“So I’m very much enjoying this,” I said in a group text to a pair of dear friends as I began to watch Our Flag Means Death for the first time, “and there is some very queer queerness happening. But I just have to know. Do we get something on screen? I cannot get my hopes up again.”
What comes is a flood of reassurances that could be interpreted as mostly screaming. “I’m trusting you…” I say, only two episodes in and still wary, a lifetime of queerbaiting dragging me down like an anchor tied around my legs. “I can’t let my heart be hurt. I am so starved.” One of my friends said, “This is a meal.” The other, “It is a FEAST.”
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