lesbian, really attractive, and a complete badass:

"My palms light up with scalding agony, but what hurts for me is torture for him, his whole body convulsing as the energy is reflected back into his skull."

[2] Danny Tozer can’t fucking catch a break for more than two god damn seconds.

      Directly out of her getting her body magically slapped into alignment,  she has to return home since it’s late-o-clock. What do we know about Danny’s home life at this point? Well, she’s not out to her parents.

"Obviously I can’t tell anyone about this. If it got back to Dad, he’d kill me.

He’s obsessed with “making a good man” out of me. “You’re a man now,” he says as his justification for friggin’ everything."

So, not a great picture of what might happen next-- Danny arrives home finally, and has to convince her parents she is… well, the same person. (allegories, there ye be)

"My father’s eyes get wide. His face goes the color of spoiled milk. “What did you do?” he asks, quietly enough to scare me."

    And this, this right here cemented my interest in this story.

    Danny’s scared of her Dad. Earlier, she expressed concern, specifically: ”If [my dad] found out I might be a girl... well, I don’t really want to think about what might happen”. At this point, she’s more scared than she’s ever been in her life. Her greatest fear is happening right now, and all she can do is twist the narrative into an unsaid apology. Danny wants to keep the peace, it’s what she’s done for seven years of her life. So she hides that she’s happy like this. And dad starts pushing to find a solution to this. And mom starts being a little supportive from time to time. Etc, etc, clearly they get their shit together and bang, happy ending.

  lol jk this is DREADNOUGHT people, nope, that is not what happens.

    Yes: great, her mom does start to seem supportive. She buys Danny some bras, cute flats, and even starts to bond with her daughter. It’s some heart-warming, regular shit we’ve all dreamed of getting to do. (but it never did, did it?)

    Her Dad forbids her from going to school since he wants to hide the whole.. “my son turned into a girl” thing. So, like any good kid, Danny goes the fuck to school. And there… she loses a friend.

    So her best friend, David, turns out to be the shining example of a “nice guy”. Danny’s a pretty girl now, why can’t she just date him? He just wants to try. All he does is stare at her tits, but wow, doesn’t he deserve a shot?

    Yeah, fuck you David.     He gets rejected and calls Danny a “stuck-up bitch”. Real great guy.

    Straight out of realizing her ‘best friend’ was a sniveling incel, Danny outs herself to her parents. And then her Dad goes... nuclear.

  (you may not want to read the next section if you’ve had abusive parents)

  "He tells me I’m stupid. That I’m not thinking big picture. That nobody will respect me while I look like a freak. That he only wants what is best for me but I’m screwing it all up.

He says I’ve damaged my reputation, that nobody will take me seriously now.

He demands to know why I don’t have the good sense to be ashamed of what happened to me, but doesn’t wait for an answer before saying I’ve embarrassed them all. He says I’m pathetic, that I’m delusional, that I’m sick.

He suggests I might be a pervert, and that he—generous, caring, and steadfast as he is—might have to fight to keep me off the sex offender list for using the girls�� bathroom.

He tells me I’m disloyal, that I’m a bad son, that I’m selfish and disgusting. He tells me I’m weak, and gross, and that I have no moral fiber.

He says he’s never been so ashamed of me, and then he goes on to emphasize how low that is, given all the other times I’ve shamed him. He says all of this at a volume to shake the rafters.

When I start to cry he calls me a sniveling pussy and says he’s glad his father is dead so he never had to see what a failure I am.

I suck it up fast, force the tears back as quick as I can, because I know the longer I cry the worse it will get."

      Yes, I felt it was necessary to make you read this huge chunk of screen real-estate.

    This, this is something that I know all too well of.

    Danny’s father is a selfish, unloving cunt. Full stop.

    And her mom? God, her mom doesn’t even watch. We know that this kind of talk isn’t the first of its kind. And then Danny... just takes it. It all gets to her, every single word. She thinks of herself as “a worthless, stupid, disgusting little freak”. She’s straight up sobbing in her bed after all of this, trying to keep quiet so her dad doesn’t yell again.

    She (effectively) loses everyone who she thought cared for her in one day. Damn.

    Yeah, your typical superhero origin story. Totally.

    Have I mentioned I relate to Danny so fucking hard?

      Now, honestly? I had to put the book down at this point. It hit in all the sore spots, those points of trauma that’ll probably be here for the rest of my life.

      What’s described here is the visceral reality of having abusive parents. The scars it leaves, the feeling of helplessness... enough to bring you back to it. And this, this particular flavor of helplessness, is something I have not seen in media before.

    I don’t want to spoil much further, these are all thoughts from the first book, and I encourage you to read it yourself. If you thought any of this was interesting or resonated with you, pick up a copy of Dreadnought and give it a good look over.

    (i might write more about this book eventually, might even touch upon the superhero parts :p)

[candont]

 I was born in Boston in

1949. I never wanted

this fact to be known, in

fact I’ve spent the better

half of my adult life

trying to sweep my early

years under the carpet

and have a life that

was clearly just mine

and independent of

the historic fate of

my family. Can you

imagine what it was

like to be one of them,

to be built like them,

to talk like them

to have the benefits

of being born into such

a wealthy and powerful

American family. I went

to the best schools,

had all kinds of tutors

and trainers, traveled

widely, met the famous,

the controversial, and

the not-so-admirable

and I knew from

a very early age that

if there were ever any

possibility of escaping

the collective fate of this famous

Boston family I would

take that route and

I have. I hopped

on an Amtrak to New

York in the early

‘70s and I guess

you could say

my hidden years

began. I thought

Well I’ll be a poet.

What could be more

foolish and obscure.

I became a lesbian.

Every woman in my

family looks like

a dyke but it’s really

stepping off the flag

when you become one.

While holding this ignominious

pose I have seen and

I have learned and

I am beginning to think

there is no escaping

history. A woman I

am currently having

an affair with said

you know  you look

like a Kennedy. I felt

the blood rising in my

cheeks. People have

always laughed at

my Boston accent

confusing “large” for

“lodge,” “party”

for “potty.” But

when this unsuspecting

woman invoked for

the first time my

family name

I knew the jig

was up. Yes, I am,

I am a Kennedy.

My attempts to remain

obscure have not served

me well. Starting as

a humble poet I

quickly climbed to the

top of my profession

assuming a position of

leadership and honor.

It is right that a

woman should call

me out now. Yes,

I am a Kennedy.

And I await

your orders.

You are the New Americans.

The homeless are wandering

the streets of our nation’s

greatest city. Homeless

men with AIDS are among

them. Is that right?

That there are no homes

for the homeless, that

there is no free medical

help for these men. And women.

That they get the message

—as they are dying—

that this is not their home?

And how are your

teeth today? Can

you afford to fix them?

How high is your rent?

If art is the highest

and most honest form

of communication of

our times and the young

artist is no longer able

to move here to speak

to her time…Yes, I could,

but that was 15 years ago

and remember—as I must

I am a Kennedy.

Shouldn’t we all be Kennedys?

This nation’s greatest city

is home of the business-

man and home of the

rich artist. People with

beautiful teeth who are not

on the streets. What shall

we do about this dilemma?

Listen, I have been educated.

I have learned about Western

Civilization. Do you know

what the message of Western

Civilization is? I am alone.

Am I alone tonight?

I don’t think so. Am I

the only one with bleeding gums

tonight. Am I the only

homosexual in this room

tonight. Am I the only

one whose friends have

died, are dying now.

And my art can’t

be supported until it is

gigantic, bigger than

everyone else’s, confirming

the audience’s feeling that they are

alone. That they alone

are good, deserved

to buy the tickets

to see this Art.

Are working,

are healthy, should

survive, and are

normal. Are you

normal tonight? Everyone

here, are we all normal.

It is not normal for

me to be a Kennedy.

But I am no longer

ashamed, no longer

alone. I am not

alone tonight because

we are all Kennedys.

And I am your President.