Latex gear, an old steam trunk, a four-foot crawl space, and an LA heat wave.
Never a good combination. Especially for coconut oil. Celibacy had prompted this little tyke to tap into the old toy trunk and, to my horror, I found cotton fiber bags and melted blobs of ultra-realistic UR3 material.
A travesty.
But soon I discovered a simple box with very distinct camo tape. Identifiable to any enthusiast. And inside the box, a brand new 9-by-8-inch real deal dong labeled “8.0.”
Yet another travesty, because clearly, it is the mold of one very famous Jeff Stryker.
I’d deem it the end of an era.
Jeff Stryker belonged to an era when porn stars were actually stars. Muscular, mustached, and unapologetically masculine, he became an archetype of gay male desire long before an endless scroll could produce a new one every thirty seconds. His image became recognizable enough that even his anatomy became merchandise. The mold wasn’t simply a sex toy; it was a little piece of gay cultural history sitting in my trunk.
Millennials fuck everything up. Well, technically, it is not our fault; we simply existed in the transitional age of the internet, catalysts for a changing culture unbeknownst to us. The culture that preceded ours is merely history, and who cares about that? Darwinism happened, and amateurs, among other frustrating culprits, killed the porn industry.
Anything can be porn if you try hard enough.
When I was growing up, at first glance, rural hometown Texas seemed wholesome and pure. But in the shadows, about a dozen adult venues of glory hole bookstores lay hidden in plain sight. Even an infamous drive-in theater where you pull up your car to adult films projected on a massive screen. I remember listening to its AM radio station audio as a hormonal adolescent who got off in 30 seconds to the dubbing of moans and groans along with brown chicken brown cow music.
At 18, intrigue struck, I’d discovered the culture within: theaters of straight and gay porn. Little rooms and booths with screens you can feed dollar bills into, an adult arcade. Inside, holes in the wall connected these booths where unheard-of promiscuity occurs at all hours. I deemed the culture: when he didn’t get the girl, you got the load.
Anonymity. The concept became conquest. I’d found myself in situations curated by the fantasy where I would be sought out by a guy who needed it so bad he was bending his social status, matrimony, or religion, because most who seek it are bound to family or are of a devout frame of mind.
Jeff Stryker had a film, a Gino Production, titled Underground, and it depicted this prominent conservative man who, after work hours, would fall into this deviant, sexually driven force that took place at a sex club. The kitsch and camp of it caused instant erections among those who are infamously and posthumously forgotten in the Pornhubs of today. Residing in the category of “vintage.”
Folks just like to see other normal folks get it on. Self-made porn. Who hasn’t made a porno or taken a dick pic themselves?
Once upon a time, I made a production porno. It was terrible; a random dude sent me a text message, and then it was shot at some random dude’s house in the Valley, who wasn’t aware that there would be a porno shot at his house that day. The director argued with his assistant, and I had to show the cameraman how to set his white balance. I was terribly out of shape and ironically played the role of an assistant. I cringe when random folks are like, “Is this you?”
Eventually, I prevailed in a small claim to fame. This is why I know a Banksy approach to artistry is possible in some form. It all came from the notion of oral fixation and anonymity, and it was cloaked in none other than a mask. Two pieces of plywood and a center hole, collapsible and attachable to my bedroom door. Try explaining why to the lumber cutter at Home Depot… In an instant, I was an amateur porn star getting upwards of $800 checks. All for curating a fantasy of anonymity.
And success. However, minute fame and fortune, like all things, must come to an end. The action and geographical area became oversaturated with others seeking the same fantasy, and the funny thing is, the only business venture I’d succeeded at was getting paid to suck dick.
Gross, right?
Like a boy playing with his toys, they eventually get old. So, they move on to the next thing, the next level of excitement and thrill, and that doesn’t change as an adult. You still sit there playing with your toys with this intense, vivid imagination about moving on to the next thing. It’s escapism in every form.
So sometimes sticking to classics works. A Jeff Stryker mold. And when you’re done, you clean it up and place it back in your toy trunk until the next playtime.
And within the same trunk over the years, you’ve accumulated all the gadgets and gizmos, gear, custom-made chaps, jockstraps. I counted 28 the other day, and for what? Worn only to clean the house or for a needed boost of confidence. They say wearing something that makes you feel sexy underneath bolsters confidence; I can attest to that. I even have a Jeff Stryker action figure, in mint condition, still in the plastic.
But that Stryker mold became legend. Even if folks have no clue whose penis mold they are sticking up their butt. It set a standard.
What becomes of those things when they surpass the category of “vintage,” or the folks or movements or eras that set standards? In this day and age, what is the relevance of the past?
We are what we see, and we roll with trends and fads as much as we subconsciously attempt not to. Uninhibited primal instincts allow us to get off and move on with our lives. The origins are irrelevant and surely obsolete.
But boy, did a man clad in leather depicting moral-bending scenes of sex and vice change a little boy’s deviant secret life.
French illustrator Driss Chaoui (Kalakal) recently collaborated with Queer Brewing, the UK’s first queer- and trans-owned brewery, to celebrate Queer History Month. The project, celebrating Alan Hart and Wendy Carlos, received a Silver Award from Creativepool and was named a runner-up by Creative Quarterly this month.
The project celebrates the impact of trans icons Hart and Carlos, whose work had a lasting impact on medical radiology and electronic music, respectively. Hart devoted much of his career to the treatment of tuberculosis, while Carlos helped bring synthesizers to mainstream audiences. Each packaging illustration includes a portrait of both innovators, as well as one original illustration.
Kalakal is a Toulouse-based, self-described “color enthusiast,” working across editorial, publishing, packaging, and commercial projects. Their work combines bold compositions and conceptual storytelling.
According to Kalakal, “The brief was very last minute. I immediately knew I wanted to represent Wendy and Alan in a very dignified way, but adding a fun touch to it. What do X-rays evoke to me? Well, apparently a 1960s weirdo with a beehive, somewhere between Mars Attacks and Juno Birch, but definitely campy as hell.”
Kalakal’s portfolio of art and other projects is available to browse online at kalakalillustration.com
Finnish alt-pop artist, producer, and songwriter Cecil Opia announces new album GHOSTS AND PHONE CALLS, a deeply personal album about digital loneliness, disconnection, desire, and isolation, set to be released on September 25, 2026.
Opia describes GHOSTS AND PHONE CALLS as “a roadside motel room… Inside are unanswered phone calls, texts left on read, breakups happening through screens, restless nights, body dysphoria, insecurity, and thoughts that never quite become complete sentences.”
Opia wrote the album while relocating from Helsinki to Berlin, finding herself alone and far from the people and places she knew; displacement became inseparable from the music. The album also emerged after a nearly eight-year relationship ended abruptly through a single phone call in that same room.
“It came from this feeling of never quite belonging anywhere. As a queer trans woman, I’ve often felt like I’m standing just outside the room, even when I’m inside it. I could be in Helsinki and feel disconnected, then move to Berlin and realise the feeling had followed me. The album became a way of documenting that distance. All the things you don’t know how to say when you’re alone with your phone at three in the morning.”
GHOSTS AND PHONE CALLS also marks a distinct musical evolution in Opia’s sound. Drawing from alternative pop, late-’90s trip-hop, shoegaze, and early-2000s aesthetics, the album moves between intimacy and fragility, euphoria and visceral energy. Its lyrics are more direct, vulnerable, and explicitly queer.
The lead single “This Body” confronts gender dysphoria and the complicated relationship between identity and the physical self. Focus track “Text Messages” captures the obsessive spiral of wanting someone who has stopped answering. “Fluorescent”, meanwhile, explores queer joy and sexual liberation through the intimacy of self-pleasure, turning solitude into something sensual, euphoric, and entirely your own.
Disconnection also appears in the album’s guest features. Finnish-French artist yaya (Sony Music) appears in French, while ÄmbÖ (Fountain Records) contributes a feature in Japanese.
“I wanted the features to be in languages I don’t speak. It creates this feeling that even when you’re hearing another person, you can’t completely understand them. That felt very true to what the album is about.”
A large portion of the album was written collaboratively with yaya and “Fluorescent” was co-written with Mendi Moon (Ranka Entertainment).
Despite its collaborative writing process, the album remains entirely Opia’s own production world: every song on GHOSTS AND PHONE CALLS was produced and mixed by Cecil Opia. The album was mastered by Tommi Vainikainen and Stefan Brown at Abbey Road Studios.
GHOSTS AND PHONE CALLS will be available to stream on September 25, 2026.
In one of my recent photo projects, I am standing in a black velvet high-neck cropped top with built-in gloves and fuzzy glasses, with photographs of myself covering the rest of my body. Different poses, different expressions, different versions of me are everywhere. It is excessive. Maybe a little narcissistic, but definitely intentional.
To understand why I wanted to literally wear myself, you first have to understand Zortifa.
My last name is Sorto. Growing up in a Salvadoran family, I learned that a family name could carry weight. There were expectations around what a son was supposed to look like, how he was supposed to act, and who he was supposed to become. But I also grew up hearing homophobic remarks from family, from people I loved, and from the culture I was learning how to exist within.
As I got older, I realized I did not want becoming a successful son to mean becoming somebody I did not recognize.
So I started changing things. I got piercings. I highlighted my hair. I grew it out and curled it. I wore fake hazel contacts because I liked the way I looked in them. I started using makeup to cover my rosacea. None of those things alone were some grand act of rebellion, but together they meant something to me. I was learning that I could participate in creating myself.
Somewhere in that process, Zortifa appeared.
The name still holds onto Sorto, but the ending sounds feminine to me. I liked that. Zortifa became a way of keeping where I came from while changing what I believed I was allowed to become. It felt like I was taking my last name and reshaping it into something that could actually hold more of who I was.
Elwim is not Zortifa, but Zortifa is Elwim.
Zortifa is louder. More exaggerated. More fearless. Zortifa is willing to play with femininity and masculinity without sitting there asking which one I am technically allowed to do. There is something almost like drag in it for me, not because I consider Zortifa a drag character, but because there is a performance involved. Sometimes performance gives you permission to express something that was already there.
The kindness in Elwim is still there. So is the insecurity and that little thought in the back of my head wondering what somebody else might say when I walk into a room.
Zortifa just gives those thoughts less authority.
Sometimes I describe it as feeling like myself without contamination. By contamination, I mean the expectations, shame, family roles, ideas about masculinity, and other people’s opinions that can get mixed into the way we understand ourselves before we even get the chance to decide who we are.
That does not mean Zortifa fixed everything.
Sometimes I wonder whether I know Zortifa better than I know Elwim.
I came out in my late teens, and Zortifa has really grown with me in my twenties. Part of me knows this confidence probably developed because I did not always feel affirmed for who I was growing up. When something helps you survive, it can become difficult to imagine who you are without it.
Maybe that is why putting the piece together felt more emotional than just mounting a bunch of pictures of myself onto a board.
Covering myself in photographs became almost like building a shrine to confidence. Some are polished. Some are strange. Some never made it onto Instagram. They are not all perfect, but together they helped construct the person standing in the photograph now.
The glasses cover part of my face, but I am still the lens through which I see my own life. The fuzzy textures feel luxurious to me. The velvet feels delicate, because I am delicate too. I do not think delicateness has to cancel out power.
And yes, there is ego involved.
I think sometimes we are taught to be embarrassed by openly liking ourselves. Too much confidence becomes narcissism. Too much sexuality becomes inappropriate. Too much femininity becomes a problem. Too much of anything becomes something other people feel entitled to correct.
I spent enough time feeling like I was not enough. I am interested now in what happens when I allow myself to be too much.
That has changed the way I approach photography too. I used to wonder whether a setting was beautiful enough for a picture. Now I ask something different. Does the background create the aesthetic, or can I?
I can take a picture next to a trash can and still eat.
Sometimes I do not need the background. The background needs me.
Art is subjective. I do not have to wait for a photographer, an editor, or somebody with more authority than me to decide that I am worth looking at. I can control the pose. I can control the movement. I can decide which photograph feels beautiful, strange, ugly, sexual, funny, or interesting.
I am an artist.
I can be my own muse.
That does not mean I think everything I create is perfect. Sometimes I like the shot a photographer might throw away. Sometimes beauty comes from what an image makes me feel rather than how closely it follows somebody else’s rules.
Lady Gaga has always inspired me for a similar reason. She did not become interesting by recreating everything the world already had. She created something that felt like her. I think we are put into boxes so easily that eventually we stop noticing the walls.
I have already broken out of a few of mine.
I am part of the first U.S.-born generation in my Salvadoran family. I was the first in my family to graduate high school and the first to earn a college degree. I became a veteran. I earned my master’s degree, and now I am working toward a doctorate.
I feel iconic saying that.
Not because I think I am better than anyone else, but because the younger version of me did not always know whether being fully himself and becoming successful could exist at the same time.
Now I know they can.
Zortifa gives me confidence, but they also leave me with questions. How much of Zortifa is armor? How much is art? How much is simply me? Will there ever be a version of Elwim who does not need to perform confidence first?
I do not know yet.
Maybe I am not supposed to.
For now, I can look at that photograph and see all of those versions of myself attached to one body. Masculine, feminine, insecure, confident, soft, sexual, strange, successful, unfinished.
They are all Zortifa.
They are all Elwim.
Becoming my own muse was never really about inventing someone better than myself. It was about finally giving every version of myself permission to exist. Giving myself permission to exist.
Bob Mackie, the legendary fashion designer known for his collaborations with Cher, Tina Turner, and Elton John, died of pneumonia on Sept 14th.
A post from his Instagram account announced his passing, stating, “He lived his 87 years to the fullest, fulfilling his dream of being a Fashion and Costume Designer, which is all he ever wanted to do. His genius and extraordinary designs will live on forever, continuing to bring beauty into this world.”
In his illustrious career, Mackie earned nine Emmy Award wins, three Academy Award nominations, and induction into the Television Academy Hall of Fame. Mackie’s legacy of iconic work will live on forever.
He is survived by his granddaughter Alyssa Townsend, his great-granddaughters Kyla and Keira Townsend, and former wife Lulu Porter.
There is a question running beneath all of Jake Robertson’s work: What is it that makes us human, and what happens when someone tries to take that away?
Robertson (They/He) is a Soviet cultural historian, educator, theatermaker, and storyteller. They studied Slavic Languages and Literatures at Princeton, trained in acting at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland, and recently completed a PhD at Oxford, where they researched professional theater inside Soviet Gulag camps.
But Robertson’s work has never been confined to the archive. They have taught Russian language, history, and theater to students around the world. Robertson’s scholarship examines the relationship between artistic expression and political control, exploring how culture survives and sometimes resists under authoritarian systems.
At the same time, Robertson’s career as a theatermaker and drag artist has taken him from Off-Broadway theaters to queer pubs to Shakespeare’s Globe.
Robertson’s creative projects include Saundra Lezzenbaum: Love in Concert!, a one-woman drag spectacular combining original music, improv comedy, and couples therapy. Love in Concert! was just one of Saundra’s shows. Her current rep is a monthly community mixer called Saturday Night Love. It also combines comedy, cabaret, and group therapy in an effort to foster connections and build community.
There is also Songbird, a play in development that weaves together the life and music of queer Soviet cabaret icon and Gulag theater star Vadim Kozin with the story of a drag artist facing imprisonment in contemporary Russia.
On paper, these worlds might seem impossible to reconcile. An Oxford historian and drag performer. Soviet archives and comedy clubs. Gulag theater and queer performance. But for Robertson, they are all part of the same lifelong inquiry.
“What binds us all together, while at the same time making us wholly unique?”
Birch bark letter from Siberia.
The Search for What Connects Us
Robertson’s fascination with humanity has always existed between individuality and belonging.
For much of Robertson’s early life, they carried the weight of a divided identity. They describe spending two decades closeted, negotiating questions about who they were and how openly they could live.
“I began as a nerdy sensitive gay boy in the Midwest and now have broken out of the binary and embrace an expansive queer identity that transcends gender and sexuality, shaping my perspective on almost everything,” Robertson says.
“Now that I have embraced who I am and opened that up more and more, I have become even more interested in bringing us together and what we all share.”
Whether sitting in an archive in Siberia researching a forgotten performer, or stepping onto a stage as Saundra Lezzenbaum, Robertson keeps returning to the same essential human longing. To be recognized.
“There is something magical that happens when you can be seen by someone else,” Robertson says. “We are vast and complex, but in some profound way, we want to be seen.”
For Robertson, that recognition carries almost spiritual weight.
“Namaste,” comes to mind. “The divine in me sees the divine in you.”
That belief may seem far removed from the brutal realities of Soviet repression, but Robertson sees the same human impulse everywhere: the desire to connect and find meaning even in circumstances designed to destroy those possibilities.
Gulag work.
The Stage Behind the Barbed Wire
Robertson’s doctoral research examined one of history’s most unlikely artistic landscapes: professional theater inside the Soviet Gulag.
The Gulag system was built around forced labor and political control. It was designed to extract productivity from millions of prisoners while attempting to reshape them according to Soviet ideology.
Yet within that system, something unexpected emerged: Theater.
“I got into Gulag theater through memoirs,” Robertson says. “Through these experiences in the camps, I felt this connection to the artists.”
Prisoners who had been actors, directors, musicians, and designers before their imprisonment continued creating. Others found artistic roles within the camps. They built stages, organized performances, designed sets, and produced operas and plays, all while receiving the support and resources of local Gulag administrators.
Within the very system that sought to destroy their humanity, these artists found a way to preserve that humanity through their art.
For Robertson, this transformed his understanding of creativity.
“As a theater maker and a creative, it gave me a deeper reverence for the creative act as an expression of your identity…There is something about revering that act.”
Art was not simply entertainment but proof of existence. It was a declaration.
I am still here.
Robertson’s research also complicates easy narratives. Gulag theater was not simply a story of heroic resistance. The performers often faced impossible moral questions. Some felt guilty because theater offered them privileges unavailable to others. Some prisoners accused them of collaborating with camp authorities.
“The people who survived,” Robertson explains, “are the ones whose memories we are reading.”
History, like humanity itself, is complicated.
“That spectrum of humanity and barbarity is fascinating… The same camp boss who took up the role of patron-of-the-arts, who joyously cheered for the Gulag opera, also oversaw a regime of mass starvation, exploitation and death.”
The contradiction is unsettling. But it is also revealing. History does not only show us what people do. History forces us to contemplate the contradictory vastness of being human.
Robertson’s dissertation will be a book set for release in 2028 with Cornell University Press.
Documents of the Gulag’s victims.
Why Authoritarians Fear Stories
For Robertson, the struggle over history is ultimately a struggle over storytelling.
“Stories were everything. All human institutions and civilizations are built around stories.”
Governments use stories to create national identity, justify policies, and define enemies. The Soviet Union carefully constructed narratives about progress and the inevitable triumph of communism.
But stories are dangerous because they can never be fully controlled. They can also complicate official narratives.
“I believe official narratives are also a form of storytelling, and a powerful one at that. But our stories, especially those that illuminate the expansive complexity of human reality, can also serve as an incisive challenge to those hegemonic discourses. That to me is the power of queer stories, the kind that refuse to submit to norms, conventions and binaries.”
Authoritarian systems often demand simplicity: one truth, one version of history, one acceptable identity. But human experience resists simplicity.
“Reality is more complex,” Robertson says. “That complexity is exactly what my work seeks to preserve.”
“The story of Gulag theater would have been lost to the snowdrifts of time were it not for the local historians, survivors, descendants who preserved those memories and materials. My goal with my decade of research was to do my part to make sure they did not die and disappear.”
Exhibition of the GULAG History Museum.
Historians are trained to analyze evidence carefully. Artists are trained to explore possibility. Robertson believes both are necessary and mutually enriching.
“I have years of training as a serious historian and as an artist. There is something to be said about the reality and limits of our knowledge, understanding what we can and cannot know for certain.”
But scholarship cannot remain locked away.
“It can’t exist in a vacuum. We need to communicate what we learn and share it.”
At NYU, Robertson went on to create a brand new multidisciplinary course on Soviet Theater. It was called “Soviet Stages: Theatre as Revolution, Repression & Resistance in the USSR.” This fall, they will teach Introduction to Theatre Studies, building the course around the frame of drag and performing gender onstage and off.
“When we did the scenes in class, we learned much more,” Robertson says, reflecting on Soviet Stages. “We could never get that just from words on a page. The artist enlivens and brings to life so many new things that we cannot do as researchers.”
That philosophy informs Saundra Lezzenbaum, Robertson’s drag persona.
Saundra Lezzenbaum is a fictional character, drag cabaret persona, and self-proclaimed “America’s Queen of Hearts” whose larger-than-life mission is to rescue romance one laugh at a time. Hailing from her “palatial duplex in Ronkonkoma, Long Island,” Saundra presents herself as a world-famous love coach, matchmaker, and relationship expert whose improbable résumé includes a cosmetology background, a lunchtime Emmy-winning television show called Queen of Hearts on The CW, and a collection of wildly imaginative self-help books, including Married to Menopause: Keeping Things Hot Through the Hot Flashes and her love memoire Heart Attack, the Good Kind.
At the center of her carefully crafted mythology is her supposedly flawless marriage to her beloved husband, Max Lezzenbaum, which she uses as the foundation for her advice on achieving “#PerfectMarriage” bliss. In performance, Saundra becomes a comedic Cupid for the modern age, hosting interactive New York City mixers, cabaret shows, and variety events aimed at solving what she jokingly calls the city’s “Cost of Loving Crisis.”
Through her one-woman musical comedy spectacular Love in Concert!, featuring original parody “Saungs” from her fictional album Saungs for a Perfect Marriage, and her audience-driven “Love Lezzons,” where she improvises relationship advice based on real dating dilemmas, Saundra blends satire, theater, and audience participation into a joyful exploration of love and the absurdities of modern romance.
For Robertson, drag is not an escape from serious scholarship. It is another form of historical inquiry. A way of asking: Who gets to be visible and who gets to imagine another version of themselves?
“By doing drag as a community mixer, it combines celebration of individual identity with a commitment to bringing us together and building real human connection.”
Remembering People Well
Robertson’s projects repeatedly return to forgotten voices.
His genealogy project, Ancestory, transforms family history into narrative experience. It asks people to confront their ancestors honestly, not as perfect heroes or permanent villains, but as complicated human beings shaped by their circumstances. Ancestory weaves together rigorous archival archeology and inspired people-centered storytelling, fostering an accessible personalized journey through your family tree. This unique ancestry experience is curated by Robertson.
The play Songbird continues this work by exploring the life of Vadim Kozin (1903–1994), a queer Soviet cabaret icon whose career was transformed by Stalinist repression. Known as the “Soviet tango king,” his powerful, lyrical voice blended traditional Russian romance with gypsy soul.
In 1944, at the height of his fame, Kozin suddenly vanished from public life. He was arrested by the Soviet secret police and charged with homosexuality, which was criminalized under Joseph Stalin’s regime. Convicted and sentenced to hard labor, Kozin became the star of the Gulag Theater of Magadan.
The details shift but the mechanisms remain. The attempt to silence certain identities is an attempt to decide whose lives are worthy of recognition.
Vadim Kozin
Near the end of our conversation, Robertson considers a thought experiment: What if tomorrow every archive disappeared? Every book. Every historical document. Every official record. What would remain?
Human storytelling.
What stories would they fight hardest to preserve?
The stories of connection and creativity. The stories of people who found ways to remain human in the face of inhuman circumstances.
“I guess what comes to mind,” Robertson says, “is that there is something in us all that connects us.”
A historian might hesitate because such a statement is difficult to prove. But Robertson has spent their life witnessing it. In Soviet archives and on theatrical stages. In classrooms and in moments of performance and vulnerability.
“There is something that does unite us at our core. And it can be seen by people of vastly different experiences.”
Perhaps that is the thread running through everything Jake Robertson does.
The historian searches the past for forgotten voices. The teacher shares knowledge across cultures. The storyteller preserves complexity. The performer creates spaces where people can be fully seen. And beneath it all is a belief that may be the most radical story of all: Even in the darkest places, human beings continue creating. They continue connecting. They continue telling one another:
Whether you’re an avid makeup connoisseur or a major Ariana Grande fan, R.E.M Beauty is an excellent makeup brand for anyone seeking high-quality, reasonably priced beauty products. As a long-time “Ariantor” myself, I decided it was long overdue to look into Grande’s beauty line. I’m pleased to report that I was thoroughly impressed by several products and am eager to share my top 5 favorites!
On Your Collar Classic Lipstick
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At the Borderline Eyeliner Marker
This waterproof liner, named after one of my favorite Grande songs, has a precise felt tip, making the application effortless and sharp. And it dries incredibly fast so you won’t need to worry about smudging. The marker comes in various colors and is perfect for creating a clean, bold wing that will last you all day.
Full Night’s Sleep Cooling Undereye Balm
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Flourishing Lengthening Mascara
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Eclipse Blush and Lipstick
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With the sleek, space-themed packaging, high quality products, and easy application, R.E.M Beauty is a worthwhile investment for your beauty bag. These top 5 selections are perfect for all occasions and formulated with impressive ingredients. Several of these products have become staples in my day-to-day routines, and I hope they will for you as well.
Comedian and trans icon Tuesday Thomas, often referred to as the “Punk Rock Dolly Parton,” is performing at the Hudson Theatres in Los Angeles on July 25. According to Thomas, “People can expect an unhinged wild ride through the lens of a character you will swear is real!”
Thomas is the subject of the award-winning documentary The Trash Goes Out On Tuesday, currently streaming on Tubi, and her comedy special Tuesday’s Trash is available on Amazon Prime. She recently wrapped a series of shows at the Hollywood Fringe Festival and hosts a monthly live comedy show, Altered Reality.
Also known as the “Tik Tok Tranma,” Thomas uses her experiences as an out trans woman to inspire others. She has been featured on VH1, MTV, E!, and BBC, and can be seen regularly at legendary venues like The Comedy Store and The Laugh Factory.
You can see her holdover show, Confessions of a Groupie or How I F’ed Jim Morrison The Night He Died but I Didn’t Kill Him on Sat, Jul 25 at 7:00 PM.
The Queerest attended Printed Matter’s exhibition ‘¡Afuera!: Publishing Queer Liberation’ at its 13th annual LA Art Book Fair, which took place from May 7 to 10, 2026, at ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena, California.
¡Afuera! marked the debut L.A. exhibition of several historical publications and print ephemera published in the 1960s and 1970s by members of three radical coalitions: New York’s Gay Liberation Front (GLF) and Third World Gay Revolution (TWGR), and Argentina’s Frente de Liberación Homosexual of Argentina (FLH). The exhibition’s rare posters, flyers, newsletters, and magazines shed light on the organizing and publishing efforts of a network of determined social, political, and cultural activists of the era.
¡Afuera! highlights the work of graphic artist Juan Carlos Vidal and poet-photographer Néstor Latrónico, gay activists who emigrated from Argentina to New York City in 1968 to find a new community. Vidal and Latrónico collaborated on illustration and graphic design for the GLF’s newspaper, Come Out!, and for the FLH’s publication Afuera and its bulletin Somos. Examples of their publications, including all issues of Somos and a mock-up cover of Come Out!, were on display.
Vidal and Latrónico used visually striking, often colorful publications to draw attention to their queer activism and their messages of intersectional liberation, anti-imperialism, and anti-capitalism. The exhibition highlights the role that artist- and community-run printing projects played in sharing resources and information among queer activists in a pre-Internet age.
Original cover mock-up of Come Out! Issue 8, Winter 1972, published by the Gay Liberation Front of New York. Courtesy Archivos Desviados.
The exhibition is drawn from the New York-based collection of Archivos Desviados, which was created by Argentinian-born archivist Juan Queiroz in 2019. The ongoing, independent archive preserves thousands of historical documents from queer movements.
Learn more at printedmatter.org/afuera, and follow Archivos Desviados on Instagram @archivosdesviados.
Every year during Pride month, there is a surge of negative reactions online (and in person) regarding who Pride is for and to what degree. This is particularly salient for kink at Pride. Posts and news stories routinely question why kink is even at Pride. Just a sampling of kink-related Pride posts I found on Instagram offered such original comments as:
“Freaks.”
“Kink gear in a public area around minors is weird though am i too woke r sum”
“Keep it in your home.”
This type of reaction is unsurprising. Virtually anything furry, kinky, or fetish-adjacent has become increasingly scrutinized amongst the LGBTQ+ community. However, this raises a question that frequently emerges in June as Pride (at least in the United States) becomes more of a focal point: Who belongs at Pride?
As celebrations, parades, and parties kick into high gear to celebrate all aspects of the LGBTQ+ community throughout the month, the kink community is a recurring, easy target.
While I am not the definitive voice in the matter by any means, the answer seems obvious to me, of course, kink belongs at Pride. Pride is for all within the LGBTQ+ community, and, surprise, surprise, there are a great number of us who also have kinks or fetishes. Additionally, there’s an exhaustive history within the LGBTQ+ community that directly addresses kinks and fetishes; there are artistic influences that go back centuries; there’s cultural heritage, and a celebration of an individual’s sexual orientation and sexual identity could be easily connected to sexual interests.
The question of kink’s place at Pride almost becomes a boring one. For most within the LGBTQ+ community (myself included), we are at least aware of the histories of our community more so than those on the periphery of the community. Even the most supportive of allies may draw a blank if questioned about Tom of Finland, Saint Sebastian, or Saint Andrew and his cross.
There will always be outrage about displays at Pride events, regardless of whether kink is there or not. A completely “vanilla” Pride event would still be derided by those with preconceived notions and deeply embedded homophobia. If someone already has a distrust or negative view of anything even remotely queer-related, they will find a means to continue advocating for that hate. Suppressing displays of kink, then, in an attempt at appeasement, is a fruitless and even regressive endeavor.
But what about individuals who are enthusiastic about Pride, allyship, or who may be in the LGBTQ+ community itself, but are uninterested in or even disturbed by kink? Shouldn’t we, as a welcoming community, then at least accommodate those who would otherwise be open but could be uncomfortable seeing, say, a rubber gimp or a leather daddy?
(Insert The Simpsons, “Won’t someone please think of the children?”)
Or worse! The corporate sponsors! After all, we cannot have a pup on all fours in front of a Raytheon float.
The point of Pride is not to make everyone completely comfortable. It never will be, nor ever should be. Pride’s origins as a political movement in the 1960s and 70s—alongside Stonewall, “Gay is Good,” and the Christopher Street Liberation Day—were to equate living one’s authentic self without shame. That act may itself make people—particularly outsiders of the community—uncomfortable.
As a commemoration of the first Stonewall Riot, “Pride” as a term was coined by L. Craig Schoonmaker as a means to counteract the immense social shame directed at the LGBTQ+ community. Schoonmaker said, “The poison was shame, and the antidote [was] pride.” At the time, people were “very repressed, they were conflicted internally and didn’t know how to come out and be proud. That’s how the movement was most useful, because they thought, ‘Maybe I should be proud’”
Isn’t then the truest essence of Pride being able to showcase one’s kink and fetish interests without the often-internal conflict associated with enjoying them?
Many kinks are still derided and ridiculed today, even by members of the LGBTQ+ community. It can be easy to point and mock kinks and individuals who engage in them. Look at the reaction to former Department of Homeland Security Advisor Kristi Noem’s husband, Bryon, and the revelation of his “bimboification” kink. This is a type of role-playing in which someone pretends to be a stereotypical bimbo or Barbie doll. The ridicule can focus on the hypocrisy associated with the Noems and their rampant animosity towards the LGBTQ+ community (particularly the trans community), but shouldn’t be towards the kink itself. But that level of nuance in discussion is often ignored.
This can then lead many (arguably most) people to keep their own kink and fetish interests fiercely private, to avoid ridicule or ostracization. This itself can have a ripple effect, as these individuals remain unaware of how many others share those interests and how safe it can be to explore between consenting adults. From bondage to gear to roleplaying, there’s no shortage of kinks for everyone interested. But many do not believe they can or should engage in these. Where else but at a Pride celebration could one in this situation learn more about kinks and meet those who could illuminate them?
As for the ‘keep it to the bedroom’ argument with kink, Pride provides safety in numbers. Many people just starting to dip their toes into kink could risk physical or emotional harm with someone else who may lack proper knowledge or expertise in some kinks, such as bondage or impact play, in an isolated setting. Demonstrations, educational courses, and communal settings serve as ideal places to ask questions, engage, be curious, and reduce taboos. In today’s often reactionary world, Pride can be one of the few genuine opportunities people have for this.
Individuals who have the chance to showcase kinks and genuine interest or curiosity at Pride can learn a great deal about themselves, too, and become all the more personally courageous and introspective as a result.
On a personal note, after a few years of skipping Pride celebrations, in 2022, I returned to Pride celebrations, given that a former high school classmate of mine had been arrested as part of a thwarted white supremacist riot at an Idaho-based Pride celebration. I had known him for years, had gone to lunches with him with classmates and other friends, and was shocked and horrified to see this white nationalist turn and vitriol towards Pride.
So, I got a rubber tank top, some splashy pants, and even some impressive leather boots, and strutted my stuff at Denver Pride. If for nothing else than to show, this was a hell of a lot better look than whatever lame tough guy cosplay these hate-mongers would ever hope to wear. But in a more real sense, I did it because I wanted to be proud of who I was and could be. That is the core of Pride’s existence. No matter what hate, ridicule, or mockery countless others may throw, Pride should be a beacon of hope for self-expression.
