Pride Month: Never Take Our Freedom to Love For Granted

Pride Month is more than a celebration

The month of June will soon yield to July, and Pride Month will officially be over. But this is no time to lift our foot from the gas pedal. Pride Month is not just a celebration; it is also a painful reminder that basic human rights are still in peril today. And that will continue as long as other people are allowed to dictate the private lives of others.

One would hope that each passing day would bring progress toward securing personal freedoms – to have access to food, housing, and healthcare, to live with dignity, to love whomever we love, to express our gender identity however we wish, to retain control over our own bodies. Sadly, at this horrifying moment in American history, the exact opposite is true.

I stand with you during Pride Month and always

As an ally, I stand with you in supporting and celebrating the diverse and vibrant LGBTQ+ community.

I believe with all my heart that love is love in all its messy glory. I believe in a person’s legal right to marry whomever they love and enjoy the same rights afforded by law to heterosexual couples. I believe you should feel safe to hold hands or kiss in public without fear of judgment or harm.

My diverse characters

As a writer, I always do my very best to represent my characters as realistic, three-dimensional people, regardless of their gender identity or sexual orientation. Granted, this can get complicated when those characters happen to be gods!

Those of you who have read my Cupid’s Fall series are aware of the very special relationship between Pan and Cupid, which reaches a climax (ahem) in book 3, Quite the Pair. But there’s a mortal in the mix too, and I won’t spoil the story by sharing his story more than to say he had no idea he might love another man until a certain pair of gods fell into his life and turned it upside-down.

Don’t tell my other characters, but book three was my favorite to write. The unflinching love and affection Pan and Cupid feel for each other lives deep in my writer bones. Best friends to lovers was the most rewarding story arc to write – until, of course, Aphrodite and Ares stuck their divine noses in and messed it all up.

But hey, this is a #nospoilerzone, so let’s move on.

Remembrance and hope

With today being the anniversary of the 1969 Stonewall Riots, I wanted to share my personal tribute to the brave individuals who protested on behalf of equal rights for LGBT people.

Six years ago, I wrote the following poem for an anthology to raise money for the victims and survivors of the Orlando Pulse Nightclub massacre on June 12, 2016.

This poem captures a hypothetical moment of blissful wonder just before tragedy struck.

Please enjoy.

WE CAN DO THIS HERE

Collaborate, they said.
They made us a team, 
but we were nothing alike.
Brilliant spark (he); 
Careful kindling (me).
We took turns puffing breath
into this new idea.
Glowing embers
swallowed our oxygen,
leapt into flames.
Our creation lived and breathed.
With loud, angry pops,
our fire multiplied
in directions we could not control.
He stood too close to the burning logs,
unafraid.
His wild eyes flashed at me. 
Look what we started!
I longed to join him inside that fire,
wished so badly I could burn
without being consumed.
But the heat hurt my cheeks,
and I turned my face away
from our fire
and from him.
**
Our brains untangled from each other’s.
I could bear being near him.
We separated the work
into safe, parallel tracks.
Side by side
without intersecting,
without becoming closer
or more distant.
He was this fiery presence
pulling me
with exactly the same force
I pushed away.
Comforting.
Maddening.
Because I wanted more than I could take,
I wouldn’t watch the careless way
he brushed the blond bangs off his forehead
with the heel of his hand;
I wouldn’t inhale his spearmint and moss scent;
I wouldn’t feel his happy bursts of laughter,
popping in the air
like a million tiny balloons;
I wouldn’t wonder who caused his irises to deepen
from slate gray
to ocean blue;
I wouldn’t know his ease in the world
because I would weep with envy.
We fashioned a toothpick bridge
of small talk.
We Venn diagrammed the coworker fundamentals:
TV shows and presidential candidates
and sports teams and coffee preferences.
Cautiously, we became
(maybe?)
friends.
**
Come out with us.
They were kind.
They couldn’t tell I was different.
Who I wanted wouldn’t fit their mold,
might make them squirm.
Just one drink? TGIF!
True, Thank God It’s Friday.
A two-day reprieve from the constant
simmer of need.
I can’t, I begged off.
Never the inviter,
he watched for my answer.
Intent and hopeful at first,
his eyes grew dimmer
each week.
Maybe he told himself:
 Don’t take it personally.
(Or maybe he suspected exactly why he should.)
**
Wanna grab lunch? he asked
one random Tuesday
just before noon.
Out of the office? 
Together?
Alone?
My cheeks heated with the fire
I had not extinguished after all.
Thought we could hit the deli down the street.
C’mon, he said. 
It’s a beautiful day.
Sure, okay.
His smile lit up the whole office.
Yeah?
My heart stutter-stepped 
the first time his knuckles bumped mine
in the elevator.
By the third time,
I started to wonder
if he’d done it on purpose.
I’m sure I saw people and buildings and trees on the way.
Must’ve heard traffic and birds and voices.
But I recalled only everything about him: 
How hot he looked in his aviators,
how naked when he peeled them off.
The pink flash of tongue
catching the luckiest avocado sliver
ever to escape a roll-up.
How he listened
with his whole body slanted forward
like cursive writing leaning into the next letter.
How easy it was to enjoy his company
once I stopped fighting it.
Our short walk back was a silent, time-lapse movie,
a peach ripening on the tree
in rapid-fire clicks.
We barely fit in the revolving door
(him, me, and our fully-grown peach)
but pressed together,
we made it.
All afternoon, I stayed
in that tight, glass wedge with him,
crowding out any thought that threatened to intrude.
**
Come out with us.
Just one drink?
TGIF!
Behind her, he folded his arms
and studied me,
not dispassionately.
Three days since our lunch date.
(To call it any other name would be a lie.)
Three days of lingering glances,
shy smiles,
work not getting done.
We became brilliant inventors
of flimsy excuses to lay hands on each other—
a shoulder squeeze,
a tap on the arm,
a playful shove.
We cannot do this here.
Sure, I answered
I’ll come.
He bit the insides of his cheeks to hold back
his most heart-twisting smile,
but his eyes couldn’t be stopped.
We marched to the bar
and surrounded the tables.
Across from me but three down—
ideal for long-distance flirting,
safe from touching. 
Hyper-focused on his every move,
and he
(I think)
on mine.
My eyes tracked him to the men’s,
waited by the door,
marked every step of his return.
He caught me staring
and winked.
My groin answered with a tug.
We cannot do this here.
He wedged in across my table,
flashed his not-so-innocent grin.
So, what’s happening at this end of the table? 
I knew good and well
what was happening
to me.
Just didn’t have a clue
what to do about it.
They dropped like flies:
I’m beat
Gonna hit the road
It’s been a week
Tossed bills on the table,
made their exits.
Mostly, they left.
Staying sent a message.
I stayed.
(He didn’t.)
Been real, guys, he said,
peeling a twenty off his stack.
You giving me a ride
or what?
My head snapped up.
Uh, yeah, sure.
G’night, all.
I followed him
between tables and humans.
Arousal coiled in my belly.
Something needed to happen.
The cool, night air was a semicolon
separating familiar from unknown.
He led me into shadows,
grabbed my wrist,
tucked me against the building,
close to his body. 
I held my breath.
He looked at me without speaking,
his eyes filled with longing
and uncertainty.
Mine had to look the same.
We cannot do this here.
His thumb brushed across my knuckles;
I shivered.
The sweetest words tumbled
from his beautiful lips.
Do you have any idea
how much I want
to kiss you right now? 
God, yes, I answered,
shaking loose a deep sigh.
He chuckled softly.
I waited for my kiss.
His gaze swept around.
Not here, but . . .
(he leaned in) 
do you trust me?
Yes.
**
Corner of Maple and Washington, he said,
pulling me into the back seat.
He stole my hand into his lap,
forced all his fingers
between all of mine.
Quivery and weak,
I surrendered.
Night,
Anonymity,
Privacy.
It’s safe here.
Now we can kiss. 
A vein in his neck
pulsed with his very life
boom, boom, boom 
and I wanted my lips
right there.
Woozy from the closeness,
I dropped my head to his shoulder.
My nose inched toward his life beat
calling out to me
boom, boom, boom
and I pressed my lips
right there.
He squeezed my hand,
shrugged me off.
My lips fell away
from the delicate skin
at the base of his neck.
Hurt and confused,
I caught his frozen stare,
dead ahead,
into the rear-viewing disapproval.
We cannot do this here.
I nodded sadly.
I understood all too well.
He leaned back against the seat
and closed his eyes.
I set my breaths to the throb of his pulse point
boom, boom, boom
and promised myself
I’d kiss him there first.
Right there.
Sizzling, bright neon 
proclaimed our arrival.
He squeezed my hand
and smiled.
**
We slogged those final steps
through the wilderness of moral authorities and
binary boxes and
hate and
fear and
it’s-only-love-if-you-do-it-our-way.
The doors opened.
We entered the Promised Land.
Ready? he asked,
tightening his grip on my hand. 
Don’t let go?
(He nodded.)
We walked inside,
shoulder to shoulder.
My eyes adjusted to the light inside this new world
whose source was not our sun
or the flashing lights painting
wild designs on the dance floor.
This light was human.
We were creating it,
all of us,
together.
I recognized the brilliant flame.
This time,
I walked toward its warmth.
Instead of consuming me,
the fire nourished me.
With loud, exhilarating pops,
the fire multiplied
in directions I could not control.
Leaving no room for 
You’re less or 
God hates you or 
Your love is wrong.
You okay? he asked. 
The flames danced in his eyes 
as he watched me
embrace our fire.
I am so much better than okay.
I pivoted to face him,
pressed my cheek 
to his shoulder,
kissed him softly
on his heartbeat.
Thank you for bringing me here.
His smile drew my cheek up with his.
Now I was smiling, too.
I had to.
I really needed to kiss you.
I gasped when he cupped my chin.
God, yes, I thought,
as his soft mouth closed over mine.
We can do this here.
Dance with me, he said,
not waiting for my answer
(yes)
tugging me to the teeming dance floor.
His arms formed a circle,
closed over my head.
Felt so good to be held,
to touch him and be touched,
to move against his hips,
to want him and not hide.
We can do this here.
He spun me in his arms,
pulling my back
to his chest.
I moaned, but the music swallowed my sounds.
My head dropped back
against his shoulder. 
He nipped the soft shell of my ear,
pumped his hips into mine,
slipped his fingers under my shirt.
I hope you know . . . 
(He squeezed my nipples and I knew nothing at all.)
I really, 
         really
                  like you.
We can do this here.
*

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