My son,
By the time you read this, I will be dead. They came from out of the Wests: Hollywood and the Village. Their underwear was so expensive, and their hair was only on their heads. Son, their skin was so creamy that we did not see their teeth. The twinks devoured all they saw.
(Not “devoured” in a sense of eating. Occasionally, the twinks would pick off someone else’s plate, but other than that no one ever saw them eat.)
They came for the women first. They were “gross,” the twinks said. The old were next; they were also “gross.” Then, that guy who works the door at Calypso’s, because “he was such a dick.” Finally, they came for us: the daddies. The hottest of us were put to use, sexually, and the richest were used financially. The rest, myself included, were forced to work in the lube mines.
It was the Age of the Twink, my son.
They came for us in the middle of the night, or at around ten in the morning when they got home from the clubs. I tried to fight them off, but their skin was so smooth I could find no handhold. A busload of us were brought to the fields. Our assignment: to “grow electricity, or build it, or whatever.” The twinks are not mechanically inclined, but require massive amounts of power for their EDM festivals and to maintain the Grindr servers.
We have been given no food. Just random pills and shirts that are too tight. I do not have much longer. The daddies talk about an island that the twinks did not invade, as they can drink and fuck and take pictures of themselves on boats, but not pilot them. I choose to believe in the island. Perhaps one day I will see you there.
They blew it all to hell. Goddamn them all, they blew it all to hell
Love,
Kevin James
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