Wicked Gay Ways

Dear Reader: Welcome to our final winter issue of 2020 which also extends to 2021 given the winter equinox occurring on December 21 st. To say it has been a difficult year is an understatement and I know, we, like just about everyone else on earth, are hoping to ring in 2021 with determined optimism that life as we know it will slowly go back to normal.

In this issue we are excited to feature art work by Michele Corbman, (USA) Alberto Escobar, (Brazil) Angela Davis Fegan, (USA) Mike Thorn (England) as well as short fiction and poetry by Barbara Marie Minney, David Estringel, Dean Ford, NHYLAR, Drew Pisarra, Mike Vega, Sossity Chiricuzio, Steven Cordova, and Mike Walker. We are also featuring three pieces from Susan DiPronio as a way to introduce ourselves through some of our work. We hope you enjoy our winter 2020 issue and we wish you our readers and contributors the best in the year ahead.

Michele Corbman is an established and award-winning photographer based in Philadelphia for over 30 years. Her creative talents range from portraits, events, commercial nature and has been featured on the cover of National Geographic. Michelle contributes her time and artistry  to non-profits such as the American Cancer Society and the Ronald McDonald House.  She believes that photographs should capture the sensitivity of a moment. Michelle is also known as a talented painter.

LADYSTICK

looking inside myself

i find you entwined around

my heart

entrusting it to another’s keeping

our breath sparkling like

diamonds cutting through glass

my body pressed tightly

against yours

flesh hot

transforming within ourselves

the heroine in each other’s story

loving you

so much

it is overwhelming

like a last leaf of autumn

clinging to you

reluctant let go

knowing what lies ahead

climbing my ladystick

with your tongue

licking hungrily

like it is a peppermint stick

pouring fuel

on the flames of my lust

DEVOUR

i will devour you

     eat you up

          with my mouth,

          with my mind,

          with my lady penis

take your maidenhood

     again and again

          with each lick,

take you apart to see

     what makes you click,

then put you back together again

Barbara Marie Minney, a native of West Virginia, writes personal and emotional poetry that describes her feelings, thoughts, and passions while struggling to live her truth as a transgender woman.  She began her transition to living authentically as the woman that she now knows she was meant to be at the age of 63 after repressing her true gender identity for over 60 years. Barbara’s poetry has been published in the "50th Anniversary Hessler Street Fair Poetry Anthology," "Women Speak: Volumes 5 and 6: Women of Appalachia Project," "The Gasconade Review Presents: Ladies' Night," "Woman Scream: the International Poetry Anthology of Female Voices," "Voices of Real 4,” “For A Better World 2020: Poems and Drawings on Peace and Justice,” “Wicked Gay Ways Summer 2020 Issue, and Pluviophile: Digital Mental Health Anthology."  Barbara’s first collection of poetry, If There’s No Heaven, was the winner of the 2020 Poetry Is Life Book Award and was published in May of 2020 by Poetry Is Life Publishing.  A copy may be obtained at https://www.poetryislifepublishing.com/ifthere-snoheaven. You can follow Barbara at www.barbaramarieminneypoetry.com. You can follow her on social media @ https://www.barbaramarieminneypoetry.com, https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20819684.Barbara_Marie_Minney, https://www.facebook.com/barbaramarie.minney.3, https://www.instagram.com/barbaramarieminney/

Angela Davis Fegan is a native of Chicago’s South Side. A graduate of Chicago’s famed Whitney Young High School, she received her BFA in Fine Arts from New York’s Parsons School of Design and her MFA in Interdisciplinary Book and Paper Arts from Columbia College Chicago. Angela has mounted shows at Galerie F, Chicago Artists’ Coalition, the DePaul Art Museum, The Center for Book Arts (NY), the University of Chicago’s Arts Incubator and Center for the Study of Gender and Sexuality, the Hyde Park Art Center, SAIC’s Sullivan Galleries and Columbia’s Glass Curtain Gallery. Her work has been selected for book covers including The Truth About Dolls by Jamila Woods, Secondhand by Maya Marshall, Where Brooklyn At by Roger Bonair-Agard and All Blue So Late by Laura Swearingen-Steadwell. Her MFA thesis, and on going practice, the lavender menace poster project, has been written up by The Offing (LA Review of Books), Hyperallergic, Chicago Magazine, the RedEye, Go Magazine, Pop Sugar, the Chicago Reader, and Newcity. The V series is a hybrid of Fegan’s past figurative portrait works, and her long running Lavender Menace Poster Project (2014 - 2019). In this series of portraits, Fegan composes the figure out of repurposed letterpress posters from her archive, while building grounds through the incorporation of recurring materials from her practice, such as: rose petals, menstrual blood, scraps of recycled denim handmade paper and studio scrap. These works include allusion to witchcraft and/or the chemical processes involved in both printing and hand papermaking. The result is a love letter to the bodies that occupy the intersectional space of the multiple political issues addressed in the print work.

“Kiss Me, Again, Again, and Again” (originally published at Terror House Magazine)

The coppery taste of meat beneath your sweet breath lingers
like a penny on the tip of my tongue.
Heads or tails?
Can’t lose—
Lucky me.
My equilibrium’s fucked raw,
as my hands drink-in the warm curvature of your hips.
O, glorious spit—
a little dab will do ya—
streaked red and hot,
never take me from this place,
leaving me
haunted by the ghost of that breath—
your Heaven,
your Hell—
that leaves me…
quivering.
Words can’t capture what’s smeared on this cheek
by fingers,
sticky and sweet—
so why try.
Kiss me,
again,
again,
and again,
in that white muslin dress of thigh-stretched daisies
that roll and grin like morning shadows,
smiling at secrets hidden in dark places.

David Estringel is a 2019 "Best of the Net" nominee and LatinX poet and author whose work has been featured in publications such as Cephalopress, Terror House Magazine, Expat Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Wicked Gay Ways, Cajun Mutt Press, Alien Buddha Press, Queer As In Fuck You, Poetry NI, and Agony Opera and will soon appear in Azahares Literary Magazine in Spring 2021. His first book of poetry and prose was published April 2019 at Alien Buddha Press and his two subsequent chaps Punctures and PeripherieS were published at Really Serious Literature and The Bitchin' Kitsch

24 Hour Video Arcade

Behind any of these doors you’ll find Icarus sharing fluids with strange men. He doesn’t grasp the complex balance of serotine and oxytocin, but it grasps him. The walls are fake, not safe and protective or even divisive and private; as performative as the moans from the porn playing inside the booths. They’re thin and holed like college rule. Left-aligned glory holes adjacent to the screens. Carbonated blood. Arm hair erect like sunflowers stretching to the light. The space which he inhabits, inhabits him. 

It’s less a pursuit and more the stalking of happiness. Predatory. It’s not love. Love is off the table. We don’t talk about love. Quiet nights which bleed into unbearable days with unbearable sunlight. He’s safe from it behind the digital porno glow.

Here is our Icarus before the fall. Inertia has levitated his body and he is like a cherub resting on a cloud at the 24-hour video arcade in central Houston. There’s innocence to his perversion. It’s impossible to call it deviance the way he smiles at hunchbacked men wide-legged, beating their drum. It’s ministry. He acts in goodwill for men.

The men he sees, and he sees them well, are eyeing him violently. They appraise him less like the obvious pound of meat at Whole Foods and more like they’re serving their country via Jury duty. So much older than him in spirit but less so in trips round the sun; he sees them wrinkled and dry, waiting for some seminal fluid to restore their youth, to satiate their hunger. Dark men doing dark things in dark places -- quick fix to fuck new friends in cheap places.

These men appear to have never left the dark hallway. They are there still, paying $8 by the day -- cheapest rent in the inner loop. They’ve memorized the stars in the pornos and can recall them just by their moan. They know them by the hue of their assholes. Those are the men who want Icarus’s cock. They want to pitter patter fingertips over the bulbous red head. They want to run scales from A to G over the throbbing shaft. They wait and watch where his eyes go, the way his lips crack. They beg with all their body to give himself to them so that they may feast again.

He sees in one of the viewing booths, a beautiful woman with an enormous dick and ducks in for closer inspection. One hand over his mouth moved slowly down to stroke his chin, absentminded, forgetting the surfaces that hand has touched. 

A short man follows him into the booth and closes the door. He’s even shorter now that he’s squatted down, tugging at elastic and digging for treasure. A red glow reflects from between the bald spots on his head.

The textures that grip Icarus are warm and wet from balls to tip and they read like braille. This is the highest form of pleasure. This is true happiness. He cannot cum first, it ruins the effect. He knows when he coats the occult floor, he will demand escape from his escape, and it’s very rude to act like a captive when a partner is trying to climax.

These thoughts and then more flicker through his kindling mind, sparking with a manic horniness. Anything is possible in the shady hall. Everything is permissible in the dark. Animal nature a-okay, let it all hang loose and feed on flesh till full.

The shorter man sees Icarus reviewing review and smiles very prettily. Such a nice person. Community service.

Soon the roles are reversed, and our hero is on his knees, soaking the left over wet, teary-eyed with a throat full of it. The man turns him around and buries his tongue while Icarus strangles his snake. It’s not long before the release. A Genesis shame vacuums out all life. The short man escapes -- a hit and run -- leaving Icarus still bent, baring ass.

The deed is done, and the prize is won, and the memory is now metaphor for something missing. Coming there to that place. So dark. So dark. He came there to get his fill, yet release shifted to placid contentment -- lobotomized haze.

A shadow pushes his way into the cramped space. The woman with the frightfully large member is screaming into some man’s microphone. The shadow whips it out and slaps Icarus’s ass. He speaks in unintelligible curses. Dirty talk for dirty places, crashing consonants between his tongue and teeth. 

The intruder turns Icarus around. “Get it hard for me, baby. Get it hard.”

Icarus cannot say no. He cannot disobey the flesh swung in his face, its dominant musk. Innocence means impulse and he cannot control himself. Any escape blocked by a sense of duty. 

“Come on, baby. Suck it. Just for a little bit.”

He counts the seconds before he must come up for air. A little bit comes and goes and the dick’s still there uselessly soft. The man doesn’t relent. He pleads and corals. He grabs and wags. Gestures and curses grate Icarus’s mind against a backdrop of soprano moans.

Another man enters and echoes the other. They’re pulling Icarus around to one and then the other. Tongue tied, he cannot say no. He cannot say anything. He laughs at nothing and obeys till he’s a sweating mess and sore all over.

Flaccid contemplations in the car outside; baking in stale heat, resting in silence. More cars pull into the lot. The men come ready with cash and lube and mints. They come ready with condoms and Viagra. They come ready to cum at least once before slipping into a coma, before running back to their wives and children and dogs and cats. We don’t talk about that. The men dawn their mask before entering, as performative as the porn, as theatrical as the theater. They beg for someone to catch them there. They beg to be exposed. They beg to be set free. The walls there are fake. Not divisive or private, not protective, not safe.

Dean Ford (he/him) is a gay veteran and writer living with bipolar disorder and residing in Houston, Texas. He is the current prose editor of Defunkt Magazine. He has a B.A. in English from University of Houston. He has a story published in R2: The Rice Review and upcoming work in Collateral Journal. Follow him @stevendeanford on Twitter and Instagram 

Doors

lately, something as mundane as

closing a door

has been sending me,

and all of a sudden

I’m reduced to a pool of wetness,

baby I shut every door 

in anticipation of you

I think about all the doors 

I have waited to shut,

to devour you

the sound of the door closing

reverberating in my head

the yearning stronger than ever

my body falling apart in excitement

training its muscles to move swiftly

in preparation of a feast

pupils dilating, pussy lips glistening

my head disassociating,

focusing on your breath

like a rhythmic countdown

to our lovemaking

we are two time beings

horny yet vigilant,

revelling in the moments 

that exist between the 

opening and closing 

of doors 

Euphoria

in her skin, I found solace

in her scent, I found paradise

in her lips, I found life

something changed, 

as we began to consume each other

as we got lost to the rhythmic dance of our tongues

for this euphoric high, we didn’t need to set our lungs afire

to be intertwined, breast to breast

my leg over the majestic lump of her butt 

my hand resting on the small of her back

her hand clinging to my waist

and the perpetual wetness between her legs,

was euphoria on its own

NHYLAR is a 24 year QPOC who currently resides in Vancouver. She uses poetry as a creative outlet for her existential rage. She writes about queer representation, living away from home, intimacy and anything that intrigues her. You can follow her on Instagram @shutupitdoesntmatter.

ENCORE

You call I run

You seep You drip 

You pull me in

I bring your legs

Over my shoulders

Lick your clitoris gently

While pushing between your legs

Your hungry vagina

Seizes my hand

                         Gladly there is no escape

And I plunge deeply

Again and again

The labias, major and minor,

Applaud

I watch your face

Simple prayerful

You moan, I moan

You scream

   Encore ! Encore !

     … And, I oblige.

Susan DiPronio.

CAKE

Naked, they sat. waiting. 

The warm bath had eased their shyness

...and she asked her:

 “ will you feed me cake with your slender fingers

soft from nightly creams ? 

Icing dripping into your palms slithering down your wrists ? 

Crumbs to tickle your breasts finding their way deep in the crevice between them, 

falling onto your lap decorating your deepest places ?”

“if so, I would beg you to let me nibble” 

  SUBMIT

Aching thighs carry this body 

wrung from loving through the night, 

on a heady journey through

crowded streets blurry with excitement. 

My legs are rubbing grabbing. 

They want more. 

I submit and gloriously slide my fist 

down into my pants left sticky.

wedge it between my damp thighs.

The hum of the crowd vibrates through me

… I hope they can see….

and I push against my mound, 

left furry just for her 

and Fantasize it’s her again… 

because it thrilled me 

when she was on her knees 

sucking my cock 

and how she begged me to pound

into her plump ass. 

it's the least I could do.

Susan Di Pronio is a a photographer and published writer of poetry, plays, non-fiction, film and the founder of "Pink Hanger Presents." Pink Hanger creates and produces avant-garde, multi media performing art which explores the societal restraints which bind women to silence. She has taught writing workshops to underserved populations, and is the recipient of the Leeway Foundation's Transformation Award as well as a founding member of The SEXx Collective.

Oganesson

You were out of my league, out of my reach,

out of my grasp, my paygrade, my budget,

out of my dreams, out of my age bracket,

and yes, I was out of my mind each

time you showed up. I was so into you,

so into your looks, so into that bubble

butt so bound to get me into trouble.

I was under a spell I couldn’t undo,

I was under duress but I can’t say

why or how your Belarusian features

struck me dumb with the shock of perfection.

Rashly I dragged you out of the café,

into my bed, then under frayed covers

where I couldn’t handle either erection.

Drew Pisarra is the author of Infinity Standing Up (poems, new) and Publick Spanking (fiction, old). Additionally, he's a recent literary grant recipient from Cafe Royal Cultural Foundation and one half of Saint Flashlight, a literary project with Molly Gross that's launched activations for The Poetry Society of America and The Poetry Project. 

Alberto Escobar was born in El Salvador in 1990. At an early age he was attracted to colors and nature and at the age of 12 he began making small landscapes and handicrafts out of clay. Throughout his youth he showed a particular interest in classical architecture, mainly that of the Renaissance period, something that would be reflected in most of his architectural designs at the technical institute where he studied.

Always attracted by architectural design, he entered the School of Architecture of the University of El Salvador at the age of 18, however, his early affinity for color, compositions and landscapes continued to manifest themselves and this interest led him to abandon his architectural career after two years,  transferring to the School of Arts at the same university.

It was at the School of Arts where, as he himself relates, “he felt like a fish in his own water”, since he loved everything he created, striving to have a satisfactory result for himself and for his teachers. In art school he soon showed more affinity for subjects that implied practice rather than theory such as Painting, Drawing and Sculpture. Here too, as in his earlier architectural studies, the Italian Renaissance continued to have a strong influence on him, an influence which is reflected in his later works.

At the age of 21 he made his first homoerotic work, after having encountered the work of Michelangelo Buonarroti and Gustave Dore. From that moment on he dedicated himself to painting and drawing homoerotic scenes, a reflection of his own sexuality, his desires, his passions and his dreams. 

Criticism and conservatism in El Salvador were always present as an obstacle in his artistic development, either because the models he chose did not want to pose (most of them considered that practice “too gay”), or because of censorship in galleries that considered his work "muy obsen” (“very obscene"). In 2016 he met a young Brazilian online who posed for some drawings and who eventually became his “favorite model” and it was from that virtual friendship (and a possible platonic love for his model) that he developed an interest in knowing Brazil, this led him to apply for a scholarship outside his native El Salvador, thus gaining in 2018 the opportunity to travel to Brazil.

It was in Brazil where he found his real source of inspiration;  the ease of the male models he chose and asked to pose who were always accessible and who possessed the physical attributes that the artist never found in his native El Salvador.

This is how from 2018 the works he's created in Brazil are part of the series he calls “Homoerotismo Brasileiro”. This output deals with works comprised of various elements including architecture, flora and fauna, as well as symbolism mixed with various Brazilian models whose renderings reference the work of Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel with its so-called "ignudi", at the same time that it provides a representation of a foreign vision in a country washed by the beauty of its culture and its people. He currently works and lives in the city of Salvador de Bahia in Brazil.

BUDDY & I GO HIKING

& though I mean to pack hand sanitizer

I pack a tube of lube instead. 

Buddy’s none the wiser:

“Good stuff,” he says & smiling spreads

the stuff into each square hand & wrist

& now you know why I give Buddy head.

Steven Cordova is the author of Long Distance (Bilingual Review Press, 2010). His poems are forthcoming in The Notre Dame Review and The New Orleans Review, and have appeared in Bellevue Literary Review and Los Angeles Review. He reviews fiction and nonfiction for Lambda Literary. Originally from San Antonio, he lives in Brooklyn, New York.

A pair of peaches,

fuzzy smooth

on silk sheets

salty breeze

from the window

across your body,

bronze chest.

You twist

the peaches

open

remove

the stone

with your

finger

and offer

half.

I say love

and you say

ocean.

I say salt

and you offer me

your body.

You whisper:

mi rey

mi amor.

The smooth peaches

your fingers

the salt

of your body

we swim together

your fingers

inside me

prelude

to yourself.

Peaches and

bronze:

mi rey,

the salt

of the ocean,

mi amor,

I said.

The bed

the peaches

you

smooth and

silk slippery

peaches and flesh

veined marble

within

each other

sheets against

back and butt

pull and thrust

lost in the bed

salt on my tongue

silk and slide

swimming

in the ocean

of you.

Mike Vega is a free-lance writer, a transplant from the hot Southwest to the humid Midwest.

Mike Thorn, was born, and lived in London most of his life, and now lives in Saltdean, Brighton and loves it. He is inspired to show images of gay men that challenge the stereotypical ideal of the toned, smooth, youthful physique. “I portray relaxed, men, often with a heavy, hirsute build, with an element of underlying sexuality, sometimes coupled with a hint of humor. Masculine men at ease with their bodies provide sources of inspiration, alongside wrestlers, rugby players, and weightlifters. My work ranges from painting in oils on canvas, drawing in colored pencil, through to illustrating stories for various publications, and portraiture.”

Exhibitions: New York, San Francisco, Paris, Berlin, Amsterdam, Cologne, London, Sydney, Bergen Norway. Publications: Kerle Magazine, Bear Magazine, International Leatherman Magazine, Mach Magazine, Books, Bear Icons, Fur – The Love of Hair. Web: www.bear-art.com. You can reach hin at mike@bear-art.com

Canto V

The kid had a beautiful cock and I sucked it for all I was worth. In some cheap-ass motel called the Starlite. On the outskirts of Hell, Ohio. Outside the one grimy \ window of our room, Paolo and Francesco dallied in pink cumulous clouds, clouds that spewed out from some damn factory/concentration camp. A factory/camp that made home insulation or something…And had. For like a million years.

“Mmmm argghh” I said around the sweet kid’s member. As Paola and Francesca murmured in each other’s ears.

As they clung to each other in cotton candy clouds…

The TV in the motel room was on. I don’t know how that happened. The kid and I had just come to suck and fuck. A Grindr hookup.

And some scrubbed blonde newswoman with maybe D tits shook those massive babies on the little plasma screen. Her lips secreted behind a pale blue mask…

As we did our secret/ dirty thing at the Starlite. As Paolo and Francesca clung to each other’s naked bodies in poisonous clouds.

The FDA said data from Pfizer’s Covid vaccine trials show that side effects are common, though there are “no specific safety concerns identified that would preclude issuance of an” emergency use authorization the blonde on the TV said behind her mask, as the kid shot his hot sperm down my throat.

We were not wearing masks, of course. We were courting death. In a stucco motel room. On a single bed with sheets the color of some gray corpse…

Before we had begun, I had taken a quick shower in the room’s little bath. There had been a dead cockroach there, close to the drain. Belly up. Looking like some fallen Trojan warrior buried in amber.

The kid’s slime his essence his warmth 250 million soldiers went to their death in my body. He gripped the back of my skull as he came. He painfully toyed with my hair. His hairless legs and perfect feet spread and pointed towards the stucco ceiling.

“Yesss…yesss…God ohhh god, Daddy” he screamed, as his pleasure came and went.

Outside, Paolo and Francesca sailed the clouds. Like some small fragile skiff caught up in a bad ocean storm…

Love has conducted us unto one death, they sang. As the boy continued to shiver against me.

#

Afterwards, we lay on the stale bed. Naked. Paola and Francesca far away now. Skirting the perimeters of Hell probably. Robed in their pink clouds.

“That was good,” the kid said. With little enthusiasm.

“It was,” I replied. I had no idea what the kids name was. Online, he had gone by some pseudonym/screen name. I actually couldn’t remember that well either. It was Ever/Never. Ever Dragon?

Something like that…

My effluence still shiny on his white thighs.

On the motel’s TV the news of doom went on and on and on as we laid close to each other.

Cases rose by 25,721 Tuesday, bringing total cases to over 500,000 since the start of the pandemic. Of the over 25,000 new cases, approximately 13,000 were backlogged antigen tests.

Outside, the Starlite’s neon sign buzzed on and on.

On the nightstand next to the bed my phone buzzed. I picked it up. A text from my wife.

Hey hon. I know you are at work still. Can you stop at Wal-Mart and get toilet paper and aluminum foil? Also, cat treats for Napoleon and Dynamite? Love you. Make sure to wear a mask, K? Love you

“I have to go,” the kid said. Sitting up now and scooping his frayed jeans from the puke green carpet.

“Me too,” I said.

Michael Walker is a writer living in Newark, Ohio. He is the author of two books: 7-22 (a YA fantasy book) and The Vampire Henry (a literary horror novel.) He has also seen his stories and poems published in numerous magazines including Adelaide Literary Magazine, PIF, and Fiction Southeast.

Communion

I want to feel your tongue between the folds

of my back, delving for mysteries beyond language 

hands gripping tight to hips dancing against your chest

while teeth that long for your bicep make do with a pillow

oxygen a joyful sacrifice until you softly roll me over

eyes caressing the waterfall of my belly rising 

up to your hungry hands, burrowing

for the wet heat heart of me, tender and fierce

as the formless sounds that sing from my mouth

swollen and curved and shameless

one two three quick slaps to starry constellations

on thighs that have rubbed a thousand miles

through a world that sees me less as my flesh

grows more, that would rob that beauty you see

and leave me hollowed out and stuffed with shame

but your hungry hands write stories of glory

on the scrolls of fat, passed down through  

generations of peasants and priestesses

magic spells woven of raw silk and sweet butter 

melting on the altar of your tongue

Duet

your room is full
    of noise
breeze coming in
shuffling through papers
    looking for that
half written story
about an alley way
    and a plan
it rushes up
over your back
as you arch
and my hand follows
  that muscle moving
    curve of a
        plane of a
    symphonic piston
  that is your body
between my legs
grabbing firm
the metal bed frame
rocking
  bass line and
percussion
both
underlain with
  meaty slaps
hand against flesh
  against flesh
a fierce passion
  roused
by the groans
  you pound out
of me
laying well placed
profanities
on the air between us
    superheated
    sound waves
carry my almost silent
    whispers
    prayers
direct to your ear
and your command
    to mine
and song comes
and the sounds
  are tumbling together
echoing
  in trembles
through my cunt
  along my eyelids
    everything about me
      welling up
like underground springs
and earthquakes
all that sub sonic
  vibration
aftershocks
and the profound
  silence
that comes
when it all goes still
only slowly
  making room
  for night sounds 

and our breath
ragged, calming

Sossity Chiricuzio (she/her) is a fat femme outlaw poet, a working class crip storyteller. A Lambda Fellow, the CNF Editor for Gertrude and Dirty Queer Journal, and author of Honey & Vinegar: Recipe for an Outlaw, her work is found in places like Leather Ever After, Erato, Salty, Pulp Mag, The Impossible Beast, Say Please, Rogue Agent, and The Second Coming.

 Sossity is a Lambda Fellow, CNF Editor at Gertrude Press, Prose Editor & MC at Dirty Queer online: You can follow her on social media @sossitywrites, @dirtyqueerjournal.