Ascension.
Arts District, Los Angeles - 2012
One Nice Bug Per Day
almost home
todays bird
Peter Solarz

@theartofmadeline

Origami Around
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

JVL
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#extradirty
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
RMH
Stranger Things
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Product Placement
Cosmic Funnies

izzy's playlists!
Claire Keane
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@lustforthoughts-blog
Ascension.
Arts District, Los Angeles - 2012
AskG3S #3b: Role Models and Mentors in our Community
AskG3S, a.k.a. our G3S Writer’s Roundtable, is a discussion forum and advice column gathering the wisdom of some of Tumblr’s best API LGBT writers. If you have any questions about relationships, dating, sex, coming out, family issues, or anything you would like some advice on, send an ask to the G3S Writer’s Roundtable tab on our home page. We also welcome any suggestions for discussion topics. This month on AskG3S, the topic is mentors and role models in the Gaysian community.
Q: Role models and mentor figures can help us through some of life’s most challenging experiences. Growing up gay falls within that class of experiences and can be a bewildering journey, navigating identity, relationships, and more. Growing up, did you have a gay role model who shaped your view or understanding of what it means to be gay? Where did you find this role model and how did they affect your experiences?
A: By @lustforthoughts
2009 – I was 17, named first runner-up for my high school’s male pageant, dating a cheerleader, flat-abbed – and closeted. To be gay in Aliso Viejo – a conservative beach town in Southern Orange County – meant 1 ½ hour drives to WeHo for GameBoi events and nightly cruising on Craigslist. For guys around my age, an ideal afternoon entailed 15-minute hikes to Laguna Beach where we’d spend hours listening to The Kooks, soaking in the sun, and spotting out Lauren Conrad doppelgängers. The beach bum life geared me towards a state of denial and self-loathing as I tried my best to blend in with the bro culture. Growing up, my sexuality was limited to a DL life that included going to church and bringing home girls – but then spending time online (if the dial-up connection permitted) browsing “gay movies” and LGBT-affiliated chatrooms on Yahoo. The mentors at that time included fictional movie characters or “straight” married men who fed my curiosities and void. Like me, they were DL – navigating their identities and desires within a closeted context. I lived vicariously through their relationship, coming out, and hookup stories as they guided me through many confusions. I went off-screen once I turned 18 and sought mentorship from my two childhood cousins. They were my age, lived in Orange County, and came out around that time. I was fortunate to have their presence, guidance, and sass throughout my time at UCLA and work in the Bay Area. In LA, I’d contact them frequently for dating advice and house them frequently for our WeHo shenanigans. In the Bay Area, I’d take the Bart up to San Francisco to retreat in their apartment during the weekends and roam recklessly around Castro. They’d introduce me to their friends, offer both professional and personal advice, and provide guidance through bad dates and somewhat poor choices. The mentorship from my cousins represented a safe, comfortable space void of judgement and disapproval – things I often experienced during my teenage years at home. I looked up to their confidence, experiences, and wisdom as gay Asian males, an identity that was under- and misrepresented in the heteronormative world around me. From strutting in my first pair of heels and butchering my Halloween couture makeup, to doing LGBT outreach work in gay bars and moving on from my first boyfriend, my cousins represented a safety net that not only pushed me towards comfort and clarity but gave me the space and opportunity to be me.
la douleur exquise
"Did I ever really love [him], or was I addicted to the pain?" she asked. "The exquisite pain of wanting someone so unattainable." - Carrie Bradshaw
“You’re… moving out on Friday?” the lover asked. His thoughts? Dismayed.
His face stood still. His thoughts? Rewound. Against the forward gravity of time.
The blinds, crooked, threw light against their dimly lit room. The view, frozen, seized with silence. The trees inched away–and sat alongside the forgiving breeze. There was a (faint) smell of lust in the air.
“Yes,” he retaliated. “I’ll be out by evening time.”
The lover’s senses? Half-spun. Each cycle, though comforting, spat droplets of memories that spanned across their mirrored tears. He glanced at the hard lines of his face. They were once so… gentle.
Tick. Tick. Tock.
The clock struck one year. Time had grown impatient; so bid them farewell. The lover petitioned his emotions.
"Was it love?” He asked one last time.
“Yes,” he bargained–against the reality of their faded ties.
He picked up their baggage, and left.
Home
11/20/2010 - Aliso Viejo, California. A small suburb in Southern Orange County that borders Laguna Beach.
“We’ve missed you,” greeted mẹ. She handed him a plastic bag - half filled with banh tieu and bánh bột lọc, Little Saigon delicacies from 45 minutes away.
He inched through the door, a sharp blend of beech and walnut wood. The scent of palm trees lingered at the “Welcome Home” mat that once cushioned his teenage steps. The air was particularly light, doused by the ocean breeze. 4 surfboards, colored in white and red, nestled against the front porch. They whistled to the sun to set back.
His Herschel backpack and UCLA sweater, now fainted, were then set down in the living room. A family picture, marked “2007,” stood on the naked wall.
It had been 3 years since his move-out; and 3 years since his return. The green-skinned futon no longer lay beside the patio steps. His room requited his warmth with a cold unfamiliarity. His desk, once webbed with track and field trophies and photo collages, synced to the creaks of the corner wall. He peeked into the box below his desk:
- Yellowcard’s Ocean Avenue album.
- His ‘06 Homecoming King portrait.
- A collection of TVB’s Tây Du Ký from 1996.
- House of Wax tickets from his first date.
- A lighter and disfigured pen, wrapped in aluminum foil and a rubber band. He lit up and took a puff of the remaining residue.
“Home...” he pondered.
The smoke blended with the ocean thin.
7 PM.
He was called down for dinner - comforted by the sight of pâté chinois and canh khổ qua. His mom passed over the black sauce bowl that housed the Ketchup and Sriracha mix. A childhood tradition from Québec.
A familiar silence ensued.
7:12 PM.
“How does it feel to be home?” mẹ asked. In a(nother) familiar yet distant cry.
The clock remained still at 7:24 PM.
“Home...” they both pondered.
SoCal, here I come :)
A hollow string
of contrasting ends, silhouetted against
the scent of his past.
He picks up its weight,
steering forward,
(but) only to be motioned
back inside.
An Anniversay Away
Setting: October 7th, 2014. The Pont des Arts, Paris–a bridge over the Seine. The ground was solaced with calm evening air. The leaves were dimmed by the 11 PM moon. The breeze? Scented. With a fusion of red oak and aster. The lights were particularly quiet.
Characters: An Asian American gay couple traveling from California. C, a pharmacy school student in NorCal, wore a fitted pea coat. His scarf, warm orange, sat gently alongside the seams of his dark-wash jeans. S, a college senior in SoCal, was wrapped up in light layers of blue. They contrasted with the tan complexion of the faded sunset sky. He stood 5′9, just below C.
The couple just finished dinner–a picnic of bánh mì, baozi, and bottled chrysanthemum tea. Their broken Cantonese, Vietnamese, and French Canadian accents had resulted in a day-long exploration of the 13 ème arrondissement.
_________________________
Scene 5
C: “Babe. There’s one more stop for the evening.”
*S is gazing at a flock of birds. They’re being strung along by the motion of the Seine. His face remains stern, wandering off into the waves.”
C: “Let’s go… hold my hand.”
*C guides S towards the center of the bridge. One hand is covering S’s eyes while the other is grasping his cold hands.*
S: “I hear a lot of people around. Where are we?”
*C releases his hands*
C: “The Love Lock Bridge.”
*Yellow. Pink. Brown. There are layers of locks, each marked with initials. They are scattered in all directions, vibrant against the still river blue*
C: “5 years… and not a single moment that I don’t think of you. Of us…”
*S stood still.*
C: “Your snoring. Odd obsession over Sex & the City… Annoying tendency to clean. Cute Canadian accent. Passion for the community. Touch. Awkwardness. Smile. Intelligence. Poetry. Care for others. Cooking… I love you, your good and bad. And I want them all.”
*C kneels on one knee. He dries his eyes with his scarf, no longer warm orange*
C: “S, you’re the one.”
*C reaches for S’s hands. Their hands are locked, as C slips an object into S’s palms. S’s eyes are set on C’s, at a slightly bent angle*
S: “C…”
*S looks down… A ring. Koa wood. Black. Just like he had mentioned on their first date. The ring is secured by a lock. Silver, with “C & S” engraved.*
S: “I…”
C: “Will you…
S: “I…”
C: “.. marry me?”
S: “… can’t”
*C stood… still*
S: “I’m sorry.”
End Scene.
I couldn’t look away, Chasin’ your pretty thoughts. You’re mine, You’re sinkin’ in my soul, Chasin’ your pretty thoughts.
What’s become of (y)our lock? A wandering note, silhouetted against the crawling sun? Or a touch, grasped by these aching thoughts?
Hold still as I retrace motion and (un)lock these a(n)ch(or)ing thoughts.
– le pont des Arts juillet 31 2014
Soar high, my friend, and rest your weight on skies. If they should ever gloom, I will pave the stars to lighten your crawl. When their clouds cry stones, just sing a gentle breeze: I will thin the ocean line to comfort your fall.
In loving memory of you – a son of two, friend of many, and teacher of infinite.
Not a day goes by that I don't think of you, homeboy.
“In 1975, my mom was just your age. She grew up in a big farm with lots of pets, siblings, and friends.”
Class: “Where was she born?”
“In South Vietnam. Around that time, though, there was a war. The Vietnam War.”
Class: “War? What was it like?”
“Devastating. Explosives went off throughout the day. Every night, the cries of wounded soldiers and starving children raided the air. The enemy took everything away: books. Money. Homes. Churches. Food. Everyone was scared.”
Class: “So they took away… her freedom?”
“Yes m'am. After months of limited food and water… her family decided to escape. They snuck into a boat, about the size of our classroom carpet.”
Class: “That sounds scary!”
“It was. Thousands of people died during this time. They were either starved to death or captured and killed by pirates. A lot of boats were also destroyed by the sea. After two weeks, they arrived in Thailand as refugees.”
Class: “Were you on the boat as well?”
“No, silly. After reuniting with the rest of her family, she moved to Montreal, Canada.”
Class: “And that’s where you were born!”
“Yes sir. The move was very difficult for her and her family. They didn’t speak a word of French. But my mom did her best to learn the new language and live in a new country. She met my dad after graduating from high school. He was a culinary chef and musician at a restaurant.”
Class: “Why did you move here?”
“We immigrated to California when I was just a little older than you. My mom and dad wanted more opportunities for us. Even more than there were in Canada. They brought along a few bags, leaving a lot of their family and friends behind.
Class: “Was is hard when you moved to California?”
“Yes m'am… I only knew three words in English: cat, because, and thank you. Well, four! But, like my mom, we did our best to work hard and appreciate our new home. I also had supportive people, like teachers, who set high expectations for me to succeed.”
Class: “Is that why you’re here with us in Texas, Mr. Nguyen? To set high expectations for us and teach us to be good?”
“Yes. Because I’m here to make sure your stories get heard.”
Tuesday, September 12. Students had just finished analyzing and discussing a photo from 9/11 with their table buddies.
Mr. Nguyen: “And bring it back in 5-4-3-2-1. Let’s have a share out from group 3.”
Student: “Mr. Nguyen, you’ve been teaching us about that one word. Empathy.”
Mr. Nguyen: “Yes, sir.”
Student: “Is that why we learn about empathy? So we don’t hurt or kill people out of hate?”
October 7th, 2013. 12:00 AM.
“Happy birthday, babe,” he whispered in my ears. “I... love you.”
“Love,” my thoughts whispered. Behind its lock.
Its defeating pulse.
The word echoed through the evening gray. It ticked against motion - waving silence (back) into our touch. The gaps between our hands were once so... warm.
12:12 AM.
My senses began inching away. Towards the still air. “Love,” I pondered. Again. And again.
1:30 AM.
He’d fallen asleep, weighted against my chest.
My hands - no longer still - began creeping away. Lock by lock. Into the silhouette of time, an enemy of our past.
The gaps between our hands were once so...
warm.
Dangling thoughts
spilling air,
spitting weight back into
our turbulent touch.
“'Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?' 'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat. 'I don't much care where,' said Alice. 'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
“You’re… moving out on Friday?” the lover asked. His thoughts? Dismayed.
His face stood still. His thoughts? Rewound. Against the forward gravity of time.
The blinds, crooked, threw light against their dimly lit room. The view, frozen, seized with silence. The trees inched away–and sat alongside the forgiving breeze. There was a (faint) smell of lust in the air.
“Yes,” he retaliated. “I’ll be out by evening time.”
The lover’s senses? Half-spun. Each cycle, though comforting, spat droplets of memories that spanned across their mirrored tears. He glanced at the hard lines of his face. They were once so… gentle.
Tick. Tick. Tock.
The clock struck one year. Time had grown impatient; so bid them farewell. The lover petitioned his emotions.
"Was it love?” He asked one last time.
“Yes,” he bargained–against the reality of their faded ties.
He picked up their baggage, and left.
6 months.