Wait, what.

Queer Fiction. It wasn’t a requirement aside from fulfilling my 5 or so “whaddeva u want” 200/300 level English course, but it was pretty great. I loved my professor, it was my third class with him. 

The novels were often sordid as hell which I LOVED, and almost always great reads. Like, yo, read Dennis Cooper’s “Try” if you want to read about constant pedophilia, murder and gay adoptive incest! It’s nuts! And awful! But oh my god, it’s impossible to put down!

You will never think of the word “spicy” again after reading it described as the smell of a teenager’s anal cavity while his gay, adoptive father rims him.

I also learned a brief overview of gay history. It was only then that I realized that I had never been taught queer history in my public school system growing up, which is equal parts sad and expected. 

The class body was thumbs up all around, too. A very inviting and intelligent group of people. Even the people I hated, I respected and didn’t even hate all that much. I just need to hate someone every class, you know? It’s truthfully the only class I didn’t watch the clock and thoroughly enjoyed attending, and it was 2 and a half hours long every Tuesday.