What are words? Queers read them in books brought over from the orient and whisper them into the ears of their knights underneath moonlight. “Arthur is away, it’s alright.” said Guinevere. I read Camelot. Queers these days only read fashion magazines. Unsurprisingly, there isn’t a generic one in sight.
I used to lie on his bed every other Friday night and realize that I don’t like the way he smells when he pounces on top me. I don’t like the way his big water-colored eyes stare at me as I fake squirm to get him aroused. I don’t like the way he feels inside. I have no room. My body is on fire and it wants to excrete just to get him out.
I went back all that summer. Sometimes, I wonder why.