As a queer person who grew up at a time when all sexual activity involved risk management, its fascinating watching people who told me to “just abstain” freaking out over missing a dinner party.
You think not taking a trip, or wearing a mask, or going to a party is tough? Imagine having everyone in your life — from family members, to friends, to teachers, to doctors — telling you during your most formative years that acting on sexual desire *will* lead to your death.
I get that this situation is challenging. I’m exhausted and sad, too. But it’s hardly unprecedented and watching a quarter of the population act like nightmare babies because they’re not used to being inconvenienced is honestly worse than the virus itself.

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More from @jplarocque

24 Jun
It’s Pride Month. I’m happy to see your logos turn into rainbows. I’m happy that our allies, both privileged and marginalized, wave flags and retweet and offer up their safe spaces. I also want to talk about what this month means to me.
Every spring I get bashed in Toronto. Friends have jokingly referred to it as “the spring bashing” — the weather gets warm, so car windows roll down, and someone calls me a faggot from a moving vehicle. Every year, since I was 14 years old.
When I was sexually assaulted in my early twenties, everyone I turned to dismissed my experience. They assumed that because of queer hook-up culture, I was misremembering the details, that I’d had too much to drink, that I couldn’t possibly be a victim. Only therapy helped me.
Read 7 tweets

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