J.R. Whittington

When Marcus dropped the pills and heard drums that weren't his heartbeat, he saw memories that weren't his life—and suddenly knew his husband was the only thing standing between him and death.

I'm floating through liberal New York in my own protective bubble, madly in love with a young politician who might be the Superman this dying city needs—but will my fantasy survive when the old white guard comes crawling back for power?

What happened next was like falling into a river that had been waiting your whole life to carry you home. Richardson tasted salt and sweetness on Finch's lips, tasted freedom and something holier than Sunday morning. And when Finch whispered his name like it was something sacred, Richardson's body opened like a flower blooming in darkness.

"I Cried Looking at Trump's All-White Cabinet—Then I Remembered What James Baldwin Taught Me About America's Soul

This year, Pride isn’t just a celebration—it’s a glitter-covered fuck you to the systems trying to erase me. I’m Black, gay, Afro-Latino, and an artist, and baby, I’m not here to survive—I’m here to be reckoned with. If you’ve ever questioned why Pride still matters, read this and try not to feel the fire.