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The Bathroom Rebellion The subversive sex was good for a month’s worth of catering gigs. We’d hook up in the fifteen minutes between entrées and dessert, then leave some physical evidence of our two-man revolt: a used condom in the toilet, a splash of come on the tile, the unmistakable musk of anal sex. But Robert grew dissatisfied with leaving room for doubt, he needed for them to know we’d been there. He left gay stroke mags between the towels, AIDS prevention pamphlets in the medicine chest, dildos under the sink. Robert kept a detailed list of each skirmish—what we did, where we did it, and what we left behind—until it filled a notebook. The gay agenda can’t move forward until we reclaim sex from the religious right who’ve infected it with puritanical guilt. By fucking with abandon, right under their turned-up noses, we conquer the internalized homophobia they’ve laid on us and embrace our true sexual selves. I know this because Robert told me. He paid the boss off to ensure we got every political gig in DC that our company catered, and we bathroom-battled the homophobes with enough sex-positive sorties to rival Chi Chi LaRue. Robert called me before a gig with the enthusiasm of a boy who’d gotten his first blow job. “Trent Fucking Lott.” Our moment had arrived.
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Finish reading "The Bathroom Rebellion" in
Sean Meriwether & Emanuel Xavier
Saints & Sinners, New Oreleans
Five Reasons for the Financial Crisis:
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People were greedy
No one considered negative ROI
