Ah yeah, bisexuals. You know them. See them on the street sometimes. Very obvious. That is a lie. It is a condition of using ‘LGBTQI’ in Scrabble (it’s allowed) that, to make the ‘B’, you must use one of those blank tiles that has been told it can be anything. Bisexuals, it seemed to me – and particularly, specifically bisexual men – are not allowed to be. Anything. Having very closely met boys who like boys and also girls – close enough I could imbibe the thick, dualistic tones of dong-chowder and cervical bisque on their breaths – I became sadder and sadder still: What a thing to be the stubborn pencil that can only be marred but never truly erased instead of A Person Who Loves. DNA sent me in search of the pink, the purple, the blue, the few for issue #178 last year. It got a lot more investigative than I thought it would and some skinny sweaty men masturbated at me from underneath their scarlet towels.
“Love is a battlefield,” I declared, insisting on Fight Club vibes for the design. In conclusion, people are people, I probably never want to visit Aarows again, and the DNA features ed is now adamant I start writing erotic slash fiction owing to his appreciation of that first para. Kudos to his patience in letting this be as unusual as it wanted to be. They must be concerned about the human drama playing out in my psyche at this point, though (thanks for being concerned).