GOLDEN GAYTEKEEPING

Words by Faguerreotype @faguerreotype_

Illustration by Contributor who prefers to remain anonymous

Erets: The Realm of the Dead. And death came for you at Penn Station - a death hungry for smaller deaths - a death that happens every time one leaves Manhattan.

Burāq arrives exactly on time and you rush to meet him, carried off to Paradise in his steely embrace, and he punches your ticket and proclaims, “Change at Babylon.”

But where is Beatrice to guide you?

A tunnel rushing towards a light. Harlem. The city gives way to the less-city as you try to remember (but also forget) whether it’s the LIRR or NJT train line is the one that crashes. You decide it’s the other one.

A fast transfer, a rush for better seats, exit at Sayville, a crush of bodies, cash changes hands, bussing through a small town (Is it Lethe? I forget), pay the ferryman to cross the River Styx, and now we’re cruising.

Mount Olympus is visible in the distance. A chorus of angels cheers on your arrival, beckoning you onward towards Valhalla. Your anticipation builds. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous men glistening, their barely-clad forms frolicing in Gay Edun.

Hetero-townies guide you off the ferry as you are greeted by a sun-weathered elder wearing a sarong made of golden feathers “Beware, Day-tripper: to attain Englightenment and the highest Loka you must answer the riddle of the Sphynxter.”

And in a booming voice that shakes the clouds, Saint Peter sayeth unto thee:

Erets: The Realm of the Dead. And death came for you at Penn Station - a death hungry for smaller deaths - a death that happens every time one leaves Manhattan.

Burāq arrives exactly on time and you rush to meet him, carried off to Paradise in his steely embrace, and he punches your ticket and proclaims, “Change at Babylon.”

But where is Beatrice to guide you?

A tunnel rushing towards a light. Harlem. The city gives way to the less-city as you try to remember (but also forget) whether it’s the LIRR or NJT train line is the one that crashes. You decide it’s the

A fast transfer, a rush for better seats, exit at Sayville, a crush of bodies, cash changes hands, bussing through a small town (Is it Lethe? I forget), pay the ferryman to cross the River Styx, and now we’re cruising.

Mount Olympus is visible in the distance. A chorus of angels cheers on your arrival, beckoning you onward towards Valhalla. Your anticipation builds. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous men glistening, their barely-clad forms frolicing in Gay

Hetero-townies guide you off the ferry as you are greeted by a sun-weathered elder wearing a sarong made of golden feathers “Beware, Day-tripper: to attain Englightenment and the highest Loka you must answer the riddle of the

And in a booming voice that shakes the clouds, Saint Peter sayeth unto thee: sup? pics?

body? hung? masc? cis? white? clean? gen? neg? bb? top? host? parTy?

hey? u there? ...?

sorry no fat no femme no black no asian. just a preference

“You have chosen poorly,” laments the knight from The Last Crusade.

The Gates to Eternity are closed to you. St. Peter grabs a sweaty twink by the bum and saunters back to Tea.

A rather dashing Deva takes you aside and explains that you’re entry to Heaven had been denied. You may wait in the Meatrack until the last ferry, the Dickdock is full.

As you flip-flop away down the boardwalk wondering how long your phone charge will last, The Sphinxter, disguised as a deer, turns to you and whispers their riddle:

“If safe spaces are guarded by Gaytekeeping, what makes you too threatening to enter?”