Dearest Flippy,

I walked into the Elder laundry room today, sulking about my inability to get laid in the past month. The room’s heat was the closest I’d gotten to human warmth in forever. It was then that I saw her: the most beautiful girl imaginable (by which I mean the first girl in over four weeks to come closer to me than the recommended six feet).

I saw fireworks. I don’t know if it was me or the Evanston humidity seeping through the walls, but it was getting hot in there. Just as I was about to ask her to go to my room, she glanced at my laundry basket and the open dryer door I was standing next to. She leaned in, whispering just ever so seductively, “Is that clothes yours?”

Excited to continue any kind of conversation with her, I pulled out my rad shirts, showing her my Girl in Red merch and quirky button ups. Before I knew it, I had run out of cool gay fits to showcase, and, embarrassed by my cishet clothing, I pulled the last of the clothes out of the dryer in a single swoop. My unnamed lover didn’t bat an eye: she threw in her soggy socks into the emptied machine and walked out.

Flippy, was she being mysterious and sexy, or was she leading me on?

With love,

A down-bad d*ke

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Dear girl-whose-derogatory-name-I-am-not-allowed-to-repeat,

I didn’t realize queerbaiting could happen during in-person interactions, but you, love, have been a victim of this very crime. You are most definitely never seeing that girl again. Even if she were to cross your path again, she will probably have her socks back on, and anything she decides to do by then will not be gay.

Maybe the Rainbow Alliance gays are a safer option?

Get well soon,

Flippy