Gay Kin

The necessity of queer mentors and family

This post for paid-subscribers is a working excerpt from my book about the Black Madonna and my life with Her. Want more? Join the party and up your level to paid.

One of my yearly reads.

A little background: In my mid-twenties, I met a true-blue mentor at a big, goddess-worshipping witch camp. Below are two excerpts related to that time of my life: 1. When I met my mentor, and 2. The first time I visited his home in Minneapolis.

It was August, and I was 24. I'd learned about the week-long event from a few acquaintances in D.C., who generously helped a broke-ass actor pay the fee to attend. Windows rolled down, blasting the soundtrack to Hedwig and the Angry Inch, I sped through the wooded hills until I reached Buffalo Gap, a large campground with space to tent (absolutely not), cabins (I'm a lady, thank you), a dining hall, and in a clearing a large pavilion, open-sided, its canopy hung with twinkling Christmas lights. I stuffed every scarf, every pair of booty shorts, every bit of costume jewelry I owned into my car, including, presciently, it turned out, my tackle box of stage makeup.