Not y'all coming together on the Senate floor
It's 16:23 PST, December 26th, and there's a Full Moon in Cancer
Dearest Faguettes,
On December 15th, 2023, a congressional aide by the name of Aidan Maese-Czeropski entered into gay sainthood. He was in the employ of Senator Ben Cardin’s office and consequently given access to Hart 215, the judiciary committee’s hearing room. There, Saint Maese-Czeropski climbed on top a table, arched his back, and enjoyed a thorough dick-down on all fours. The top, unidentified yet allegedly German, served a thickish bratwurst and filmed the entire affair. And what a film it was!
Much to everyone’s surprise, the footage was leaked on Twitter and distributed even further by The Daily Caller. Upon receipt, the Republicans were “furious” and the Democrats “embarrassed.” The Alphabet Community, a deeply irreverent community mind you, requested a version of the video without . . . checks notes . . . blurred faces. If such a version exists and happens to be in your possession, please contact curious old me at (ey.patrice.washington@itsforscience.org) immediately.
If you feel led to invoke the favor of our newest intercessor, you needn’t look any further. I found a short yet powerful prayer that should do the trick: “We live in a rude and dangerous time in which there are no values to speak to and one can cling only to concrete things———such as cock.” A-fucking-men. Timely words by the ever-timely novelist Andrew Holleran.
Seriously, if you’re looking for more thoughtful writing on the matter, try @herreraimages on Instagram. “Let’s Unpack the Senate Twink,” a relatively recent posting, states the obvious and not-so-obvious, a series of multitudinous whys that can be boiled down to two: why did he do it and why does anyone care?
Again, I return to Holleran who, in Dancer from the Dance, wrote: “But the failures——that tiny subspecies of homosexual, the doomed queen, who puts the car in gear and drives right off the cliff! That fascinates me. The fags who consider themselves worthless because they are queer, and who fall into degradation and sordidness. It was those whom Christ befriended.”
Clearly Aiden‘s a doomed queen and doomed queens——like the truth——will out. Well, in her case, f@g out: but that’s besides the point. When, I wonder, will we, the casual onlookers, resist the urge to moralize such gay and horny deeds? I am not a god of the Old Testament variety and neither are you.
If I were him, I would feel like a failure. Thankfully, failure upends the exploitative notions of success. And, from one doomed queen to another, I hope, Aiden revels in failure for the rest of his days. This is not a rebuke: it is an admonition. In the queerest of slip-ups, alternative routes, routes that lead to wellness and togetherness, faithfully reveal themselves. Never forget, Aiden! Yours is a subspecies that climbs into clunkers, flies over cliff-sides, and radiates all the way down. Instead of growing up, we grow sideways, fanning outward into rich uncharted possibilities. I’d like to believe that’s what makes us queer.
The word in the picture above, the word hidden behind four asterisks, well, four stars really, is the word bless.
If you’re in line to bless the twink in the Senate hearing room, stay in line!
Sincerely,
E.Y.
P.S. Limp wrist Republicans are fucking and filming in the Capitol too. Unlike the Daily Caller, Semafor has kept one’s identity a secret. See, decency is alive and well.
Endangered Bookslut Caught Reading in the Wild:
Books with Pictures, Books with Words, Books that Caught My Eye:
Notes: Thom Gunn and his metric style gained him quite the acclaim while living in England. Then, after moving to the United States, leaving his literary beginnings behind, toying with the syllabic, and eventually adopting free verse, Gunn remained surprisingly restrained. His was a pen that drew taut lines across the page, taut lines that refused confession. And yet, they rang sharp with tender meaning. As a writer, who, more times than not, finds their writing, earnest and excessive, I admire Gunn’s measured control. Like a lyricist, he said so much using so very little. Enjoy.
The Hug
by Thom Gunn
It was your birthday, we had drunk and dined
Half of the night with our old friend
Who'd showed us in the end
To a bed I reached in one drunk stride.
Already I lay snug,
And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.
I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug,
Suddenly, from behind,
In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed:
Your instep to my heel,
My shoulder-blades against your chest.
It was not sex, but I could feel
The whole strength of your body set,
Or braced, to mine,
And locking me to you
As if we were still twenty-two
When our grand passion had not yet
Become familial.
My quick sleep had deleted all
Of intervening time and place.
I only knew
The stay of your secure firm dry embrace.