based on true events
In front of Stonewall Inn, we stand—my roommate, Dimitri, and me. In my black-and- gray, white-and-purple t-shirt, I’m trying different poses, each slightly sillier than the next. My reluctant photographer, Dimitri is gradually yet clearly growing impatient. It doesn’t help that my phone is an Android, and he has only ever used an iPhone.
“I think we have enough pictures,” he says, a tinge of irritation in his voice.
“Just one more,” I plead, then pose like a model at a photo shoot—back to wall, leg bent and raised, head titled upward, back of hand to forehead.
My roommate rolls his eyes. I know he’s not really annoyed, just Dimitri-level annoyed.
I hear the camera click.
“All right.” Dimitri sighs. “We good?”
I nod, returning to my normal posture.
Dimitri hands me back my Android. “I just don’t understand why you need so many pictures; it’s not like you’re gonna save them for posterity.”
“Some aces do have children.”
“Well, if you ever plan to be one that does,” he says in an authoritative tone, “you need to get on a dating app.”
“Oh, I will…if they ever make an ace-specific one.”
“I do think you need to cast a wider net. Maybe there’s an allo for you out there.” He shrugs. “Who knows?”
Though I’ve told my roommate of my bad dates—ones in which I early on disclosed my sexual identity (or, rather, the lack thereof), only to have them immediately stand and walk out of the bar, café, or restaurant—I’m not yet ready to share with him the worst ones—ones in which my dates successfully (though not easily) convinced me to go back to their places, only for them to unsuccessfully try to seduce me, all the while knowing I wasn’t interested. On those occasions, I would be the one to get up and leave.
“Ready?” Dimitri asks, holding the door to the bar for me.
“Always,” I say, winking. As I enter the entrance to Stonewall, I turn to my roommate. “You gonna behave yourself tonight?”
He smirks. “Andrew doesn’t need to know everything.”
On the second floor of the bar, Dimitri is dancing with another guy, hands around waist, kissing intermittently yet passionately. An arm’s length away from them, I smirk and shake my head, rolling my eyes. Why am I not surprised? On the stage, Miss Destruction is vocally and kinetically tearing it up to Lady Gaga’s “Applause.” Bass boosted, I can feel the vibrations through my body. Ba-dum, bad-dum, bad-dum. Compared to Dimitri’s moves, mine are earnest though admittedly awkward. I don’t care, though. At this moment, I’m more excited than anything. And grateful. And proud. Proud to be here. Proud of myself. Proud of the progress I’ve made: from homophobe to ally, from ally to publicly out as an ace. Maybe my mother will eventually come around. Maybe not. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe all that matters now is this. Suddenly, Miss Destruction leaps off the stage to where Dimitri, his lover, and I are. Up close, she is even a greater sight to behold—sky-high heels; fishnets; a bright, colorful jumpsuit; an equally bright, feathery boa, heavy yet artful makeup. She holds out the microphone to my roommate. About as good a singer as I’m a dancer, Dimitri and his lover belt out the notes. When she offers me the microphone, Miss Destruction places her boa around my neck, as if knighting me. The crowd erupts. Sharing the microphone, she and I sing together. I dance even more fervently, as does Dimitri and his lover (albeit significantly better). A crowd, which has begun to form around us, cheers the three of us on. Right now, I feel completely and unapologetically brave. Maybe, just maybe, I am. I think so through the rest of the song. I think so through the rest of the evening. I think so until I wake up late the next day and check the ping on my phone. And gasp. And feel my eyes brim with tears. And curl back into bed. And cry until I can no more.
Jonathan Fletcher holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Columbia University School of the Arts. His work has been featured in numerous literary journals and magazines, and he has won or placed in various literary contests. A Pushcart Prize nominee, he won Northwestern University Press’s Drinking Gourd Chapbook Poetry Prize contest in 2023, for which he will have his debut chapbook, This is My Body, published in 2025. Currently, he serves as a Zoeglossia Fellow and lives in San Antonio, Texas.
Flash Feature April 2021
Rough Diamond Poetry 