13 Shorts to Celebrate Queer Love
Because the world can shift with a single glance.
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When we put out a call for “short love stories,” we had no idea what to expect. But you sure did deliver! Below, you’ll find missives of longing and regret, lust and desire, platonic ideals and familial bonds that can quickly vacillate from sexy to sad to celebratory.
Thanks to all the writers who generously shared their work with us. We hope to make this a regular feature so, if you didn’t make it in this time, we want you to send us something soon so we can publish it.
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Happy Pride!
What the Heart Wants
When I came out, Everett, my wingman for the night, had found a cute guy for me to dance with. I flirted with him for a while—he wanted to talk about queer films from the ’90s. I was rapt. He asked to kiss me. I leaned forward and our lips met—my first dance floor kiss. "Scheiße,” came on and we made out, spinning until the shirtless people around us blurred into streaks of caramel.
“What’s your name?” he yelled into my ear. I gave him one more kiss and turned away, searching for Everett, who happened to be watching me. When they saw me looking for them, they signaled for me to come back, like a child who strayed too far from his mom at the grocery store. When in arm’s reach of Everett, they pulled me in and we closed our dance circle off to just the two of us for the rest of the night. I kept thinking about that guy and what would've happened if I told him my name.
“He wanted to know my name,” I screamed into Everett's ear. “What a weirdo!”
“Honey, he probably just wanted to take you out on a date,” they said. “Do you want that?”
“I don’t think he wanted that,” I said.
“But do you want it?” they asked.
I shrugged and danced off their questions.
The Longest One-Night Stand
by
Once upon a time, I went to a gay club while reconciling with my ex-wife. A man recognized me from a mutual friend’s party and invited me to hang out with him and Blondie, his gorgeous friend. After making out and going to third base with Blondie in a hot tub, it was time to crash. Party Friend was the host and only had a spare couch, which he assigned to Blondie while sharing his own bed with me.
I wasn’t looking for a relationship, figured “D is D,” so I went ahead and put out. I drove home, figuring that I got what I needed, and I’d never see him again. A few days later, my mobile rings. In 2003, marketers didn’t call mobile numbers. If your phone rang, it was usually safe because it was someone you knew. I answered.
“Neth.”
“Yes.”
“Hey, this is Scott.”
I rack my brain for who that could be.
“From the other night.”
“Oh, hey! How are you? How’d you get my number?”
(Yes, I’ve always been direct.)
He got it from the woman who would go on to be my baby mama. I still tease her about it, but I agreed to go on a date with Party Boy. He soon got promoted to Boyfriend, Fiancé, then Husband.
This is the longest one-night stand I’ve ever had.
How We Became a Family
by Irene Malatesta
We were three new parents. My daughter was born in the first pandemic spring, in a city shut down and scared and silent.
When it had come time to make a decision and hand over a deposit for the caterer, I had cancelled my baby shower instead and let my closest friends from the East Coast know that they shouldn’t come after all. My father, an economist, always admonished me to apply a careful cost/benefit analysis to every important decision, and any sadness I felt at missing out on this rite of passage—a big celebration in my home with all my favorite people—was utterly outweighed by the potential cataclysmic disaster of hosting a super-spreader event.
“Super-spreader” is a word that suddenly entered all of our vocabularies, that spring in 2020, when we were all consumed with worry about contracting the novel coronavirus. We didn’t know how it might affect a baby in utero or a newborn and we weren’t about to find out.
So, there was no baby shower, and there were no grandparents, no visitors in the hospital, no friends dropping by with casseroles. Just us.
Spending hours together in our apartment with the view of the city, marking hours and days by the colors of the brightening sky, the evening blanket of thick fog spilling down from Twin Peaks, and the position of the moon. We didn’t go out for weeks, and then, only for walks around the neighborhood with the stroller, carefully distant from any neighbor.
So many new mothers talk of the sleep deprivation and exhaustion, and these things I did experience, yet I hardly remember that part. Foremost in my mind, I see the gentle ebb and flow of loving:
My boyfriend drove the car, drove us to the hospital and picked us up, made sure the house was spotlessly clean and ready for us to return with our new little person. My husband would get up in the middle of the night, changing diapers and bringing her to me in bed to nurse and then tucking her back into her bassinet, all so I could get the maximum possible amount of sleep. I held her, breastfed, bled, cried. Both of them traded off with me, holding her so carefully in their big arms and bouncing endlessly on a yoga ball, the one thing that always soothed her when she fussed. Both of them made every meal and did every chore to give me hours per day for holding, nursing, resting, and healing. Both of them sang more than I’d ever heard either of them sing, anything to make her smile.
Before our daughter arrived, I might have simply described our relationship as a V: a triad with myself as a hinge between two partners. Our newborn year, as I affectionately call it, hammered us into a deeper form of relating, and loving. Our daughter doesn’t remember that spring, but we do. It’s how we became a family.
As We So Often Did
by
We were getting drunk—as we so often did—in Pete’s Tavern after smoking grass outside on Irving Place. When I went to the men’s room, I just sat on the toilet, slowly passing out until Jory burst in, lifted and walked me to the sink, and washed my face until I could stand on my own, and I was sure Jory loved me.
When I told Jory I was queer, he said I’d better not try anything, and I was sure of nothing.
When we were having steak—as we so often did—at Peter Luger, a woman at a nearby table loudly accused us of being faggots. Jory yelled back: "And what if we are? Shithead!" and I was sure I loved Jory.
When I crashed Jory’s honeymoon in Bermuda, and Jory, his wife, and I got caught in a tropical rainstorm and stripped naked to dance in the deluge, I was sure we all loved each other.
The Day I Met Odira Again
by
I returned to the small community that raised me three years ago, 13 years after I left. But Odira, the friend who shaped my childhood, remained. Back then, transitioning from being a little boy with a close-knit female best friend to one with a close-knit male friend was seamless. I was in my third year in primary school, and we were both seven years old.
When I returned, I texted Odira to ask if it was “OK” for us to meet. He replied: “Yes.” In the days leading up to our meeting, I spent hours reminiscing about our past. While those days had often felt like nothing, something inside me kept re-igniting. Unlike other kids, Odira resonated with me. He was smart. He didn’t play football. During break time, he stayed by my side, where I was either with girls or alone, spying on teachers as they marked scripts.
As a child, I was often called feminine slurs in my local language. But Odira never made me feel different, though I still reeled in the respect I got from others for being the smartest in the class.
The day I met Odira again, the sun was still out, and the light was slowly starting to dim. I walked through the narrow paths to his house. There, he offered me a pepper soup yam porridge, and we reminisced. He told me he’s now a police officer, trained in an institution, not the kind who stands by the roadside collecting bribes. He is all buff and masculine-looking now. I wish we had explored more during the childhood friendship we once shared.
Blow It in My Mouth
by Sam (
)"I want you to take a pull from your cigarette and blow it into my mouth." From where I stood behind Cedric with my hands on his waist, the words tumbled out of me, unprompted. I wasn't even a smoker.
We were on the patio of a multi-level venue in Brooklyn, where local organizers had planned an event for queer and trans people of color as part of their Pride Month festivities.
"I kind of want to stay home," I'd said earlier. I was an introvert being confronted with the nightmarish prospect of suffocating crowds in dark rooms.
"Come on, it'll be fun, and the tickets are cheap," Lauren urged. Still, I wasn't convinced.
"Cedric is going." Her voice was neutral yet knowing.
I vacillated. I'd met him just once before, but there'd been a spark between us. The idea of going out wasn't so daunting anymore.
Lauren knew exactly what she was doing.
Throughout the night, I had tried to keep my distance. Cedric was with his boyfriend, and I couldn't remember if their relationship was open. I opted to stick by Lauren instead.
It felt like we kept running into each other. He'd suddenly materialize next to me in the crowd, or we'd "coincidentally" meet at the bar and buy each other drinks. No matter where I was, I could sense him pulling me toward him like a magnet. Cedric was inescapable.
After midnight, we sidled away to the outdoor patio for a breather. There, surrounded by strangers, I spoke the words I never expected to say. Without hesitating, he took a long drag, turned around to face me, and kissed me for the very first time.
When Life Gets Messy
Moving to a new country to start over is never easy, doubly so after a miscarriage and divorce from a religious community. No acceptance to be found when I came out to my evangelical parents, so off I went to drown my sorrows in a pint. At least I have Big Ben. Crazy that it was only a few months ago that my roommate invited me to play D&D with their polycule. There, I met an adorable, dark-haired, freckled-faced Latina; we connected over our shared cultural backgrounds. Exchanging stories and struggles over being second-generation in countries that would rather not see us exist.
Life got a little messy after that, when, after a night spent laughing and carrying on, I fell into bed with my roommate. As it turns out, one night of passion sometimes leads to the realization that you don’t desire sex in the same way you feel you should. It got even more confusing when I realized that I was developing romantic relationships with my roommate’s best friend, the freckled-face Latina. Yesterday, we three sat in a park on one of the sunniest days of the year, sipping non-alcoholic beers, quietly enjoying the warmth of each other’s company as we cuddled up and read our books.
A Resumption
by Jay Siegmann (
)She brought me folders.
“Practice finances,” she said. “Explain it to me like I’m five.”
Three weeks ago, she’d said no. Husband. Three kids. Guilt so loud I could hear it through the walls.
Still, I wrote. Slipped letters under coffee filters. Tucked notes between patient files. Love, coded in ink and risk. She never answered. Until now.
Her knock wasn’t about numbers.
She sat across from me, pretending this was business. Folders between us like a border we both intended to cross. We tried. Truly. Twenty minutes. Maybe less.
Gross profit. Net loss.
Then her thigh brushed mine.
We stopped pretending.
Receipts slid to the floor. Pages fluttered. Buttons opened.
No declarations. Just need. Just mouths. Just a held breath that finally exhaled.
Later, she left. Clothes straightened. Folders disheveled.
Still married. Still mothering. Still trembling.
She didn’t say, “I’ll be back.” I didn’t ask. We both knew.
That wasn’t a meeting.
That was a resumption.
Running a Marathon
by Michael Baroto
When I met Larry, he was working on Wall Street. There was a bounce in his step. He was commuting from Fort Lee, New Jersey, daily.
Larry was seeking family identity. I was looking for my independence. He was loyal and kind; Loved animals and his home life. We started dating in the 1970s, viewed the fireworks on the Hudson Pier, had dinner at his place—
I remember going to a local gallery with him and learning they only valued pictures of children and flowers. I painted a portrait of Larry: His torso suspended in space and anchored to the Earth.
Larry had a lifelong fascination with UFOs. He would question his spirituality, like most of us. The last movie we shared was The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. He loved communicating about politics. He was passionate and helped me build my PC.
I would go back and visit over the years. When he met his partner, Bruce, he found his family connection. I left New York when I hit a glass ceiling.
Larry was like the lone cactus sitting on his patio. A flower that blooms once a year: ever present, unobtrusive, and dear. Eventually, a virus comes for all of us. If you’re lucky, you can outrun it. Larry was running a marathon. I was devastated when I heard the news. But if there was anyone who could run the race, it was him.
Sometimes life wears you out, and it’s easier to say goodbye—when goodbye means until tomorrow.
Time Goes By So Slowly
by Robin Silbergleid
Since I last saw you, I have walked hundreds of miles. I’ve walked in my neighborhood and on trails through the woods. As I walk, I listen to Lady Gaga and Kelly Clarkson. I listen to Rihanna sing “Love in a Hopeless Place” and “Guess” by Charlie XCX. My friend says the cure for heartache is sleep and movement and novelty. So I’ve filled my days to the brim. I’ve chasséd and pliéd through dance classes. I’ve learned to make nests out of wire and yarn. I’ve finished thousand piece puzzles, one inch at a time. I’ve written poems and essays and emails. I’ve listened to Madonna croon “time goes by so slowly,” while I turn in the dark of my bedroom. I’ve considered our next conversation from every possible angle. I go to bed early, wondering how you are, wondering if you are wondering about me, wondering which of us will reach out first. I can’t believe how slowly the days go without you.
Butch Bicycle Repair
by
We stood on the quiet street lined with apartments at an odd hour on a Wednesday. She had attempted to scurry away without lingering too long, but right before she pedaled off, her bike chain came loose. She grumbled and got down to fix it.
A hook up on a random weekday followed by impromptu street-side butch bicycle repair? How very Portland.
She stood up, freckled cheeks flushed with effort and embarrassment. I giggled, and she giggled with me, an expression of amused confusion in her blue-green eyes.
"You've got a little bike grease on your cheek."
I reached up and wiped it off.
"Oh my god."
She scrubbed at her cheek as the blush spread down to her neck. I smiled, not wanting to make this worse for her. She caught me smiling and looked down at her feet, saying quietly, "That's so gay."
The warm rain had stopped. Pink cherry blossom petals littered the sidewalks, turning brown at the edges, piling up on street corners, clogging gutters. Brief spotlights danced in the treetops, a promise from the sun to show up just in time for happy hour.
And the street sat frozen, echoing back our giddy, night-of-tender-kisses-and-delicate-desire laughter.
How could I be the braver one, only having recently come out?
I grabbed her hand and pulled her close, cutting off more fluttering mirth from her lips.
This was the first time, not the last, but certainly a step on a very short path leading nowhere.
Of Sticky Rice and Potato Queens
by
The cohort of Pikachus—some semi-naked outfitted with yellow mesh and mini-skirts, Speedos and plush leg warmers, others in oversized furry rompers—marched down the street in formation. We’d joined the parade to jostle among the thousands of men, women and, yes, even children, making it impossible not to gawk at the diversity of costumes.
The Taipei Gay Pride Parade was a mix of cosplay and queer protest. Forget genderfuck, we were in a panoply of fantastical species: fox girls with seven tails, muscular Shina Ibu dog-men sauntering beside a group of pandas (guys dressed up as actual pandas, to personify the cute subgenre that identified as gay Asian bears). The leathermen—in harnesses, corsets and their bubble butts exposed in tight-fitting chaps—seemed tame next to the furred, felted and latexed bunnies. But it was the abundance of Pikachus, the cheerful yellow Pokemon characters far outnumbering the Squirtles, Jigglypuffs and other assorted Pokemon friends, that made me grin.
“This is like no other Pride I’ve ever seen,” I told my younger brother, who happened to be in the city on a scholarship to study Mandarin. He and his wife joined me for the day, the queerest thing I’d ever imagined doing with a family member. “I don’t know how many of these people are gay,” I said, “but at least they’re all letting their freak flags fly.”
A few days previously, our local tour guide, Peter, had reprimanded one of the gay men in our cohort of queer travel writers when he said something overly obnoxious. “Not all Asian guys are into you,” Peter said, a look of annoyance on his otherwise jovial face. “White guys always come here thinking that.”
Although I hadn’t said the offending comment, it made me wince inside, realizing I’d arrived with my own personal brand of ethnic hangups.
“There are the rice queen bars. And the bars for the potato queens,” Peter explained. “Those are the places where the Asian guys are looking for white guys. But there are plenty of sticky rice bars as well.”
“What?” I asked, dumbfounded. I’d heard of rice queens, the pejorative label given to white guys who were only interested in dating men of Asian descent, but now it sounded like we were ordering a la carte from a dim sum cart. “Sticky rice?”
“Yeah, that’s the Asian guys into others like them,” Peter said. “Like me and my boyfriend. We’re both Chinese. I’ve never dated white guys. Not interested.”
A Part of Me Still Loves You
by
Your face was dripping with color. Your eye shadow a millennial pink, your eyeliner a baby blue, and your cheeks adorned with tear-shaped jewels that sparkled underneath the harsh, fluorescent lighting of Blink Fitness. You didn’t look like the other men working out, wearing Adidas track pants and tanks. I liked that about you.
You made direct eye contact while using the squat rack, your form picture perfect. Your ass was glorious, so meaty and bubbly for such a small frame. You knew it, of course, you did. You also must have known that when you reached the nadir of your squat, your leggings thinned, and I could see your thong, a bright pink matching your crop top.
I was new to Brooklyn, still relatively new to my sexuality, but I knew of cruising culture. I knew what prolonged eye contact meant. I desperately wanted to approach you, to say something charming, but I was in my mid-twenties, and the idea of talking to a hot man (or nonbinary person) made my testicles lurch into my stomach. So I went to the locker room to splash water on my face. To give myself a pep talk in the mirror, where I pointed at myself and sternly said, “You can do this. Go up and talk to him.”
Once I found the courage, I stepped out from the locker room, a man on a mission. But you were gone. I’d lost my shot. Frantically, I checked Grindr, and yes, I could tell who you were by your profile pic (a zoomed-in shot of your ass in cut-off jorts).
I asked if you were just at the gym. You said you were. After some small talk, I asked if you wanted to come over and fuck. You did. The sex was phenomenal, so I kept asking you over, until I eventually built up the courage to ask you out on a date. You agreed.
I know things ended between us after a year—frankly, I have no idea if it was “me” or “you.” But I still think of you. A part of me still loves you. And wherever you are, I hope you still have access to a gym, because the way you squat, I’m confident you’ll find your great love there.
All of these are amazing! Breathtaking. Such great writers!
These are all so beautiful. Thank you for the feature