GLR March-April 2023

more than a few feet in advance and needed to hire guides to lead them to specific destinations. “The fog encased them. John could see the stone underfoot and Frank, but no further. What must be the street lamp figured as a brighter, faintly glowing patch of yellow in an indeterminate space higher up. They listened: there was a distant fall of hooves, slow and muted as a funeral march. A pale faraway shout. The sky lurked, massive and obscure.” The great city with its pea-soup fogs, its seething underclass, and its criminals is a perfect set ting for the sex secrets of even its rich citizens, as revealed by

The New Life. This novel shows that the struggle to come out, due to the strictures of the dominant society, has always been painful and hard won. We like to think that same-sex love isn’t just defen sible but also beautiful, not only in its normalizing Pete Buttigieg version, imitative of heterosexual marriage, but also in its quirkiest manifestations. As Anne Enright says in her blurb: “Tom Crewe’s forensic love of the physical puts the body back into history.” We can feel these queer bodies as they make their passionate, problematic love.

At the End of Christopher Street

At the piers, our queer colored youth

Before he was famous, Willi Ninja was one of our sistas. Filming some documentary, already an icon just looking to get laid while we sucked Blow Pops seducing chicken hawks. That was some diva. Always clicking and duckwalking. She was a God amongst us. “Miss Thang” — a popular term. “She’s cunt!” — the highest honor reserved for sickening fem queens. soldiers engaging in a minefield. We learned to love ourselves, our skin, on the edge of a city where bodies were dumped off. Cars drove by yelling “faggots,” as little kids like us stared from backseats. Afraid of this pride, this audacity, this threat to society. Already dying off to a gay pandemic. Many ghosts. No clients if there were lesions. No money, even for a big dick. “She’s tick tick boom,” we viciously joked. It was tragic to be found dead. Parents often didn’t even care. Except for the inner tribe blanquitos, white gays deemed us trash. We were fully aware seasons change. Some went missing. There was the AIDS crisis. We were drafted

We had no place in their movement “Pier Queens” they called us but we owned it. Fabulous in our attitude. Untouchable unless allowed. We owned those summers throwing the best shade taking their Madonna and creating our own culture. We kept it underground, exclusive for the revolution to be televised — eventually. Magnificent wigs and juicy tits the dreams of housewives trying to keep their husbands. Indeed, married men paid the most. History now knows how we lived. in school. They can choose their own pronouns. There is much to learn and nothing taught. Only references of the past. Willi passed as did many. The piers are now open to the public. There are TV commercials for people living with HIV. Sad how many had to die for this world we live in now. But there are still plagues and wars to death drop for. We thought we were legends. Battled long before “Vogue” introduced us to mainstream. Posed for cameras. Walked the runway. High on the universe we created when no one wanted us. Except us. E MANUEL X AVIER Now boys can be girls and girls can be boys

was worshipped. We flirted with every man wealthy or not. Our underage

or viejos . All types. It was home whether

we lived in suburbs or out on the streets. Summer nights were crisp. Charged. Intoxicating. All one family. Everyone wanting attention. Boys like us — a dime a dozen. There, we did not know prejudice. We were queens. So, America did not want us. Fuck her! She ain’t nobody. House music boomed. Trans women ruled, mothers to all children voguing on top of cars. Naughty kids swallowing semen in the dark. Some for money. Others fun. Bellies full.

The G & LR

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