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We hope you spend the next couple of weeks studying your local ballot and voter guides. 

When you’re done, move on to memorizing the (un)Official (de)Classified Gay Agenda!

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Cobwebs and Silks

by Anastacia Kellogg

Once upon a time, there was a woman who wished she could do something wonderful, like spin straw into gold. She visited the neighborhood witch and offered her firstborn child in exchange for the talent. Grimfeasance agreed. (She was an ugly old woman whom not many people liked, so she thought a child would be nice to have around.)

Once upon approximately the same time, there was a man who broke into a witch’s garden to steal her golden roses. When she caught him, he offered his firstborn child in exchange for escape from her wrath. Maloire agreed. (She didn’t want a child, and would have sold the roses for a few pennies, but something told her this man would have been a terrible father.)

One year later, the man with the golden roses met the woman with the golden straw. One year after that, they realized they were in love. And one year after that, they got married.

All of this was very unsurprising. Stories have a way of working themselves out, especially in the fairy-tale lands which witches tend to populate. It’s improbable that this man and this woman could have ever lived out their lives without meeting and falling in love with each other.

One year after that, they had a baby daughter.

Grimfeasance and Maloire appeared in the baby’s nursery at the same time. They were not happy to see each other.

“That little girl is mine!” shouted Grimfeasance.

“That little girl is mine!” screeched Maloire.

There was no winning side to the argument. They both had equal claim to the firstborn child of the man and the woman. Splitting her in half would have been impractical, because that would very shortly leave them with zero living child. 

There was only one other option.

They had to compromise and carry her off together.

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Taylor Swift and the #MeToo Midterms

by Walker Cook graphic by Angela Zheng

1992, the year in which Taylor Swift turned three, became known as the “Year of the Woman” after Anita Hill’s story fired up the nation; a record number of women ran for office and doubled the number of female-held seats in Congress. Suddenly, California was represented by two female senators, the first Black woman senator was elected, and both already-sitting female senators won reelection. Congress was then 10% female, overall. Many of the women who ran directly attributed their passion to the Anita Hill hearings, including current Senator Patty Murray (D-WA), who was first elected to the Senate that year.

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Over the Rainbow

by Anastacia Kellogg graphics by Harmonie Phan

In the civilized countries there are no witches left, nor wizards, nor sorceresses, nor magicians. In the civilized countries there are no towns delicate as china, nor cities made of jewels. In the civilized countries there are no armies of pretty faces and knitting needles, nor wild beasts with grace and manners, nor boys who turn into princesses wearing flowers and gauze.

But, you see, the Land of Oz has never been civilized.

On a warm, pleasant day, which had been spent half attending to important affairs of ruling and half doing nothing at all, Ozma suggested to Dorothy that they should go on a journey together to a corner of her kingdom that they had not yet visited. “After all,” she said, “it has been a curiously long time since our last adventure, and I am not used to so much quiet!”

Ozma was the Ruler of Oz, and though she looked like a young girl she was widely considered to be the fairest and the kindest Ruler the country had ever had. Dorothy Gale had once been a little Kansas girl, but was now a Princess of Oz and Ozma’s constant companion.

“We shall make it a whole procession,” said Ozma decidedly, “and we’ll invite anyone who wants to come along. And you must bring your aunt, for she has seen so little of the beautiful country for all her time here.”

“I’m sure she’d be glad of the trip,” agreed Dorothy.

“You know, my dear, it’s very strange, but she continues to be a mystery to me. That is, I always find her a touch odd when we speak, and I never know why. Perhaps it is because she isn’t from Oz to begin with—but then, neither are you. You must tell me more about your Kansas!”

“There isn’t much to say ‘bout it,” replied Dorothy. “Least, not that I haven’t already told you.”

“But you’ve told me so little,” said Ozma. “I know of your farm, and your fields, and your cyclone cellar. But here in Oz you have travelled from one side to another, and you have brought back so many stories that you must know my own kingdom better than I do!”

“That’s dif’rent,” said Dorothy. “Oz is very new and queer to me. You know I grew up on the prairie, where everything was gray. You could travel for miles across that country and still see everything looking the same, but you can’t go more than ten feet in Oz without meeting someone stranger an’ stranger.”

Dorothy was ten years old, sitting on the broad Kansas prairie, and had just found Aunt Em softly crying while Uncle Henry tried to comfort her. Then Dorothy asked them to tell her what was the matter. They had not told their niece the sad news for several days, not wishing to make her unhappy, but now they told her how desperately poor they were, how they were about to lose the farm and the house, how uncertain they were of food. The girl listened quite seriously.

“Do you suppose you could manage to return to your fairyland, my dear?” asked Aunt Em.

Uncle Henry shook his gray head doubtfully. “These things all seem real to Dorothy, I know; but I’m afraid our little girl won’t find her fairyland just what she had dreamed it to be.”

They were uneasy, for this is a practical humdrum world.

Every morning, they stopped for Bill, the Yellow Hen, to lay her daily egg. Aunt Em waited impatiently to collect it, an old habit of hers from living on a farm

“I can’t und’rstand why she won’t let me put the ‘eena’ on the end” declared Dorothy earnestly to her friend as they stood to the side. “Surely ‘Billina’ is a prettier name than ‘Bill’ anyway.”

“Oh, it isn’t any concern of yours,” said Ozma carelessly. “And if it’s such an easy name to change, perhaps there’s really no difference between them.”

“But it’s all wrong, you know.”

Ozma looked sternly at the Kansas girl. “Really, Dorothy, that’s a rude thing to say about anyone’s name.”

Dorothy, as even her friends had to admit, had one notable deficiency in speaking, which was that she did not often think before she did it. She felt rightly embarrassed by that now, however, and tried to mend matters by explaining, “It’s just that all the Bills I know have been b—”

“—have lived in Kansas, not in Oz. Perhaps you find her name unusual, Dorothy, but everything in life is unusual until you get accustomed to it.”

“I s’pose so,” replied Dorothy with her pride a little bruised, for she did not like arguing with her friend.

“After all,” said Ozma, “is Billina a girl?”

“No-o-o,” said Dorothy, “she’s a yellow hen.”

“Then perhaps it is best left to a yellow hen to decide what name is right for a yellow hen.”

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OutWrite Newsmagazine has a long, proud history, from starting as the first queer college publication in 1979, to becoming... whatever this is

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Media, and Mind, and Self-Reflection for the Bi Community

by Shannon Kasinger graphic by Hannah Boston

Media, and America’s incessant consumption of it, accompanies every facet of daily life and has had a tremendous influence on society, especially in the past five years. From the advertisements screaming at us from every available screen to the enormous sway that social media has on our perceptions of others, the average person is constantly bombarded by images and messages created by those who control corporate media. One especially influential medium is that of television, as it is a mode of media that Americans invite into their homes on the daily without fully realizing its intimate effects on their perceptions of others.

As it is often a homogenous group of people (read: rich, old, white, straight, cis men) who controls what shows and characters make it to air, depictions of marginalized groups are often told through the lens of the majority rather than those of underrepresented individuals.

DEPICTIONS OF MARGINALIZED GROUPS ARE OFTEN TOLD THROUGH THE LENS OF THE MAJORITY RATHER THAN THOSE OF UNDERREPRESENTED INDIVIDUALS.

This issue is a point of contention for the LGBTQ+ community, whose struggle for liberation has been encouraged by increasingly positive depictions on television yet inhibited by continued inaccuracies and stereotypes. The bisexual subsect of the community, in particular, grapples with inauthentic representations, which contribute to a general misunderstanding of bisexuality as well as problematic presentations of an intricate identity for bisexual people, some of whom look to television for relatability and acceptance. These unfavorable depictions are detrimental to the mental health of the bisexual community and can contribute to higher rates of mental illnesses in comparison to the general population (Journal of Bisexuality Volume 16, 2016- Issue 3, “Bisexuality, Mental Health, and Media Representation”). If television is meant to represent the lives of real people, and bisexual people continue to see depictions that are not grounded in reality, how do they cognitively view themselves within the fabric of human society?

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Moon to Sun

by Siobhan Chapman

You, and your effortless pull, The way all things come to you— Inexplicably, inevitably— And how eyes can only briefly glance your way As if taking in too much of you is a sin.

Us, and the way I’m ever-­drawn to you, Yet cannot exist by your side— Forbidden, fated— And how all of me is your reflection Because this is the way the world needs us to be.

We understand what they never will. We see colors that can only appear when the universal layers fall into place, overlap. I imagine us overlapping: The unparalleled pleasure and pain in our secret anomaly, Contradictory and necessary.

Until we eclipse, I’ll gently fade away for you each dawn, As surely as you’ll extinguish each dusk— Our connection always strengthened by sacrifice, Hidden in plain sight.

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The Taboo on Bondage

graphic by Shay Suban

Content Warning: Mentions of rape

I find that stories of sexuality rarely begin at the start. Instead, they often begin with a realization, a breaking of the bubble, and retrospect floods in from there.

This one begins with innocent little sixth grade me, sitting on her parents’ bed with a 2006 MacBook, exploring the Internet for the first time. Sixth grade me was discovering the world of fan art. The words I typed into the search bar meandered and then grew more specific until I realized what I was really looking for. I edited the next search to say “tied up.”

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Fuchsia 

by Sarah Jensen graphic by Shay Suban

Love was in the air, so Alicia packed up her laptop and some notebooks and evacuated the premises. She liked her roommate, and didn’t mind her roommate’s boyfriend visiting, but the two of them were inching closer while watching some rom-com and she saw where this was heading.

Her floormates were shouting and blasting One Direction in the floor lounge. The building lounge was hosting some midterm stress relief event. Alicia was starting to entertain the idea of actually making the trek to a library for once, but a text stopped her.

Chris: Yo I’m doing chem in my lounge if anyone wants to join.

Kumiko: I’m down

Alicia considered it. Study groups usually weren’t great for her productivity. That said, Chem was her weakness this quarter. Kumiko and Chris were doing well in that class, based on the first midterm. And a free lounge was a free lounge.

Alicia: omw

She realized then that she’d forgotten her laptop charger in her room.

It’s not even a real anything. It’s just them walking down the rain-soaked street, holding hands with arms outstretched because they have the room, skipping a little in the night. The air smells clean, freshly bathed.

One twirls into the other’s arms. She turns around to hug her properly. They could say something, but words wouldn’t be enough. So they hold each other for a second, and then continue on their way in the crisp night air.

There’s a real world out there somewhere, but it’s not their concern right now. Their only worry is trying to keep the fuzz in their hearts from getting wet, which is both an easy problem and not a bad one to have.

And what is there to say? It’s a feeling that’s warm but not too warm, smells like rainy leaves and her shampoo, the softness of a chinchilla and the light chill of an autumn night. It’s like her body is free and her heart is in her hug. It’s as contradictory and beautiful as love itself.

There is nothing to say. Just them two walking down the rainy road, holding hands with arms outstretched to take up the space they’re given.

“How’s it going with Carla?”

Jack grinned as he changed lanes. “Pretty chill. I think we’ve established we’re official but on the DL.”

“Why so secretive?” Alicia asked.

“Uh… She’s worried people will judge her for getting in a relationship right after breaking up with Neal.”

“Right after? Bullshit, it’s been two months.”

Jack shrugged. “Her words, not mine. Shoutout to double standards, ‘cause I broke up with Gabrielle around the same time, and I know I won’t get judged for being with Carla.”

“Also bullshit. How long is Carla in mourning for?”

Jack laughed out loud. “I think she wants to wait another month, at least. A quarter of a year is a respectable period of mourning for a young gentlewoman,” he said in an affected tone.

Alicia snorted. “Honestly, it’s nice that she’s moved on already. She’s heading into her next love story instead of rereading the last one for too long.”

“Instead of prolonging the period of sorrow and tragedy.”

“Exactly! And I mean – aw, man, not this song.”

“What’s wrong with ‘Thinking Out Loud?’” Jack said. He seemed to be taken aback at the thought that anyone could be less than enthusiastic about Ed Sheeran.

“I dunno. It’s too sweet. Like drinking syrup.”

Jack shrugged and changed the station. Alicia made a face at “Stitches,” but didn’t comment. At least it wasn’t sappy.

“Anyways. Carla broke up with Neal, so she wasn’t even in real mourning.”

“Right, so, on the topic of double standards…”

“She’s still expected to mourn at least a little? As the girl in the relationship?”

“And if she mourns a little, she’s expected to mourn fully.”

Alicia groaned and threw up her hands, hitting the car roof a little. “Remind me to never get into a relationship with a guy.”

“I mean, I didn’t think you ever would?”

“That’s fair.”

Life as they know it is pink. A bit of a dry, light pink, a color you’d call rose and identify on the walls of an old-fashioned café. The color of jazz trumpets and strawberry lemonade.

They take a stroll – there’s no other word for it in this pink weather – in search of ice cream, but when the ice cream parlor is closed, they opt for lemonade. It’s not strawberry, and looks deceptively yellow, but don’t be fooled – it’s pink too.

It’s half a degree cooler than beach weather today. It’s warm and sweet and tart out, like the lemonade sticking in their throats, and if you look around you might see a blue sky, green leaves, a gray walk – but today, for them, life is tinted with rose-colored glasses, and there’s nothing in their way.

Alicia: Anyone’s lounge free? There’s a rom com playing in mine .-.

Kumiko: You don’t like rom coms?

Alicia: idk

Alicia: The characters’ bad decisions are stressing me out?

Chris: My lounge is free

The study group wasn’t completely efficient – mostly because Alicia’s sister texted needing relationship advice, which Alicia was fully unqualified to give – but it was certainly better than having to watch 27 Dresses.

Sometime in the first hour, Kumiko asked her about a Chem practice problem. Alicia looked and cringed internally – proton NMR spectroscopy. Her weakest weak point. She could see it now: Kumiko exposing Alicia as a fraud who didn’t know anything about chemistry, Chris reacting in shock, both of them kicking her out of the study group. But then she realized–

“Oh, the chemical shift is farther upfield for this one because…”

Alicia explained her way through it, and it made sense. “Oh, okay. Thanks,” said Kumiko.

“No problem,” Alicia said, completely taken aback. She’d scored solidly below average in her last two Chem classes, and bombed the first midterm this quarter. By now, she’d given up on really understanding Chem. Getting NMR right, and especially being able to expound upon it, was unfathomable. So how…?

Alicia couldn’t explain why she thought Kumiko had something to do with it.

Over the next few hours, their separate work converged. They solved practice problems together. It blew Alicia away – she had forgotten what it felt like to understand chem, and to see science with a sense of wonder, and to work with someone this well. She kept getting the sense that they were on the same wavelength.

They dance (they don’t really). They walk to the side of the hill to see the city lights. This isn’t something they’ve ever done before.

Neither of them care for the view. The distant city is too far and detached from their little world above. But music soars in her heart, though she doesn’t know the words, and there is a warmth in her that’s more gentle than thermal.

They hold hands and wonder if they’ve finally fallen in love.

The music takes her over and she pulls her into a ballroom embrace. She can’t hear the music, but she steps and follows her and they only step on each other’s feet a few times. She hopes what’s in her heart – the color gold, smooth as satin, a flame warmer than the lights they aren’t looking at – is in hers too.

Their steps slow as the music slows, and they draw nearer. Her head rests against her shoulder, a cheek resting on top of her head. They could kiss, but why would they when they can stay in this embrace instead?

This is what it’s like to stand in love, they think.

It was so thoroughly not-a-big-deal, Alicia couldn’t even pinpoint what happened later.

She remembered getting to the lecture hall early and listening to the Hamilton soundtrack. She remembered Kumiko and Chris arriving in chem and sitting by her, like always. And at some point Alicia thought to herself, “____________”

(She didn’t remember.)

(It was something along the lines of, “Kumiko’s kinda cute,” but the words don’t capture the feeling, which was more about the person and less about her looks.)

“So what do you like about her?” Jack asked her five days later. Five days of Alicia’s feelings snowballing down a hill, in which the hill was getting steeper and the bottom was nowhere in sight.

“Um…” Alicia kinda shrugged. “I’m still trying to put words to it. She’s… I want to say genuine? It’s like she knows exactly who she is, and doesn’t have any reason to be anything else.”

“Confidence is sexy,” Jack said, nodding as he poked the boiling tortellini. “Shit, can you… Can you hold this for a sec?”

Alicia took the colander and held it over the sink while he poured a bit of water out of the overflowing pot. “I don’t know if sexy is the right word,” she said. “I mean, she’s cute, I just… I dunno. That’s not why I fell for her.”

Jack placed the pot back on the stove. “Is genuineness the main thing you like about her?”

“I think so? I’m still working it out. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll manage to overanalyze both her and my attraction to her over the next… however long I like her.”

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Trans Characters in Fiction

by Cami Miceli

In my experience as a reader on the lookout for transgender characters in works of fiction, the quintessential novel features a gloomy high school protagonist, who leads a pained existence and is often verbally and/or sexually assaulted by the end of the story.  As per usual, this sort of novel is classified as a work of realistic-fiction, the only plausible way for a trans person to exist in the world. And while that certainly is an experience shared by some people, what I personally want to read in books is not the trans character struggling in a hostile environment and constantly being reminded of their other-ness at every turn.  I am more interested in novels that take transgender characters and throw them into a universe that exists independently of their gender identity and treats them as though they were any other character. And, although I’ve yet to find the “perfect” novel, after countless tries, I believe I have a found a handful that fit this description, to a certain extent.

The first book that comes to mind is Every Heart a Doorway, by Seanan McGuire.  It is a low-fantasy book, meaning it takes reality and reveals an otherwise hidden layer of magic, in this case, doors that lead to fairytale-esque worlds.  In this story, people are sucked into magical realms as children and are occasionally returned to the mundane world once they get older. This results in various teenagers and young adults who are no longer able or willing to live according to the rules of modern society.  An asylum of sorts is created to help them cope with their loss and move on—though many adamantly refuse.

With an interesting subject and a diverse array of characters, this story looked promising at a glance, yet I felt something about it was lacking.  I failed to form strong attachments to any characters, not even Kade, a trans boy who is one of the most likable characters in the novel due to his genuinely nice and easy-going personality. Although I appreciated the author’s inclusion of a trans character in a fictional story that borders on high-fantasy, Kade’s presence alone—and even the inclusion of an asexual protagonist—wasn’t enough to salvage a book I personally did not care for, especially since some characters do not respect Kade’s pronouns or gender identity.  Moreover, though this book treats trans characters better than many others I’ve read—with the majority of characters supporting and affirming Kade’s identity—I felt the repetitive inclusion of transphobic remarks as a means of generating drama and suspense was uncalled for. Still, it is a relatively short story and may be worth the read for those who are curious about the subject and/or Kade’s portrayal.  

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The Wooing

by Chemil Durant graphic by Jeanine Lee

This is a story about them. This story about them is a tribute to a story about “Them,” spoken on the community radio of a town whose location is unknown; yet the town has people who live lives, and they all agreed at some point in history to call the town Nightvale.

Nightvale, for those who do not have the clearance of the sheriff’s secret police to know about it, is a town. It is a town with regular town things, like a dog park that is forbidden, a glow cloud that only occasionally drops dead animals on the townspeople, and of course, a community radio station. On the community radio show, the host, a handsome man, details the events and lives of what occurs in Nightvale, as all radio hosts do. However, this story is not about Nightvale. This story is a tribute to Nightvale. To avoid certain legal issues that may or may not involve a five-headed dragon, a faceless old woman and a man in a tan jacket, here is a link to Nightvale. Listen to Nightvale, hail the glow cloud, and read this story, this story that is a tribute to the community radio show.

This story is about them, a story similar to a story about you, or a story about us, even. But for now, only the story about them will be told.

They are not particularly short; however, they are not particularly not tall.

They are of a height that is not uncommon, but reasonably uncommon. They are not skinny, nor are they large. They are of a typical size for a person of their height. Their name is a name, composed of sounds that are produced from the movement of one’s mouth in a particular order. They have a face that is similar to the one that is currently reading this story.

They believe this story should be read out loud. They believe that, in whatever universe their story is being read, a universe where the entirety of their life is just a story, jotted down by some sleep-deprived, probably queer, most likely queer, definitely queer college student. . . it should be read out loud. They wonder why they want their story to be said out loud, but they know it is what they want.

They tell this story to their children, who, tucked into bed, with the safety of monsters under their mattresses, have asked their parent to tell them a story. This is their story, about how they survived a form of haunting. The worst kind of haunting, one that others would perceive as loving, caring, thoughtful even, a haunting that was socially acceptable. This is their story of how they had survived the wooing.  As their eyes roll back into their head, exposing white pupiless eyes, they retell the horror they survived, that they, teeth snarling and eyes irises blood red, survived.

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Lessons said to be released as early as this summer will cover the 1969 Stonewall riots and literature by LGBTQ authors such as Walt Whitman, Langston Hughes, and Willa Cather. Nick Carraway’s love for Jay Gatsby in The Great Gatsby will also be taught through an LGBTQ lens.

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13 year old me was soooo damn proud of not being like other girls because I wasn’t “‘‘‘‘‘boy crazy’‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘ hooty hoo dumbass there’s a reason for that

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Complete truth. You can order a shirt here. Gifs from  Girls like Girls by Hayley Kiyoko

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my bi girl ass when anyone insults lesbians on this website

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me at 14: like maybe im a lil gay but i’m not gonna let that define me im so much more than my sexuality like i can be straight if i try really hard

me now: