“Do you believe in The Rapture?” That’s what the distressed Baptist mom from Alabama asked me at her daughter’s gay wedding. I remember liking her. Guess that was her awkward attempt at an icebreaker. Or was it a shibboleth? A warm smile spread across my face as I dreamily recalled that magical moment when DeSweetie spotted Jenny on the dance floor in 1722. “Rapture” was playing. “Yes, ma’am. I do.”
Chasing rainbows and driving on a highway to heaven up and down the emerald hills and misty mountains of New England. Oh, Vermont, Vermont, nobody does green quite like you! We’re on our yearly pilgrimage to the sacred sands of Rye Beach, where Anna-Liisa’s ancestors have been sunning themselves for generations. Just as people from Jersey refer to New York as The City, my wife’s people refer to Rye as The Beach. Charms me to no end, this deep connection to space and place; it’s like getting a homemade gift, covered in fingerprints and kisses.
—John Faithful Hamer, The Myth of the Fuckbuddy (2016)