Pride is exactly the riot-co-opted-into-crusty-gyrating-hypersexual-jizz-party I thought it would be. I’m not surprised; in the twenty minutes I’ve been here, two guys have told me they’re looking for a sugar baby, and another shows me pictures from his collection of rimming stools. There are a stunning number of white men in blue uniforms—I check my pockets for stray Mentos.

The fourth guy who hits on me is handsome in a Ted Bundy type of way. He tells me he only fucks Latin boys like me due to their having the juiciest asses, and I point out that it’s racist to fetishize people of color. I give him a copy of This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color, and tell him to email me if he has any questions.

A shirtless guy in a Speedo and suspenders approaches me. “Hey, I saw the way he talked to you; here.” He does some weird flex thing with his stomach and gives me a handful of cash. Another guy in a Speedo comes with money. And then another. And then another. Soon I am surrounded.

Later, the bank teller takes a look at the crowd of hot, nearly naked men behind me. “Checking or Savings?” My account balance collapses under the sheer weight of all the zeros it now has.

*  *  *

I meet a guy online. We get to know each other and ask our basic interests. When he says he likes being called Daddy, and I mention I like phone sex, we compromise.

“My ancestors were responsible for the colonizing of your people’s land, culture, resources, and bodily sovereignty,” he says.

A soft blush spills across my cheeks. “That’s hot, Daddy,” I purr. “What else?”

“Racism is a systemic form of oppression based on skin color and other basic phenotypic traits,” he grunts. “Because of these superficial characteristics, my white skin means I benefit from the subjugation and dehumanization of people of color.” I moan, and shift to hide my excitement.

He says, “I promise to always do my part in dismantling white supremacy.”

I’m so close. “Oh fuck yeah, gimme that big white allyship.”

“Amy Schumer isn’t funny.”

“OH GOD!” I come like I haven’t in years.

*  *  *

Lately, straight men have taken to apologizing to me for the awful things they said to me in high school. I tell each of them that if my older brother has avoided calling me a faggot my entire life, they could have too, and that I do not accept their apologies. Instead of being defensive, they respect my feelings and apologize again. They do not, however, take out the half-wilted flowers from their hair and start showing basic respect to women who aren’t conventionally attractive. Apparently, even that is too much for their newly woke and radically redefined masculinity.

*  *  *

A guy tells me I’m cute and asks for permission to send a dick pic. I do not thank him for the display of human decency and allow him to. When I tell him I’m not that interested, he does not accuse me of leading him on. He does not call me a bitch, or a tease. Instead, we talk about our shared interest in Kesha and cat memes and eventually become good friends on Facebook.

*  *  *

“Can you send a picture without a filter on it? Not because I prefer boys who are natural, I just think filters on social media platforms like Snapchat and Instagram tend to reinforce Eurocentric standards of beauty.”

*  *  *

“I’m not racist,” I say, laughing. “The first guy who sexually assaulted me was white.”

*  *  *

Ted from Pride emails me $25 via PayPal. “Not because I believe it excuses me from my white privilege,” he says. “But because those essays really made me interrogate my indoctrinated sense of superiority as a white man and a masc top. Also, those online articles were helpful, too—I didn’t consider that stupid is ableist and you deserve nice things.”

*  *  *

After my Feminist Foundations class ends, I spy a white man with a cup of coffee on his way to class. My ancestors rise through my throat and laugh with me when some of it sloshes onto his hand and he winces in obvious pain. It feels like reparations.

*  *  *

The guy who likes being called Daddy and I meet up to discuss personal boundaries. He wants to be humiliated and spanked. We fool around for a bit; then I put him on all fours. “You promise to be a good little top and respect trans and nonbinary people’s pronouns?” I whack his pasty, undercooked pancakes.

He groans. “I promise.”

“Are you gonna fight for the reproductive rights of people assigned female at birth and vote for political candidates that aim to protect those rights?” My handprint looks pretty against his skin.

“Yes,” he yelps.

“Good.” I tug on his flimsy egg bag. “When is the Black Lives Matter march happening on campus this week?”

“Friday at 6:30, outside the student union!”

I start whaling on his ass, my voice measured and even. “Say the rest of it. Now.”

“TRANS WOMEN ARE WOMEN AND BOTH GENDER AND SEX ARE INHERENTLY SOCIALLY CONSTRUCTED CONCEPTS!” Another spank. “THERE WOULD BE NO LGBT MOVEMENT WITHOUT THE WORK OF BLACK AND BROWN TRANS WOMEN!” Another. “ROLAND EMMERICH’S STONEWALL IS A WHITEWASHED ACCOUNT OF THAT WORK!” Three swats in rapid succession. “BRINGING UP MARSHA P. JOHNSON WITHOUT MENTIONING THE FACT SHE WAS BOTH A SEX WORKER AND BISEXUAL IS INCREDIBLY PROBLEMATIC!” One more for good measure. “TERFs AND SWERFs ARE NOT FEMINISTS NOR SHOULD THEY BE TREATED AS SUCH!”

I smile, and the long-dead corpses of European colonizers turn over in their forgotten graves.

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