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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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.