Starbucks

My official label as a gay man
is a lot like a Starbucks drink order.
I can already see the barista
yelling over the counter.
“Cis gay Asian bear,
a shot of geekiness,
extra vanilla,
no kinks.”
It’s excessive, I know, but I’m happy with it.
Then the Barista squints
at the name on the cup.
“For… Pablo?”
It’s Paulo.
Fuck.
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