I summon slumber parties of dykes and queers. We steal frat columns to be bandaged or burned while singing new rituals of care. Under stars we maypole our gay asses around and around, demanding that systems of harm will one day topple. The moon is our guide, candles light the way, and the slip slop drip drop is our communion wine. We make our own spaces in this binary bleakness; we are stewards of pleasure shedding shame. Queers make new maps without borders, imagining a world where gender is expansive and hegemonic masculinity is a thing of the past. Until then, Dykesthetics is here to soften the blow, to make the cold warm, reminding us of the power in

slop

touch

failure

softness

and fisting.