bae-in-maine
Jude81
Most people just call me Bae. This blog is a hot mess of gay, more gay, and even more gay with occassional political rants and pictures of puppies sprinkled in the timeline. I'm nerdy and shy, and I embrace it. I'm in my 30's, and a lover of puns and dad jokes. I do write Clexa, Juliantina, Avalance, Deanoru, Freelin, and Wayhaught on fanfiction.net unde Jude81 and also on archiveofourown.com
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Pete Buttigieg is just a faggot.
It's very important to me that younger queers understand this: to the people who you're trying to be more respectable for when you say things like neopronouns set the trans movement back or you're why the cishets don't accept us or including [aces/bi people with the 'wrong kind' of partners/non-binary people/kinksters/non-passing trans ppl/furries/polyam people] just hurts us, can't you wait until we get all our rights before we talk about some of yours? -- to those people? Pete Buttigieg is just a fag.
On Sunday at Pride Northwest, some kids -- late teens, early 20s -- asked what our button I survived Reagan for this? meant. All of the queer adults at the tables making up our ad hoc counter looked at each other and sighed a little. Emet and another adult started to explain the way that the Reagan Administration handled -- or didn't handle -- the beginning of the AIDS crisis. How many people died. How much we were ignored. The Ashes Action. The Time Magazine article which explicitly blamed bisexual men for passing the pandemic to the cishet community, playing on all the worst stereotypical bullshit. The way that even when the CDC started paying attention, they were so focused on gay men that they ignored AIDS in the lesbian community, leading to the "women don't get AIDS, they just die from it" poster. And so on.
I finished counting out change and passed the last Bear Pride raised fist pin over to a bear a little older than me, then turned my head and interjected, "they didn't care until it started infecting more than just the fags." I turned my head back and handed him his change. He laughed bitterly and said, "remember when they called it 'gay cancer?'"
That what I need you to understand. The people for whom you are folding yourself into smaller and smaller boxes will never see you as anything but a freak. A queer. A dyke. A tranny. A fag.
Never.
These are people who will stand by and let you wither away and die alone, gasping for breath in a cinderblock room, and not even claim your ashes, and they will say you deserve it, because of your lifestyle. If they speak of you at all it will be by the wrong name, with the pictures you hate the most. They will curse at your lover, throw him out of the home you shared, and steal the gift you gave last Christmas to throw it in the trash just so he can't have it and they'll say Jesus loves you! while they do it. They'll feel good and righteous and blessed and holy and pure for doing it.
And for them, you spit in the eye of your sister. For them, you disavow your sibling. For their sake, you trim away bits of your heart and lace yourself up tight. Never too loud. Never too queer. Never inconvenient or embarrassing, never asking for too much.
Pete Buttigieg is what happens when your Boomer dad turns out gay. Middle America. Parents still married. Suburban-sprouted. Valedictorian. Harvard-educated. Rhodes Scholarship. Military service. More power to him: I hope he and Chasten are very happy together. Genuinely, I do.
You couldn't create a more respectable gay if you grew one in a lab run by concerned voter focus groups.
But Pete Buttigieg? Is just a fag.
That's the part you don't seem to get: when they abandoned us, they abandoned all of us. Rock Hudson was a beloved movie star and even personally friendly with that horrid pair of ambitious jackals. Nancy Reagan refused to help him get into the only place in the world that could treat him at the time, and he died.
It was 1985, 4 years after the CDC first released papers on what would eventually become known as HIV/AIDS and 7 years after the first known death from an infection from HIV-2. Reagan hadn't even said the word AIDS by the time Hudson died.
Pete Buttigieg is just a fag, and so am I. Unless I'm a dyke, which seems to depend on who's yelling what from which window and what day it is.
Yes, there will be people who genuinely love and accept you. Those people are worth all the frustration of the rest, thankfully, and they're the ones who love you in a pup mask or a leather harness and a neon jock like the ones sold by the men up the row from us last weekend. They're the ones who laugh out loud when you tell them you hid the word "dyke" in your company name, the ones who love you in all your messiness and uncertainty and the way you don't fit into neat boxes all scrubbed up and clean.
Most cishets, though... well, they don't actively mean you specifically any harm, at least not when they have to look at you. Not when you're right there in front of them. Maybe they'll be okay with you, personally, especially if you're the kind of gay who makes a good rhetorical device, and as long as you remain a good rhetorical device.
They need people to know that they don't have a problem with the gays, after all, and there you are, being all convenient. You make a nice token, and as long as you do, well. You're useful.
But they call you by your deadname when you're not around, and they put the wrong pronouns in your medical record even though they met you years after you came out, and they won't put themselves out to save you. Not one little bit.
I didn't want to be here again. The year I graduated from high school was the worst year of the AIDS crisis. The world into which I became an adult was a world in which an advisor and friend to Reagan, William F. Buckley, openly advocated for forcibly tattooing the HIV status of HIV+ gay men on their buttocks (and IV drug users on their forearms), and in which my father not only told me that when I was 14 or so, but when was told me that he'd advocated for that tattoo being "over their assholes."
(Buckley wrote that in '86, but he doubled down on it in 2005.
Fucker.)
But yeah. I didn't want to be here again. I wanted my daughter to inherit a better world. I wanted Obergefell and Lawrence v. Texas and Hope & Change to really mean something. I work for it, today and all days. I haven't given up.
I need you to know that, too. This isn't a white flag. I'm not surrendering. This isn't over. To misquote Henry Rollins, this is what Marsha and Sylvia and Stormé and Leslie and Brenda and Auntie Sugar trained us for. This is punk rock time.
But I need you to understand that if Pete Buttigieg is just a fag, if that human embodiment of a Wonder Bread, mayo and Oscar Meyer bologna sandwich is not respectable enough for them -- and he's not -- then the rest of us have absolutely no hope of measuring up. Not even if we trim away every colorful, beautiful piece of our community, not even if the Sisters Of Perpetual Indulgence vanish into the ether, not even if we sacrifice the five elements of vogue on the altar of white supremacist cishet middle-class conformity: we can't trim ourselves down to something they'll accept.
The only other option is radical acceptance of our queer selves. The only other option is solidarity. The only other option is for fats and femme queens and drags and kinksters and queers and zine writers and sex workers and furries and addicts and kids and the ones who can look us in the eye and see all of us to say we're here, we're queer, get used to it just the way we did 30 years ago. It's revolutionary, complete and total acceptance of our entire community, not just the ones the cishets can pretend to be comfortable with as long as we don't challenge them too much, or it's conceding the shoreline inch by inch to the rising waters of fascism until we've got nowhere left to stand and some of us start drowning.
That's it. Either it's all of us or it's none of us, because if we leave the answer up to the Reagans of the world and all the people who enabled him in the name of lower taxes and Democrats who wring their hands, weeping oh I don't agree with it but we'll lose the election if we fight it right now, the answer is none of us.
The brunch gays can come, too, I guess.
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Hey! Looking for a supercorp fic. It's a short one I remember but Lena got hurt from attack and her face got disfigured (a scar or a burn cant remember) and lena says she won't blame kara if she divorced her. Kara tells her she won't do that and tells her what she loves about her. Thanks!
Fandom: Supergirl
Pairing: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor
Please, help us find this fic! Leave your suggestions in the comments. Thank you! 🙏😊🦸♀️
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Hi looking for this fic where I think lena and kara at first are enemies???
Lex and Lilian was able to lure kara and when lex was about to shoot kara, lena used her body to block the kryptonite bullet. Leaving lex devastated.
In the interrogation lex kept asking for lena. Thinking he might have killed her. But kara just kept everything vague.
Meanwhile lena in a wheel chair with winn help . She confronts Clark (in a holding cell since he tried to attack lena)about his luthor issues. Apparently lex was in love with Lois and went mad.
Later lena appears before lex in a wheelchair he was devastated thinking he caused her grave injury leaving her legs paralyzed.
Later I think lex was jailed in deo to get him help. While Lilian is given to the fbi.
Added info:
I think I remember Alex and kara had a fight over lena. Alex thinks she’s a lost cause. But when lena was shot she saw that lena really loved kara.
Thank you in advance
Supercorp fic archive of our own
Fandom: Supergirl
Pairing: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor
Please, help us find this fic! Leave your suggestions in the comments. Thank you! 🙏😊🦸♀️
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hi i need help finding a supercorp fic. im pretty sure it was set in hogwarts or some kind of harry potter au where lena could turn into a cat and kara sees her as a cat everywhere (i dont rlly remember😭) and there was also a prequel kinda where lillian fonds out lena can turn into a cat because her biological mom could as well. ty!!
Fandom: Supergirl
Pairing: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor
Please, help us find this fic! Leave your suggestions in the comments. Thank you! 🙏😊🦸♀️
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Hello,
Please help me🙏
I am looking for Raelle and Scylla fic(Motherland fort salem).....were Scylla gets kidnapped by spree and Raelle is goes Alder for help to find Scylla and then Alder notice S mark on Raelle hand....basically Scylla is blood related to Alder in this fic....
Fandom: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Pairing: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Please, help us find this fic. Leave your suggestions in the comments. Thank you! 🙏😊
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With so many elections coming up worldwide it's probably a good time to remind everyone that tumblr once got infested with agents trying to convince everyone not to vote, or not to vote left because the candidates weren't morally pure enough.
Also a reminder that they were better at tumblr than most of us, comrade interloper was great at memeing. Like, the talent!
Anyway don't fall for it. There is no morally pure option.
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Anyone wanna read a 500 year old Welsh poem about Pussy?
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no matter how terrible my day is. i can always end my day in bed imagining fictional characters making out sloppy style and fucking raw. and that's beautiful. there's some good in this world mister frodo and it's worth fighting for
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for the reverse trope writing: divorce of convenience (something new or an au of your choice, both sound fun!)
Her eyes watch as the ink bleeds slowly into the paper. They watch neat, slanted script combine in the fragmented loops and dashes that make up that achingly familiar signature. X marks the spot. On the dotted line. Not a single scribble out of place; right where the lawyer had highlighted it in garish neon yellow.
Forever and ever.
They were eleven, and it's promising to always be best friends. The kind that stick together through thick and thin. Like white on rice, as their teacher often said.
Forever and ever.
They were fifteen, and it's smiling with the awkwardness of young love. The kind that sets fire to racing hearts from a first kiss stolen behind their school's abandoned gymnasium.
Forever and ever.
They were seventeen, and it's shaking hands that still can't believe they get to touch their best friends that way. The kind of way that makes them both let out hungry sounds and pretty moans in the backseat of her dad's station wagon.
Forever and ever.
They were nineteen, and it's stiff-jawed goodbyes through desperate kisses. The kind rotten with promises that this isn't the end. That it's just a ‘see you later’, but never goodbye. Not for them.
Forever and ever.
They were twenty-eight, and it's handwritten vows and white satin gowns with matching bridal bouquets. The kind that they picked out together to remind them that all this was worth it, that it's finally the day they'd been planning for since their junior year in college. The culmination of sleepless nights and teary phone calls from three states away.
Forever and ever.
They were thirty, and it's whispering in the nursery of their freshly furnished house, standing wrapped in each other's arms at the edge of an adorably small bassinet. The kind decked out in purple frills with sunshine yellow along the trim, because they'd agreed from the first plus sign to not know the sex. It's fingers running through brown curls carefully enough not to wake their baby up, while watching lashes twitch in dreaming that hide those baby blue eyes. The exact shape and shade that'd had them both wrapped around a tiny pinky from the start.
Forever and ever.
They are fifty-four, and it's an empty nest that's too quiet in the house that sometimes feels too big. The kind they'd joked about missing for years, but now that it's here, they don't entirely know what to do with it.
It's medical bills, and denied claims for benefits, and meetings with stuffy lawyers who explain the finer points of income brackets. It's physical therapy visits and losing her job at the hospital and endless prescriptions that never seem to be covered by their insurance. It's everything, and all the time, because life refuses to slow down for even one damn second, despite a hip that simply will not work anymore.
They are fifty-four, and Clarke never thought she'd be here. That they'd make this kind of choice. Never thought she'd feel quite this stuck. Quite this useless. Never thought she'd be in this situation at all.
But it's clean and it's neat, just the way they like it. A mutual agreement for them both. A fresh start after the accident, one that'll let them move on with their lives, instead of trying to hang on to this thing that only leaves them drowning.
At least that's what they'd agreed.
She watches her wife— her ex-wife, dot the i's of her name with an overly dramatic flourish. Watches her click the pen with her thumb and toss it aside with a sigh from deep in her bones.
She smiles and feels her chest squeeze with that familiar pang of deep friendship and love.
“Cheers,” Clarke says, holding up her flute of champagne.
She'd had to hobble through four different specialty liquor stores just to find it, but it'd felt fitting to toast the signing of their divorce papers with the same bubbly they'd shared on their wedding day.
Lexa picks up her glass and clinks it soundly against hers, only managing the barest sip around a smile of her own. “Cheers, single lady.”
“Mm. This is good.”
“Even better than I remember from the first time,” Lexa agrees as her gaze makes a lazy rake over Clarke's body.
It's not lost on Clarke how ridiculous it is to be blushing over the signed stack of her divorce papers, but something about the way Lexa looks at her has always set her on fire.
“So,” she tries, casually, setting aside her cane and leaning heavier against the kitchen table, “what are you going to do next?”
Lexa takes another sip of her champagne, watching her closely over the rim. She swallows with a flex of that elegant throat and shuffles closer, sets her glass down on Clarke's other side, effectively boxing her in.
“Go to Disneyland.”
The sound of Clarke's snort rings through the kitchen. “Smartass.”
“What about you?” Lexa asks with a bite to her lips, hands still bracketing the sides of Clarke's waist and eyes twinkling with mischief. “Any big plans for the future, newly divorced Ms. Griffin?”
Clarke scoffs. “Nice try. But it's still ‘Ms. Griffin-Woods’ to you.”
“Oh? Is that right?”
“Uhuh,” Clarke nods and loops her arms around Lexa's shoulders. “Sorry not sorry, but I'm never giving that one back.”
Lexa hums and presses closer. Paints her body to Clarke's curves and breathes her in the same way she has for forty years.
“Greedy, but I think I can live with that.”
“Such a hardship. I seem to remember you loving that about me.”
“Among so many things.”
Clarke moans when Lexa's lips find the hollow dip of her neck, relaxing into the wet warmth of a plump, suckling kiss. Champagne has always made Lexa brazenly affectionate. She tips head back to grant more room and sucks in a gasp at the nibble of teeth. Tangles her fingers in greying, brunette hair that only serves to make her bombshell of a wife look that much more distinguished.
Well. Her ex-wife, that is…
Hands trail down Clarke's hips and wrap tight around her thighs and before she can yelp a single word she's lifted onto the table.
Lexa lets out a half-laughed grunt when she gets Clarke settled in place, looking equally as amused as she does grateful that the little maneuver actually still worked after so many years.
“You good, baby?” Clarke chuckles along with her, mindlessly going to rub the shoulder that had started being a pain around birthday forty-seven. “Didn't pop anything, did you?”
“No, I'm good, I'm good,” Lexa says, smiling and shaking off her ill-coordinated prowess like the champ that she is. “That just used to be easier.”
“Is that a crack about my weight?”
“More like a crack about me being old.”
“Oh. Well then yeah.”
“Rude,” Lexa gasps, taking the hips in her hands and pulling them closer. Pressing Clarke firmly against her stomach. “There's still giddy up in this old girl, I'll have you know.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“My, my, Ms. Woods—”
“Griffin-Woods,” Lexa's quick to correct. Suddenly serious in how intensely she stares Clarke in the eyes. “You're not getting that back either.”
They share a look because things like this have never required words. Not for them. But with everything and all of it, with the ink still drying on the paper beside them, Clarke gives in to her last bit of worry.
“You're still my girl,” she whispers. Swallows. Feels a stinging prickle along her eyes at the sudden need to feel this connection with her favorite person in the world. “Even with me, and having to do all this… You know we're still us, right? You're still my girl?”
Clarke melts into the kiss she knows is coming because she knows this woman better than anybody, and it feels more like a promise that nothing could ever break them than any piece of paper ever could. She wraps her good leg around Lexa's hip and deepens it, kisses back with every ounce of love her heart has to offer. Cherishes each massage of tongue and slide of lips that have met thousands of times before.
Lexa kisses her once, twice more, and pulls back with a soothing smile.
“Always, love… Forever and ever.”
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Not gonna lie, my morale is at the lowest point it's been since the beginning of the invasion. Russians are successfully occupying more and more territories and shell frontline regions every day. People are dying, our culture and herritage is destroyed. International aid dwindled significantly because of american bullshit. Mobilization law has been signed and there is a chance that my family members get conscripted soon. Don't even get me started on internal political problems. A bunch of articles in foreign media talking about our defeat and "peace talks" (what a joke).
It feels like there were no at least moderately good news in a while. On top of that, the feeling that we are screaming into the void is stronger than ever. I'm happy when I see a foreigner online supporting us and spreading the word, because it gets rarer. Ukrainians feel like none of what's happening gets outside our info bubble. Most likely no one but Ukrainians will see this post either. Honestly don't know what to make of all of this.
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"How are you?" a coworker asks me.
"I'm here" I say as news from China tickles at my thoughts.
"I'm here" I say as the first quarantines are in effect and yet I am still at work.
"I'm here" I say as I watch two other coworkers and three customers walk by without masks.
"I'm here" I say as news about a friend's recent death still chases through my mind.
"I'm here" I say as anger boils through my veins at my family and their refusal to see anything wrong with the complete and utter failure of the systems meant to protect us.
"I'm here" I say as I watch hundreds of people buying big turkeys for a bigger thanksgiving meal, wondering how many families will be stricken by the plague because they gathered in-person for the holiday.
"I'm here" I say over and over and over again because to say anything else would be to open an unending torrent of bitterness and recrimination and anguish at a world that doesn't care if I or my loved ones die.
"I'm here" I say as people start talking about returning to "normal" while I wonder just what the hell that is in a world on fire.
"I'm here" until I'm not anymore.
Whenever that is.
(Written March 2021)
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“I want to infect you with the tremendous excitement of living, because I believe that you have the strength to bear it.”
— Tennessee Williams, The Selected Letters: 1920-1945
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“I want to infect you with the tremendous excitement of living, because I believe that you have the strength to bear it.”
— Tennessee Williams, The Selected Letters: 1920-1945
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