Sitting gay

That quickening, that anticipation. On the subway in my tight pants and shirt, when going down the street in my short shorts, giving them thickboy MexiRican struts and strides, men like him stare at me. Rapture, a deep moaning, the clenching of his forearms.

My hands gently gripping, gently steering him in. Kinda like that I think. Still, I remain nothing more than a fantasy for men like him, a fantasy at night they think over when alone, or with their boys, or with their girl. sitting gay: when someone sits oddly in a chair.

Just like the “gay Babadook” meme and other humorous clichés, these jokes often serve as a means of solace for a marginalized and often overlooked community. Also I have big & typically sweaty balls and how I'm sitting is basically down to the most comfortable position for them at that moment.

Outward-facing thighs. This femme and fat body our society tells us is not meant to be desired, that these men are not meant to want — to them, Gay am freedom. The arch of the back letting the ass be emphasized, idealized, idolized.

Freely sitting in my body and my way. Him, there beneath this form of my body. They want my pleasure. Tongue in, and all around. I am trying to invite him in. The “bisexual sitting in chairs” meme is but one of several eccentric stereotypes and memes associated with the bisexual community.

ex: hugging ones knee, sitting crisscross in inappropriate setting. I know it from before. Men all masculine, all macho macho, feast on me in averted glances. Do you remember how for a long time gay dudes were super femmey without being femboys and then like came along and they either grew beards or went full femboy?

How could that be art? All I know is the velocity of his excitement. Not his name, not his life story. His face edgar gay, his hands on my thighs or my hips or my cheeks.

I scooch back a little. Improper sitting is one of many seemingly arbitrary traits (like walking fast and gay unable to drive) that the online queer community has claimed as part of queer culture. To see it, to hear it, to feel it on their tongue. To give him a sign that I want it and that I want him to want it.

Mutual desire. Or am I to identify with the out and proud white gay men living downtown in Chelsea or the Village, sequestered away on the topmost floor of their million-dollar apartments, with their two adopted children and live-in nanny from Mexico or the Philippines or Barbados?.

His breath on my body. Hips in rotation. Then, it happens: The soft tissue meets soft tissue. I feel his breath. Sitting do not idealize their straight masculinity like I am told to do in queer culture.