There are a lot of motivational posts on Colby Melvin’s Facebook page these days.
Memes about being kind to yourself, pulling yourself out of dark places, reasons for getting sober.
Sober? Yep. America’s 31-year-old underwear sweetheart, businessman, entrepreneur, the man who can pull off a jockstrap, literally, and still look as innocent as his baby blue eyes—or are they green, hazel, gray? Aye, there’s his mischievous rub—is back from a rough couple of years of depression, despair, and drugs.
He’s also ready to talk, his voice something he’s never been afraid to use.
Speaking to Colby on the phone in Louisiana, where he now lives, again, with the parents who raised him, he didn’t shy away from a single question or tell me any subject was off-limits.
If he bared anything to Queerty, this time it was his soul.
A variety of things. It started a few years ago. There’s something about being in the public eye. Your life becomes public property. Everyone is criticizing or weighing in or judging. It’s hard for it not to get to you.
After years of stardom, Barbra Streisand Opens a New Window. has finally revealed her secretly rough relationship with her mother, who died in 2002.
The famed singer, actress, and director, now 76, told the Daily Mail Opens a New Window. that after her father Emanuel died of an accidental morphine overdose when she was only 15 months old, her mom Diana had to care for her alone.
“I think there are parents who don’t really like themselves,” Streisand remarked in the new interview.
“They don’t like their offspring either. My mother meant well. She loved me as best she could. She had dreams of her own and she wanted to be a singer. She was jealous, and that was staggering for me to learn.”
Billy Porter has enjoyed a long career on Broadway and in film and television, appearing in hit TV shows like American Horror Story, Pose, and Law & Order, as well as films like The First Wives Club and The Broken Hearts Club.
Now, in a graphic new op-ed published by Out, the 49-year-old performer opens up about the years of sexual abuse he suffered at the hands of his stepdad.
“There were no words at first,” Porter writes. “But then he began cuddling me. Spooning me. Innocent enough, right?”
There’s a way to burst through the shame gay men are made to feel about homosexuality.
I was 19 when I first had full-on sex with another man. I was at college, living in dorms, and the experience—aside from the usual horrifying awkwardness and somewhat spontaneity of the occasion—was completely and utterly unremarkable aside from one thing: the guy I slept with identified as straight.
In the mid-1990s, Drew Dixon was an up-and-coming music executive for Def Jam Recordings, helping to produce chart-topping hits with big-name artists like Mary J. Blige, 2Pac, Dr. Dre, and Method Man. “I felt like I’d won the lottery,” she said. “It was my dream job.”
But Dixon said she soon became the victim of persistent, nightmarish sexual harassment from the man she once placed on her vision board: music mogul Russell Simmons, her boss.
“He would come in my office, shut the door, lock it, and push me against the wall, expose himself,” Dixon told Audie Cornish in an episode of BuzzFeed News’ Facebook Watch show Profile that aired Sunday night — her first on-camera interview discussing the alleged sexual assault.
My mother tried to stab Magdalena with a steak knife. There, I said it.
For years I’ve wondered if I might have imagined the moment when my mother picked up the knife she’d been using to saw through a not-quite-defrosted Entenmanns’ coffee cake and attempted to plunge it into the flesh of my good friend and occasional lover Magdalena.
Before I went to college, I was closeted. I barely count those eighteen years as part of life. Why would I? That wasn't me — not really. The most interesting places I've lived — Zambia, South Africa, London — happened during that time, and those experiences were wasted on someone with no cognizance, no words yet. In high school, the only person I knew who was like me was a punk — a mean lesbian with spike collars and pink hair. She teased me outside the lunchroom. I know she had to be tough — ours was a private Christian school with 200 students, and she was out.
In time, she softened. She said hey to me. Then she graduated and disappeared. A few years later, I learned that she transitioned. Dae found his truth, came out as transgender and found his queer family in a city not far from there. We are still friends today. While our journeys are different, we both more or less found the things we needed — the right words to call ourselves, the chosen families we belonged in — at the same time. Dae has become a remarkably handsome man, and in many ways, he was my first sign that others were out there — back when I simply knew I was "other" and that was all I had.
Other sexy trans men came later — casual hookups and kinky playmates — who taught me some of my most important lessons about being queer. Here are some of them.
His full name, Scotty Bowers, appeared in 2012 on the cover of his autobiography, Full Service: My Adventures in Hollywood and the Secret Sex Lives of the Stars, co-written with Lionel Friedberg and produced by literary agent David Kuhn, a former V.F. editor under Tina Brown. The book alternated chapters of Scotty’s valiant service in the Marines during World War II with chapters of his sexual exploits with his clients and close friends in the film industry. His long, startling list included, in addition to Tracy and Hepburn, Cary Grant, Tyrone Power, Rock Hudson, Charles Laughton, Raymond Burr, Vincent Price, Cole Porter, and Vivien Leigh.
As we prepare to celebrate Pride in San Diego, a city with the world's busiest border crossing, we would be remiss if we failed to recognize and proactively address the polarizing political climate and xenophobia currently impacting this nation. Discrimination and violence against the LGBTQ community and other marginalized people are on the rise. Those of us whose lives rest on the intersection of multiple minority communities know all too well how bad things have gotten. Even within sections of our own communities, we’re told we are too brown or too queer.
I am a first-generation U.S. citizen, born to a Jewish mother, whose family emigrated to the U.S. to escape persecution, and a Catholic Mexican father, whose family came to this country for a better life, only to spend much of it working in the fields of California. While I was growing up, my parents did their best to prepare me for the discrimination I would face because I was “mixed,” but what they were less prepared for was a queer son who loved dresses more than G.I. Joe.
I love my queer community, I really do. There is something comforting and reassuring about a community of misfits all of whom share that familiar thread of stories of shame, ostracism and harassment.
You can exchange those frustrated looks when a cisgender person loudly asks “but how do you really know you’re that gender?” You can reminisce together about all the former crushes you used to keep secret, or about your first “gay movie.” My queer community is a little reprieve away from a world that views straight and cisgender people as the default.
So it’s all the more heartbreaking when I find myself behind rows of barriers to access that community.
I’m not only queer, but I’m also disabled and neurodivergent. I walk with a crutch most days, and I experience chronic pain. And it bumps up the difficulty level for having real-life queer friendships just a little bit.
“It was not as hard as I expected it to be,” Uggams says. “I think the reason is that Grahame was not an American white man. But of course we did get mail.”
Grahame came into Uggams’ life when she was a full-fledged star, with a Tony award under her belt for her debut Broadway performance, and a run on NBC’s Sing Along with Mitch, making her the first black woman featured on a weekly national prime-time series, already behind her.