Vignette: Rage.

Picture of some suitbro from the depths of Tumblr. I'm imagining that he thinks he's straight, and thinks he can't wait to have his politics pounded out of him. And that' is precisely what he deserves.

A little sketch about what it's like to be attracted to guys who turn out to be homophobic dickheads. What do we do when the guys who turn us on also happen to be the guys who wish our community harm?

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To the smug little conservative asshole

With your prim little double windsor in a sad, grey herringbone,

Your sad grey pinstripe suit, your sad grey milquetoast moderation

And your sad grey pleas about sad grey bothsidesism and sad grey old dead white men,

with your timid little white pocket square, your middle-of-the-road tan laceups, your navy dress socks—not too sheer, since you don't want to seem gay—and with the way your suit shrinks on your frame as though lacking sufficient fabric even to cover your cuffs,

I want to see your smug little grin break around my cock, shoved through your lips, tie wrenched like a leash in my gloved fist, shirt buttons buckling as I wrestle you under heel, seams straining

in the vain effort of your attire to resist my desires, in the vain effort of your vanity to keep up your prim little appearances.

I'll take a glittered wrecking ball to your whole worldview

and your ass. You won't be wearing those trousers again, rent in half and tumbling down you thighs.

I'll show you a world governed by violence. This is what you wanted, isn't it? Heterophobic rage. Your smug little corporate uniform gives you no power here: only submission, sartorial armor sundered to shreds,

Like all the smug little layers of your wealth, your education, your accomplishments. Stolen spoils, stolen from generations of queers who have suffered your existence. We've suffered you long enough.

All of your suits, really: insufferable, bland. I'll reduce them to tatters, use them as cumrags, and discard them like spent condoms. Your beliefs are your ties: silk condoms for me to fuck up and destroy. And when you reach the pit of your submission —plummet deep down inside yourself—

oh, you never knew you could reach that deep in you, did you?—you never knew there was that much depth beneath all your smugness, your beliefs, your stupidity, your denial, your denial, your denial—you wanted this deep down, didn't you? —and deeper still, you loathe yourself—and now you know, and now you understand, what it is like to submit to someone who has lived a truly free life that some stupid rightwing dumbfuck like you will never comprehend—never until now, submitting, reaching deeper, submitting, letting go, submitting, losing control, submitting, submitting, submitting—

—you'll squeal and you'll whine, your lips sputtering against the leathered palm of my gloved hand, a hand gag wrenching tighter, clutching your jaw against your skull, reducing all your stupid dumbfuck beliefs into inchoate moans, which is what they were all along. Half-baked stupidity, vanity. Just like what you thought of yourself when you slipped on your stupid bigboy suit this morning. Do you feel like a big boy yet, big boy? I'll make you bigger once I wreck that empty hole of yours, and leave it full.

I cum first. But you—oh, no—your wrists are still entwined behind your back, ensnared in courses of rope, coils and coils twisting around, crushing your french cuffs against your cufflinks as I shred and destroy your outfit. You're hogtied to this bed, big boy, and there's nothing you can do about it. You can't even cry for help. And you can't pleasure yourself. You can't cum, not without my permission. And you're going to have to whine a whole lot harder to get it.

I plant my gleaming shoe on your ass, where the tattered shell of your trousers falls away from your cheeks. Your asshole is no different from your mouth: both full of cum, both full of shit. And, gripping your lips again, cupping them in my gloved hand, I'll lean in close to your ear, smirking into your muffled moans, And I'll whisper — "You'll thank me for this."