Gerardo. 
Theme by Andrew
Saw this at my high school today. I’m so proud :’) I started this club 5 years ago. #gay
My brother is the next cover gurl #lipgloss #gay #baby #jotito (Taken with Instagram)
(November 30, 2008)
Today I went ice-skating with Oscar and fell and had a blast, an unscrupulous woman complained to the staff about me kissing my boyfriend. Next thing you know we were being escorted out of the ice rink. We were being scolded for kissing in a “family place”’ we were assured that it was only that and we could happily continue to hold hands. We were also informed that a family has complained about us. So we tell this staff member that he has nothing to worry about and I would refrain from my public display of affection, of course still holding my boo’s hand. As we go back in we see a family staring and laughing at us (Could it be the family that ratted on us?) We ignore them and continue to ice-skate.
As we commence in our skating, this woman (the unscrupulous one) immaturely went between me and Oscar and pushed us! I was appalled, but ignored it, for I had no idea who it was; all I knew was she had ugly, curly, blonde hair. We continue ice skating again and on our turn we see a family consisting of a boy of about 12, an adolescent, some other boys, and the ratty-haired unscrupulous woman. This family was taunting us in homophobic behavior, the young boy with his hands in the air making “girly” sounds. At first we ignore, but then I stop and turn around and skate towards him with Oscar by my side. I then ask him, “What is your problem?!” his big brother tells me not to talk to his brother like that.
They start screaming and use fowl language, when their mom arrives (the unscrupulous woman with the rat hair) with even more fowl language. She “informs” me that it is against the law to hold hands with my boyfriend (extremely ignorant of her) and that I should do that on my own time. I then clarify that this indeed is “my own time” and their is no law forbidding me to hold Oscar’s hand. Her ignorant son then screams, “Well haven’t you heard about Prop. 8?!” (ignorance seems to run in the family) I then clarify that Proposition 8 was strictly about marriage, not holding hands.
We continue shouting at one another, until the same staff member as before ask us all to leave the skating rink to speak to the manager. I forgot to mention, the unscrupulous woman threatened me that she was friends with the manager and could kick me out (we’ll just see about that)
To be continued…
I was in my room in my dad’s house and I had this really cute idea to make a back pocket made out of cheetah print fabric for my black jeans. I know right, mad cute.
I spent several hours figuring out the shape of pockets and sewing it the perfect size and when I finished attaching it to my pants I thought it looked so cute!
I left my room after my 3 hour project and showed my dad.
“…don’t you think that kinda makes it look like girl pants?”
I was crushed. I went back in my room and tore off the pocket.
RIP Cheetah print pocket
my favorite mural pic so far, tbh
I went to this party with this cutie on Friday, a great start to Pride weekend.
We started making out on a roof in Harlem. It was beautiful. His lips were soft and it felt really nice to get lost in the feeling of his hands all over me. And when I opened my eyes, his cute ass face was in front of me, flanked by a pretty remarkable New York skyline.
I was really feeling it.
We started to walk back to my place, which is basically cutting through West Harlem into Columbia’s territory.
We were holding hands.
Everyone kept staring. We kept walking. A couple of cars starting honking at us, even though it was 1 in the morning. We just kept each other tight and kept walking, knowing that once we got home, we would be alone with nothing to worry about but how to make each other happier.
A couple of guys started talking about us.
I was taken back to high school, when my ex boyfriend and I—the only gay couple in the school and half the gay population—would walk hand in hand through campus.
“Ew! That’s so disgusting!” some girls would yell.
“FAGGOTS!” others would scream.
“Maricones! That’s gross!” another guy would yell.
Sometimes they would gang up on us and just scream and yell and ask us all these questions about being gay.
Three times a day. Every passing period for seven months.
We just kept walking, knowing we’d find solace whenever we were in a room alone, much like last Friday night.
There’s nothing more that I love than holding someone’s hand. I think one of the privileges that I’m most envious of straight people is just being able to hold someone’s hand without looks or comments or slurs thrown at them; or just fear ruining through their veins whenever they show affection in public.
Why must I feel fear for the feelings that make me feel whole?
