#to be clear I think there should be as much faggotry as possible

[newnamesamecharlotte]

Pope Francis saying there is too much frociaggine (faggotry) implies there is a right amount that is not zero 😅

[illnessfaker]

[ cw: f-slur, rape mention ]

no reblogs pls. this is a long vent.

haha not to be a hysterical faggot crippled shut-in freak or anything but the way ppl talk abt the defensiveness around the f-slur that some gay/bi male users (and some transfem users) on here as if it's some kind superiority pissing contest thing and not primarily about...respecting the boundaries and experiences of those gay/bi male (and transfem) users. like...being on this site as a fag-adjacent person (i say that half-jokingly because it sounds silly on one hand but on the other that's the most accurate descriptor of my gender identity, lol) is becoming increasingly draining and upsetting with how "progressive" homophobia against gay/bi men is apparently becoming, like, a meme among lgbtq people and that's acceptable somehow bc lgbtq people aren't cishets or because it's "only online" and therefore doesn't matter.

like idgaf abt ppl who aren't gay/bi men (or transfem) using the f-slur in every single context possible. if they're affectionately referring to their gay/bi male (or transfem) friends with that word (so long as said friends are comfortable with it) that's one thing. who cares. i even rb'd something where a cis butch (iirc) lesbian was talking about a gay man she knew who she was affectionatly calling a faggot and the things she said warmed my heart. if they're throwing it around at every opportunity or using it as an edgy insult against random strangers on the internet, that's another. the users on here who do the latter also regularly display behavior that like...shows a pretty clear disdain for gay/bi men (or transfem ppl) not apart of their online or "irl" circlejerks and echo chambers, and that is in no way disconnected from their love of using the f-slur, lol.

the "it's only online and so it's unimportant uwu go outside" thing also really feels like such a spit in the face as someone who both lives in a rural area full of cishet white men with guns that might try to kill me if i walked out of the house in drag (not to mention i live with my bf and his family and his parents are homophobes themselves i'm sure), and is also someone with health issues that usually keep me at home and in bed when i'm not working. i didn't always live here but even in my hometown the only "lgbtq space" i had was the high school GSA which didn't do shit other than the day of silence and was attended by people i did not feel safe around (e.g. my ex-friend who was very emotionally manipulative and ended up raping someone.) i don't have any other lgbtq spaces to go to other than online ones. if i never joined tumblr i might still be a self-hating cishet girl, or i might be dead, who knows. like, i've accepted at this point that personhood isn't something i'm allowed in (outside of my whiteness) so fuck me i guess if we need to but the idea that other young, impressionable, and/or traumatized lgbtq people who only can meet other lgbtq people and learn about lgbtq things online for whatever reason don't deserve to have us make an effort on cultivating internet spaces that are as accessible and safe for them as possible, or that their experiences and feelings are somehow unimportant is just...vile. like ofc not everyone needs to "pander" to "logged on" disabled fags like myself maybe but if you have any kind of large following on social media maybe consider that the things you say and do on said social media have like...an actual effect on other people instead of pretending that it's "just online" and therefore consequences for your actions either don't matter enough (to you personally) or somehow don't exist.

but going back to the fag thing, most popular lgbtq tumblr users on my dash i see nowadays just...simply do not give a shit whatsoever about gay/bi men, to the point they're normalizing "progressive" and "acceptable" homphobia against us bc they've convinced themselves due to the bigotry some gay/bi men (often cis, white, and wealthy mind you) exhibit we are "the cishets of the lgbtq community," despite horrific violence still being committed against us every day and despite other lgbtq people being capable of engaging in that violence themselves. ppl make thinly veiled jokes and memes where the punchline is men having sex with each other or effeminacy as if those things aren't primary avenues for gay/bi men being abused, assaulted, and killed (including acts of abuse and assault of a sexually-driven nature), as if said jokes and memes don't serve to normalize the mentalities that drive homophobic hate crimes. it's not like...a coincidence that most lgbtq people who makes these jokes aren't gay/bi men (or transfem). this doesn't even get into how things like homophobia and anti-effeminacy can pretty much boot certain gay/bi men from manhood...or womanhood...or any place in gender altogether.

call me exlusionary if you want but i think it's fair to say that the chances of people who aren't gay/bi men (or transfem*) facing the repurcussions of those mentalities in any meaningful way, the chances of these people actually having lived as or going to live as "faggots" is any meaningful sense is slim to none, and that's why they're so comfortable participating in this shit, and that's why i'm triggered(tm) by them "reclaiming" faggot (which doesn't really involve reclamation bc calling random strangers on the internet or gay/bi men you hate a slur isn't reclamation you morons), because frankly if you're not apart of either of those groups, you're just not a fucking faggot. it's not your word just because some rando on overwatch called you it for picking hanzo in comp. period. end of story. it's also just extremely absurd to try and claim faggotry as something you experience while...readily and happily engaging in homophobia and fag-hate (which isn't synonymous with the former term but i'm talking abt ppl who probably seldom ever engage which discussions and theory surrounding how homophobia instrumentates itself in society - or at least that which doesn't conform to their worldview). within the gay/bi male community there's plentu of masc "straight-acting" gays who weaponize this shit against fem gays and they (should) get held accountable in the same way. you're not special.

and god, being told my gendered experiences as a fag-adjacent person where (white) cafab women are fully capable of engaging in social forms of "oppression" against me and other fags in undeniably gendered ways is somehow an outlier and therefore not reflective of broader social by (white) masc urbanite tbros with definitively more social standing than i'll ever have in my life, as if i somehow developed this understanding of gendered violence just based off my own life and not...the reported and sometimes even recorded experiences of countless other fags who get mocked and silenced because anything that deviates from a watered down, shoddy cis feminist take on gender is fake news(tm) or bordering on saying misandry exists (like no it doesn't exist but acting as if homophobic shit like anti-sodomy laws, for example, has zero to do with gay/bi men's manhood is just nonsensical). convos on here abt gender being mostly dominated by (white) cafab women or sometimes (white) masc trans guys is such a mistake lmao.

anyway i'm tired and stressed and pretty done with having "acceptable" homophobic shit shoved in my face on a daily basis both online and offline but nevertheless i must persist because i'm not lucky enough to have anywhere else to go, really. just...think critically abt ur actions regarding gay/bi male sexuality and gender-stuff pretty please. please.

( *disclaimer just in case that i definitely don't see transfems as some "type" of gay/bi men. there are transfems who identify with gay/bi manhood and/or faggotry. there are transfems who don't. that's entirely up to them. thank u. )

[mugsywrites]

Homesteading AU that will never be Chapter 2

This is chapter 2, with Merle. Warning for Merle’s thoughts, his head is an ugly place to be. Racism, homophobia, abusive thoughts, etc.

Chapter 2: Merle

Three days later the busy truck stop has been deserted. There are a few trucks scattered by the side of the road.

[STUFF]

This stillness is shattered by the roar of an engine getting louder and louder as a XXford pickup truck peels off the exit, pulling into the truck stop. A man gets out of the truck with a rifle slung over one shoulder, on edge.

[STUFF]

Merle Dixon has no psychic twinge or premonition that three nights ago his brother dragged his boyfriend into the shadows for a kiss not far from the spot where he’s pissing. If he did would have moved over to the side to be sure and water that little patch of grass. Since he doesn’t he finishes, gives the old joystick a shake, and zips up.

[STUFF, Merle Arrives at the Desus House]

After Merle makes sure that Daryl is definitely gone he goes through the house room by room looking for clues on where to search for his sweet baby brother and his sweet baby brother’s pretty boy roommate. He doesn’t dwell on the fact he would have done this even if there was a map on the wall with Daryl’s exact location circled in red ink. Doesn’t on the fact he’s just plain curious; he hasn’t seen or spoken to his brother in almost three years, something he still has trouble believing. All on account of Daryl’s prissy little roommate. The faggy little roommate who had gotten ahold of Daryl’s brain via his dick. The mouthy little roommate who made Daryl buy this house in this shithole town full of bleeding hearts, jigs, and democrats instead of splitting the insurance money with Merle. Aside from the paltry amount Daryl put aside for “when he got out”. The pussy little roommate who kept Daryl’s balls in a sack ‘round his neck for all Merle knew.

Pansy Palace is only big and fancy if he compares it to Daddy’s place up in Sedalia. If he’s being objective then it’s a modest two story colonial-style house that is good sized for a couple with some space left over if said couple were planning on adding some brats. Not that Darlina and his ladyboy roommate need to worry about that. The staircase to the second floor is just opposite the front door. To the left of the staircase is a small kitchen, to the right is living room that opens into a dining area towards the back of the house. There’s a half bath and an office and sliding glass doors that lead out to a patio.

Merle scans each room, cataloging everything in detail. Aside from the kitchen—with cupboards open and in disarray—the rooms look well-lived in but tidy. Merle thinks of Daddy’s place again, where he has not set foot since he was thrown in the clink over five years ago. He and Daryl lived there ever since Will Dixon, their shitheel old man, had a heart attack while watching Wheel of Fortune over twenty years ago. Casa Fagola, home of Darlina and his roommate, looks to be just about as old but in far better shape than Will’s place with its fraying carpets, peeling paint, and leaky roof. The furniture in Fudge-packer Manor matches, something Merle finds irrationally annoying. It looks newish and store-bought, not snatched from a rummage sale or flea market.

New house wasn’t good enough, he needed new furniture too, Merle thinks to himself, his mouth twisting in an ugly line. He thinks back to this spring, a few weeks before his parole hearing that was a waste of everyone’s fucking time. Merle had been edgy during that time, he knew goddamned well he wouldn’t be paroled. Too many black marks on his record after five years in the pokey. Fights, possession of contraband, destruction of other inmates’ property, mouthing off to the guards. He knew he wouldn’t be paroled, but this small sliver of him kept thinking what if. That was the thing, you could tell yourself all the livelong day that you knew you wasn’t getting out, but there was that little voice. What if. Same cocksucking voice he heard when he bought a scratch off ticket, peeling off slivers of latex while what if what if what if jabbered away in his head. That sliver of possibility was crueler than an extra five years on his sentence. Kept imagining what he’d do on his first night out of this place. Pussy being the number one item on that list, a steak at Texas Roadhouse right behind, and finally some crystal. Once he’d satisfied those appetites in that exact order he would track down his dumbass baby brother and help him find his nut sack again. It was with those thoughts swirling in his head that Merle was told he had a request for a visitor, a Mr. Paul J. Rovia. Merle was about to say he had no idea who Paul J. Rovia was when it clicked.

My friend Paul, the one I told you about. He’s moving in with me.

That last conversation he’d had with Daryl, when his sweet baby brother told him that instead of investing his little windfall with Merle’s help he was going to buy Fag Manor here in libtard central. Daryl had gotten up and left when Merle had made it clear what the consequences would be. After everything Merle had done for him Daryl had chosen some namby pamby little queer. He kept waiting for Daryl to come crawling back begging for forgiveness when the roommate fucked off somewhere after bleeding Daryl dry. But year after year passed with not so much as a letter. There were times he almost broke down and called Boyd down in Sedalia to ask if he’d do a favor for his pal Merle. A little one at that, especially since Merle would’ve gotten less time if he’d snitched on the rest of the gang. Just find out where his sweet baby brother was hanging his hat these days, find out who if anyone he was still living with. Simple. Merle never did go that far, in the back of his mind he knew Daryl would spot Boyd and would figure out instantly who’d sent him and why. There was always the chance that even though Daryl had embraced full time faggotry there was enough Dixon in him to start some shit. Shit that would end badly for everyone involved.

But now here Mr. Paul J. Rovia wanted to come for a visit, wanted to look Merle in the eye and talk to him. Merle didn’t even consider turning the request down, he wanted to look Paulyanna in the eye and talk to him as well. He told himself that it was just so he could tell the roommate to go fuck himself once and for all, and that was part of it, but it wasn’t the main reason.

The main reason was that he hadn’t seen his brother in almost three years, had no idea what he was doing, no idea if he missed Merle or thought of him at all.

[STUFF]

[STUFF]

Mr. Paul J. Rovia was already sitting at the little booth when Merle was escorted in. He didn’t stand,  looked up and met Merle’s eyes with a bland expression that did not match his chilly blue eyes. He was handsome, with bluish-green eyes, high cheekbones over a neat beard, and glossy hair that tumbled down to his shoulders. Merle’s first thought was that the guy looked like paintings of Jesus in his grandma’s sitting room growing up. His second thought was that he hadn’t expected the roommate to be this good-looking. His shirt was fitted tight enough for Merle to see he had the lithe, compact little body of a gymnast with surprisingly well-muscled arms and shoulders. Despite that, without a beard he would have looked like a girl with that glossy hair and a wide mouth framed by full red lips that looked like they’d been designed to suck cock.

Merle’s third thought was to wonder— not for the first time— if Daryl had lied to him about how much money was in his insurance settlement, or how much the lawyers would take, or a combination of the two. No way little Mr. Hot Piece would look twice at a bit of redneck trash with the last name of Dixon unless he had good incentive. So. Money, and lots of it. His sweet little Darlina had told Merle that he got a lawyer via his good friend Paul, the very same guy who swooped in like a vulture when he saw a dying Daryl beside the road. Probably called the lawyer before 911.

They studied each other for a few minutes, Mr. Paul “Jesus” Rovia and his pretty dick-sucking lips and bland expression. Pretty good poker face, but it didn’t take Merle long to guess that he was pissed. When Merle realized that he gave him a lazy grin, and that poker face slipped for just a minute before Jesus grabbed the phone on his side of the glass. Merle’s grin widened as he picked up his own phone, “Who the fuck are you, then?”

Jesus rolled his eyes, “You know who the fuck I am. Paul Rovia, you signed off on my visitor’s request. I thought we should chat.”

Merle sucked his lip against his teeth, “You got me. I know who you are— my sweet little Darylina’s best lady friend,” he was surprised to find himself reluctantly respecting the fact that guy got straight to the point like that. Little fucker. “You’re purtier than I thought you’d be. Still roommates?”

Merle’s reluctant respect shattered when Jesus replied in a bored voice, “Yeah. Plus we’re still regularly sodomizing each other, which is a bonus.”

White hot rage descended on Merle then. “Boy, you don’t know how lucky you are this glass is between us. You should march out of here before I decide to try and break it.”

[stuff, convo is identical to the one they had in Ripples, but with Merle’s reactions.]

“Heard you’re up for parole, that is if you didn’t fuck it up. How’s that going?”

“Why you askin’? Gonna invite me over for Sunday morning shopping trips for panty hose?”

“I’m honestly curious about something, Merle. Do you legit think comparing me to a woman is going to piss me off? Or implying that I’m less of a man or whatever because I like dick? Besides, it’s not like you have room to talk, what with you in here getting dicked down on the regular. Guessing you’re the most popular guy on your cell block.”

“I don’t need to know about your jerk off fantasies, you fucking fudge packer, or the disgusting shit you done to my brother,” Merle snarled.

“Oh Merle, your secret is safe with me. I spent a lot of time in juvie, I know guys like you. Loudest homophobes are the quickest to lie back and grab their ankles or follow you around begging to suck your dick.”

“Ooh creampuff, do you want to wrassle with me?” Merle hissed, “You want an ass beating to get your rocks off you don’t need to go through all this, just say the word.”

“Daryl may be scared of you, I’m not,”

“You lying little cocksucker. I dunno what kinda shit you put in his head, make him run off—“

“Holy shit, do you not know?Thought you’d be pleased, I think he’s more scared of you than he ever was of your Daddy. Apple didn’t fall far from the tree there in your case.”

“I ain’t nothing like our daddy, you candy ass little scrotum. Daryl ain’t scared of me.”

“He is terrified of you; he’s had me spend the past three years learning how to shoot a gun and looking over his shoulder because he’s worried you’ll have your inbred white supremacist buddies come beat him or kill him. He’s been a basket case since he realized you could be getting out soon to beat him or kill him personally.”

“Look at you sittin’ there in your fancy clothes with your yankee accent acting like I’m some kinda monster, to hurt my own kin, my blood. You see a guy like me and see nothin’, see a guy who won’t listen to your bullshit—”

“You know what I see when I look at you?” Jesus interrupted, “Trash. Straight up fucking garbage. And it’s really important that you realize I don’t see that because you’re poor, or from Buttfuck, Georgia, or are into redneck shit like hunting and fucking your cousins. Except for that last one I could be describing Daryl and I think he’s pretty great. No, you’re garbage because of the shit you choose to do. To him especially.”

“So why are you here then, if I’m the bogeyman?”

“I’m here because—even though you’re trash and don’t deserve him—Daryl for some reason still loves you. Which makes you also my fucking cross to bear. In my ideal world you’d fuck off somewhere and never come back, but I think he misses you. If you could choose to stop being a dick for thirty minutes then he wouldn’t mind hearing from you, so feel free to give him a call and let him know you’re not going to kick his ass. But if you show up and hurt him in any way or try dragging him down to your level I’m going to kill you.”

Merle stared at him in disbelief before he chuckled, “Oh sweetheart, I would love to see you try.”

“Please, a child could get rid of your dumb ass. Cut the brake line on your bike. Or set the shack you live in on fire one night when you’re all pilled up. Or just walk in blow your head off instead, cops would find you and think one of your tweaker besties went nuts. Nothing of value would be lost and no one would miss you except for Daryl. He’s used to that by now.”

Merle laughed again: “Oh honey bunch, you are feisty. Hissin’ and spittin’ just like a kitten. You know what I think? Think you the one that’s afraid. Daryl knows I’d never hurt him, I think you’re afraid once I get out he’ll find his balls again and quit buyin’ you houses and whatever else you got him doing.”

“Whatever helps you live with yourself. Saddest thing about you isn’t that you’re trash, it’s that you don’t have to be. You could just, y’know, stop. Like I said, he still loves you for some fucking reason and would be happy to see you if you could act like a human being. But guys like you never do. Goodbye, it wasn’t nice meeting you.”

[STUFF]

That night Merle found Fabrizio in the showers and gave him the nod. Later when the little Guinea fuck had his mouth around Merle’s cock he heard ol’ Jesus mocking words, bet you’re the most popular guy on your cellblock, playing on a loop in his head. When closed his eyes instead of imagining past conquests like Ruby Sawyer or that sexy bitch XXXX, it was Jesus. Imagined how those full lips would look swollen and bruised and red after, and as he did he arced his hips forward and came with the force of a gunshot.

That night he laid awake in his bunk while Ellis Crowder snored and farted in the bed above him, restless and angry, still hearing Jesus’s mocking voice.

What with you in here getting dicked down on the regular.

Fucking fudge-packer and his fucking disgusting fantasies. Fucking Daryl and his tender little heart. Merle should have sat down with Daryl back when he was still young and impressionable and explained a few things to him. Like how getting your dick sucked when you were behind bars-be it juvie or prison—was one thing. Hell, some guys were better at it than women, could make it feel fucking amazing. So Merle understood that part of it, how a guy could give you a blowjob so good you saw stars. How you could maybe get addicted to it, start thinking that thing was ok full time. Easier and more convenient than going after a woman. Especially sweet young ladies like his precious little Darlina. Too late now.

Loudest homophobes were the quickest to lie back and grab their ankles or follow you around begging to suck your dick.

Merle felt a spike of rage, remembering the little queer claiming he sodomized Daryl, and his hands twitched involuntarily as he imagined wrapping them around Jesus’ neck and squeezing. Never, Merle thought, Daryl’d never! His brother might be tender-hearted and sweet but Merle’s time making him into a man couldn’t have been completely wasted. The kid was tough, and the thought that he’d let Mr. Pretty Boy Jesus do that to him was absurd. Getting your dick sucked was one thing, fucking a guy was one thing—after all, a mouth was a mouth and an asshole was an asshole whether they were attached to a man or a woman. A man needed something beside his hand for five years. But by the same token a dick was a dick, and only fags liked those in their mouths or up their asses. Fags got off on doing that kind of shit. Take Fabrizio, Merle hardly ever beat him off afterward as a thank you for services rendered but the guy still came running with his mouth agape when Merle or any other guy with more muscle than fat gave the nod. Fuck, when Merle was back in juvie and didn’t know any better he’d given his fair share of head in exchange for some of his own, but he hadn’t enjoyed it. Some tit for tat, quid pro quo, I scratch your back you scratch mine. That was before Merle realized some guys would…how did Jesus put it? Lay back and grab their ankles or follow you around begging to suck your dick. That’d never been Merle, little queer was probably just projecting; he’d probably be the one in juvie to do all that. If ol’ Jesus was in prison now he’d be the most popular guy not just on the cell block but the entire dang prison. Guys’d be lined up by the dozens to run a train on him and he’d love every second. He’d be good at it too, Merle knew that for a fact, had to be good to get Daryl so whipped he was buying houses and refusing to see his brother who was rotting away in jail.

[STUFF, he’s back in the Desus house looking at their shit]

The walls are covered in collages of photographs of various sizes. Many of them are black and white so at first Merle dismisses them as some arty farty shit they’d gotten at a tourist shop. But then out of the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of something familiar and takes a closer look. It’s a shot of a rocking chair in the middle of a field, taken at around sunset. Its only when you look at the figure seated in the chair that you realize how big the thing is, fifteen feet high at least. The man in the chair has his arms stretched out like Jesus on the cross and can just barely touch the chair’s armrest and his feet don’t touch the edge. In the light of the shot his features are indistinct and shadowy but the silhouette is enough for Merle to recognize his brother.

[He has a flashback to when Daryl was a little boy, around five or so. Sitting in his rocking chair with a stuffed Kermit the Frog, and Merle telling him that only fags had stuffed animals. ]

On one wall there’s a framed menu of a place called the Sweet Shack Barbecue. It’s designed to look a little like an old-timey newspaper, with inked etchings of smiling pigs dressed in top hats and tuxedos. One drawing has a group of pigs with wide smiles sat down at a dinner table. On the table is another pig, only this one is on a plate with an apple in its mouth and little x’s in place of eyes.

He finds Daryl in another photo. This one is a closeup of a regal moth cupped delicately in the palm of a man’s hand, and Merle can just see the corner of the little blue star Daryl has tattooed on his wrist.

[STUFF]

A pit bull with its mouth open in a wide, doggie grin leaning out of a motorcycle sidecar. Its wearing a red bandana with the University of Georgia logo and matching red goggles. Merle thinks of the “Warning: Pit Bull” sign on the side gate and guesses this is Darlina’s pet dog. They always had a mutt or two around since they was kids, and his sweet baby brother adored them.  Merle felt his fingers close into his fist at the overt faggotry of it, dressing your dog up.

[STUFF, IN THE KITCHEN]

The fridge is covered in kitschy souvenir magnets—St. Petersburg, Tarpon Springs, Cumberland Island, St. Augustine, Savannah, Gatlinburg, Asheville, Helen. There’s also a black magnet with “GO DAWGS!” in bright red, and another one with Uga, the white bulldog that’s the Georgia mascot. On the side of the fridge is a whiteboard with a blue marker on a string. He recognizes Daryl’s chicken scratches that make up the written to-do list.

1)Lou’s rabies shot 2)replace brake lights on Paul’s bike 3)Mow lawn 4)shoot douchebags on Oakhurst St

Underneath the last item is a note written in neat block letters: babe don’t shoot neighbors until I’m back & can bail you out.

[Merle goes through the house some more]

Merle isn’t a man who’s ever understood himself well, so he doesn’t bother to analyze the way looking at Daryl’s house makes him feel. Pissed off, jealous, afraid, guilty. The house isn’t what he expected at all. Not the frayed mess of Daddy’s place, but neat and homey. It's like finding out he never knew Daryl at all. He isn’t sure what he expected to find—he had a vague idea of some faggy shit like rainbows all over everything, nude portraits on the wall, a fucking gimp costume hanging from the hook on the door or a collection of dildos on the shelf. He doesn’t find anything like that, not in the living area or in the master bedroom.

He does find a box of condoms that looked old as fuck and a mostly empty bottle of Astroglide that doesn’t.

[bootycallreverie]

Twelve Days in America - Part 1

(Photo credit: jacob_cherry via djlisafrank; original post here)

I can’t easily summarize everything I saw, did and experienced over the past bit in the United States. Any attempt won’t do my memories the justice they deserve, but I want to commit a few thoughts to posterity while they’re fresh in my mind.

On August 15, I flew to Philadelphia with my pal Aeryn to meet our friend Ethan and drive all together to the Honcho Summer Campout - an underground queer techno gathering located on a private campground in Artemas, Pennsylvania. I had been to Honcho’s regular event in Pittsburgh last August and was impressed by what they had created: a dance floor space where, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I could finally be my true self again. Based on that experience, and though I had never slept in a tent before, I knew I needed to make it out to the Campout this summer.

I have suffered from crippling self-doubt for a very long time. This has manifested itself in different ways, with a particular impact on my body image, though also on my career prospects, social relations, approaches towards sex and general mental state. The feeling of liberation at Honcho in Pittsburgh was something I hoped I’d find again, primarily as a balm to soothe the aches of what has so far been a challenging and frustrating year.

I was not expecting to be gently pulled apart, rearranged and healed over four days of immersion in (virtually) unadulterated queerness, faggotry, community and love. From the second we arrived on the grounds, I felt like we were in actual heaven; our first taste of it was driving down a muddy path to our campsite against a stream of hundreds of beautiful queers in revealing swimsuits (or less) walking toward a riverside swimming hole to cool off from stagnant summer air. Despite a weekend of rain and mud, things would only improve to levels of nearly unimaginable satisfaction.

(Photo credit: Ethan Fontneau via _troxum_ original post here)

Lots happened over the four days at the campground, much too much to write here. Every single moment had worth. Every single moment built upon the last one. The people I met inspired me to do more with myself, but more importantly, the folks at Honcho helped me realize a concept of self-love that I had never before known possible.

There are a few salient memories I will share here:

On the first day, I ran into someone I have known for a while from whom I’ve often sought validation but never received it. This time, beyond exchanging pleasantries, I found absolutely no need to pursue his attention further.

[K], a handsome man I did not think would be attracted to me but proved otherwise, invited me to jump into a muddy patch in the swimming hole with him. Even though I ruined my new speedo, I’m glad I did.

Over dinner on the second day, I met [Jo], who remarked that “…in America, people find an excuse to say no. In Spain, people find an excuse to say yes.”

I met [A] through a happy case of mistaken identity. We could not keep our hands off of each other. This absolutely beautiful man confessed to me that he had been afraid at first to approach me because he was convinced that “a guy like you would never be interested in a guy like me.” Later on, he told me to look around at the magic in the forest under the stars and drink it up, because none of it was fantasy - all of it was very real. As we fucked with passion in a tent, he looked into my eyes and said to me that “even though we just met, I am not afraid to tell you I love you, because my love is here to set you free, not bind you.”

I’m not entirely sure how I first crossed paths with [C], but we had an instant connection. We loved each other deeply for a few special hours. I can’t forget looking into the eyes of this beautiful gentle giant and thinking that I am not merely capable of love, but also that I’m worthy of love too, and how rare and special it is to meet someone that makes silence perfectly comfortable and familiar.

I asked [Ja], this charming Southern muscle daddy type if I could bum a cigarette from him outside one of the dancefloor venues. He didn’t have any, but with a mischievous grin, he said “let’s go find you one.” Before I knew it, we were fucking like animals in a clearing. I couldn’t help but think to myself that this was what I had been born to do: pursue what I wanted instead of merely accepting what came to me passively.

[E] was a fleeting encounter on the dance floor. This beautiful man with a smile from ear to ear came up to me to say “I hope I can get my hands on you later; I’ve had my eyes on you all weekend.”

[B] joined me as I sat on a bench overlooking the river in the morning rays. He remarked that he liked my hex tattoos and pulled his phone out to take a picture of them. As he looked at the image he had just captured, he nodded quietly in approval of his own work: “…ha,” he said, “…that’s hot.” It was one of the most empowering things I’d ever heard.

(Photo credit: bryantherye; original post here)

[D] is a DJ I met from DC. On the last night, I mentioned I was also a DJ, though not at any comparable level to him or anyone playing at the Campout. Despite this, he wanted to stay up late talking about our favourite disco artists, with each new offering from one eliciting squeals of approval from the other. I realized eventually that [D]’s approval of my choices were genuine. He legitimately liked my taste and said we should stay in touch to collaborate in the future.

At sunrise on the Monday, I was seated in a gentle, chill-out cuddle puddle that had slowly become more carnal. As time went on, I found myself mounting [K] and gently fucking him as a small group watched, including his beautiful boyfriend. As I reached climax, it dawned on me that I was entirely sober. My behaviour had not been influenced by intoxicating substances; my desire and my drive were innate to me. I had identified what I wanted, and with respect for the needs and wants of others, I took it.

As Monday’s sunrise developed into full-on morning, I walked home to my own tent to make a pitiful attempt at sleep before we had to pack up. On the path back, me with my overalls carelessly undone and slung perilously on my hips, I crossed paths with another man who had obviously just engaged in an act of sexual pleasure. With knowing smiles, we looked at each other in the eyes and happily exchanged a friendly “good morning.” 

On the drive back to Philadelphia, I reflected on the quality of the crewmembers that had assembled quasi-spontaneously around this trip: Ethan, Aeryn and our new friend Christopher, whom we met at camp. We all had plenty to offer each other - laughs, snacks, spare hands, tales, costume accoutrements, shoulders to cry on when needed - but most importantly, we were all there for each other no matter what. No shame, no jealousy, no expectations on anyone else’s time…simply a bond of friendship and unity founded in a genuine desire for us to all thrive. In a lot of ways, it was a taste of queer brotherhood that I have sought after for years.

I still have a lot to process, including how I apply this newfound empowerment and self-love into my everyday life here in Toronto. I’m not entirely sure how that will happen, but based on the way I’ve felt over the past days, I know I am largely equipped to make my dreams come true.

Forgiveness is hard, especially when you’re trying to forgive yourself. The first photo in this post does not do justice to what I felt when I saw it on a crowded dancefloor under the gentle haze of happy intoxication. I was forgiven for all the times I’d descended into self-hatred, all the times I believed what my mother had told me, all the times I’d been set up to fail by my ex-boss, all the times an ex-lover had made me out to be a horrible person.  To know that I was finally home, with my people - that I had a people - has made me rethink my place in the world. These precious days have given me hope in a bright future for myself…a much brighter future than I ever thought I deserved.

[knives-out20]

Anything - Erik Lehnsherr x Male!OC

Fandom: X-Men

Pairing: Karmel Rosenstein (OC) x Erik Lehnsherr

Warnings: SELF HARM, Slight mentions of Karmel’s past su!c!de attempts, Gay asf, Not Canon, Swearing, Karmel’s a simp, Absolute faggotry, Erik come catch ya mans,

Notes: Based off of Can’t Remember To Forget You by Shakira feat. Rihanna, enjoy!

Dedicated To: @sophster1881​

Karmel found himself back outside the X-Mansion with Charles, training gear (the grey hoodie and matching sweats) on his person, with an added detail: the bracelet Erik gifted him.

Charles eyed it. “Stands out quite a bit, doesn’t it?” He questioned, eyebrows raised hopefully.

Karmel scoffed. “Like I’m gonna let you let me distract myself from training by using my personal feelings for Erik.” he rolled his eyes. “Just let me run the vines over your wall a few times, then we can be done here.”

Charles giggled, putting his hands up in defense.

Karmel cleared his throat, forcing his eyes upon the brick wall. He slowly raised his arms, vines growing from out the ground and latching onto the wall. The higher his arms went, the more his sleeves fell back; this revealed bandages among small cuts, most likely caused by the thorns on Karmel’s vines.

Charles’ eyebrows jumped when he noticed. “Karmel-”

“Shh, I gotta focus.” Karmel hushed, teeth grit. He’d rather not talk about how he’s tried to stop feeling the way he does for Erik, in the past. Too scared to go into shock therapy or admit himself into a lifetime in a straight jacket, he had used his thorns to lightly abuse himself each time he thought of Erik in a way that wasn’t platonic. That, currently, as far as Karmel was concerned, none of Charles’ business.

Charles closed his mouth, understanding Karmel’s distaste on the topic. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, keeping watch of the vines.

Karmel huffed, pushing away any memories that dared seep into his head as he watched his vines at work. He could almost feel the way his vines scratched at his skin, and tightened around his neck more than any of his dads ties ever could. Karmel inhaled sharply, hands starting to shake a bit. Then he remembered Erik’s bracelet, and noticed it on his left wrist.

Charles noticed that Karmel noticed, and also noticed how Karmel noticing it made him less physically tense. He smiled, just a bit: Erik still calmed Karmel down, but spiked up his powers.

More of Karmel’s vines shot up the brick wall when Erik waltzed into his mind. Karmel loved it all; Erik’s cool hair, his striking eyes that Karmel could get lost in like a labyrinth, his voice of melted gold, the way Erik walked, the way Erik talked, every aspect of him.

“You still have strong feelings for Erik.”

“Shut it, Charlie Chaplin.” Karmel felt his cheeks heat up. His feelings don’t just fade away so easily.

“How do you feel about him?”

Karmel answered Charles whether he liked to or not. “I’d rob and I’d kill to keep him with me, I’d do anything for the guy.” He started, stars in his eyes as his vines looped smoothly around the windows. “I’d give my last dime, just to hold him, Charles. I’d do anything for that boy.”

Charles’ eyes went slightly big, arching a brow. “All that, huh?”

Karmel repeated everything, word for word, as if in a trance. “Anything Erik could ever want done, I’d do it. No matter the risks, whatever it fucking takes. I...I love him. You fucking heard me. Rob, kill, beg, barter, steal, anything for Erik.”

The two heard a familiar throat being cleared behind them.

Karmel froze, eyes going wide as Charles and him slowly turned around.

Erik had his head tilted up, at the vine-art of his face on the side of the X-Mansion. It swiftly dropped down to Karmel and Charles, mouth open a bit.

Karmel gulped. “Shit.”

Charles’ lips formed an ‘o’ out of surpise. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Didn’t, uh, didn’t hear you, either.”

“Thought so.” Erik spoke up, taking a step closer.

“I should- get going-” Charles excused himself, turning back around and walking off, leaving Erik and Karmel alone.

“Charlie, wait- you fucking horseshit!” Karmel called, shaking his fist angrily. He clenched his teeth, looking back over at Erik in fear.

Erik made his way over, pulling his hands out of his pockets. “He’s gone.”

“Oh, thank fuck!” Karmel let out a sigh of relief, physically relaxing. “How much longer do we gotta keep this shit secret for, anyway?”

Erik shook his head. “Just for a while longer, darling.”

“Okay, so-? What’d’ya think?” Karmel asked, gesturing up at the wall.

Erik hummed, looking back up at the vine-art of himself. “I think my nose could use some work.” He teased, leaning in to softly kiss Karmel’s own.

Karmel ‘aww’d, playing along. “But I always work so hard on that part!” He teased, nothing but love in his eyes.

Erik chuckled, catching a glimpse of Karmel’s arms. “Still haven’t faded, have they?”

“Well, no. My crush on you was only a crush like, less than a week ago. It’s- obviously- more than that now, so give it some time.”

Erik lifted Karmel’s arms to his lips, placing a soft kiss on each of them. “I love you, Karmel.”

Karmel tugged Erik closer by his left arm, thumb softly stroking over his wrist; that’s where Erik’s number tattoo was, from the camp he was in. He always admired just how fucking strong Erik is, the fact that he’s alive is a miracle. “I love you too, Ricky.”

“’Ricky’-?”

“No, no, shut up, shut the fuck up, I’m keeping it.” Karmel restricted, covering his ears with his hands. “La-la-la-la, I’m the best nickname giver ever, la-la-la-la, I love you, Erik.”

Erik exhaled through his nose, his smile growing automatically. He gently put his hands over Karmel’s, pulling them down. Erik leaned in, placing a loving kiss on Karmel’s lips. “I’m well aware of that.”

Karmel glanced off, giggling.

“Would you...really do all that for me? Everything you told Charles?”

“I’d never lie about you, or to you. Well, to anyone who knows how I feel about you. To anyone else, I’m keeping up walls higher than the ones here at Charles’ place, or at my place.” Karmel explained, shrugging. “I’d go to the moon and back for you, only using my vines. Seriously, I’d do it, I’d do it-”

“And I believe you, Kar.” Erik cut him off, laughing. “It’s...endearing. I like loyalty.”

“I’m loyal.” Karmel smiled proudly.

Erik pat his cheek. “And I adore you for that, Karmel.”

Karmel melted into the touch, his current strong romantic feelings clouding his mind from the fact that flowers were blooming across the vine-art of Erik’s face.

Erik looked up at it, and giggled.

Karmel furrowed his eyebrows, turning around. “Fuck-”

“No, no, keep it.” Erik shook his head. He grasped Karmel’s hips, letting his arms snake around the blond’s waist from there. Erik pulled him closer, resting his chin on Karmel’s shoulder. “I quite like it.” He purred directly into Karmel’s ear, knowing full and well the effect his voice had on his boyfriend.

Karmel gulped again, face flushing out of pure attraction. “Sh- Shut up-” he stuttered, crossing his arms. “Fuck me-” Karmel hissed, feeling Erik kiss his neck.

“Now?” Erik grinned maliciously.

“Oh, suck my fucking dick, man-” Karmel cursed.

“Okay, yes, but now?”

Karmel groaned, clawing at his face.

Erik chuckled lowly, grip around Karmel tightening. “I love you.” He chirped, smiling against Karmel’s neck.

“I love you too, you fucking bitch.” Karmel grumbled. No matter how upset he could ever get at Erik, what he told Charles was true. Karmel would walk to the ends of the earth- the galaxy, even- if Erik so much as asked him to. He’d fight anyone Erik would tell him to, he’d rob, steal, and kill if Erik gave him the green light to do so.

Karmel is so head-over-heels for Erik, he can hardly stand it.

Charles just fears the possibility of it soon being Karmel’s doom, rather than his attitude.