When Ariel Fristoe and her family moved into the Historic King District in downtown Atlanta, she had no idea how segregated her world was.

The Agnostic child of theater parents, she grew up around and regularly interacted with people from different backgrounds. However, her engagement in investigating and identifying systemic racism and inequality was few and far between. She never had to think much about what was happening with her neighbors.

"My home base has been Charis my entire life."

That is not hyperbole. Since he was 15, ER Anderson has taken up space at the beloved bookstore.

His mother introduced him to Charis. A licensed therapist, she was acutely aware that her child was struggling. He had not yet identified as transgender, but his mother discerned her child needed an outlet.

Growing up in Rome, Georgia, and raised by a United Methodist Church minister, Lama Rod Owens always understood the importance of service and community.

Josh Penny has always been more motivated when seeing how something impacts another person versus how it affects him.

"It's something my therapist has been trying to get me to work on," he said.

In his role as director of social impact for Hinge, he is responsible for figuring out how to help users connect with others. His role is to help users form healthy relationships by providing them with the habits and skills needed to do so.

The more Sophia Hussen, MD, MPH learned about HIV, the more she felt compelled to provide care, support, and understanding about those living with the disease.

An associate professor in the Rollins School of Public Health at Emory University, she doesn't just spin her wheels in the academy's ivory tower. She mixes advocacy with activism, pairing her commitment to research with her practice as a physician in the HIV Clinic at Grady Memorial Hospital.

DeMicha Luster's community organizing work began unexpectedly.

"I was doing some work for a local non-profit when someone asked me why they hadn't seen me at any of the NPU [Neighborhood Planning Unit] or civic association meetings," she said. "I took the hint and started attending."

Eventually, people noticed she was the only person under 30 attending the meetings. That made her the ideal candidate to organize a potential field trip.

"Someone donated passes to Six Flags, and so, it was suggested that I take 35 kids from the community," she added.

All she had to do was figure out how to get the kids there. And, of course, get their parents' permission.

Anyone raised in Atlanta understands, to some extent, the magnitude of such a task. First, she had to find the kids willing to go. That's not too hard. For many kids, taking a trip to Six Flags is a treat. But funding and transportation for kids of a certain age and socio-economic background can be challenging. Then there is another issue altogether – trust. Many of the kids didn't know her or their parents. Even though it's been years since the Atlanta Childhood Murders, the scars are still visible for some. She was a stranger and had some convincing to do.

The most painful symptom during my two-week bout with monkeypox has been the grim understanding that if this were a different era, and the arrival of a different epidemic, any column or essay I wrote about my experience with the illness might’ve been among my last words.

I grieve thinking of how many of our gay ancestors attended a Sunday kickback like the one I went to a couple of weekends ago, played dominoes and laughed at memories; announced goals and made plans for getaways; attributed the queasiness they felt after the gathering to having drank too much on an empty stomach; went a couple of days expecting their sickness to pass, only for those at the kickback to soon learn that their friend was dead.

My sickness seems to be passing, and I’m operating under the assumption that this current outbreak does not have a 100 percent fatality rate or lifelong consequences. However, as a gay man who came of age in the 1980s and ‘90s, I feel the terror of being in the first wave of an emerging epidemic. I’ve spent my adulthood in the fast lane and have always recognized it could lead to early exposure to previously unknown threats, but it’s sobering when you find yourself in a situation that could’ve led to a fiery crash. Fortunately, it has felt more like getting a flat tire, as my monkeypox infection has been relatively mild.

Takia Canty, 40, is aware that lesbians have a reputation for moving quickly into relationships. She hadn’t dated her then-girlfriend Nastassja Canty, 38, a full month before she was certain that Nastassja would be her wife. To many onlookers, their relationship appeared to be moving at lightning speed, but for the Canty’s, the whirlwind romance that led them down the aisle in an intimate Las Vegas ceremony in June—after being introduced by a mutual acquaintance in 2004—and then losing contact for 17 years, felt like fate.

“It was an underlying attraction between us that we never played on,” said Takia, who tells The Reckoning that both women were in relationships when they initially met but waited until those relationships ended before they explored their mutual attraction.

“And then I kind of slid in her DM, maybe three or four years later. But I was tipsy,” Takia jokingly recalls.

The DM from Takia to Nastassja (pronounced N ah - S t ah - S ee - ah) was short. She simply wrote: “Missing you.”

Sandwiched in an alleyway on the northeast side of Washington D.C., Black queer, gay, and lesbian artists like Wayson Jones cultivated fertile ground in a coffeehouse. What they did in the cramped space is the stuff of legends, yet the coffeehouse is long gone—much like the city of old. A documentary recently released online captures what the coffeehouse meant—and continues to mean—to Washington, D.C. as well as to Black and queer histories.

"Fierceness Served! The ENIKAlley Coffeehouse" has been making its rounds at select screenings. The ENIKAlley Coffeehouse was a performance and rehearsal space for a cohort of artists, a gathering spot; plus a meeting place for political organizations. This was almost hallowed ground for Black artists to share and workshop their craft. Jones, Essex Hemphill, Cheryl Clarke, Audre Lorde, Blackberry, Casselberry-Dupree, and Pomo Afro Homos all stepped foot into the former carriage house-turned-coffeehouse between 8th, 9th, I, and K Streets, NE. The space at 816 Eye Street, NE was brick, the size of a large walk-in closet, but had great acoustics.

"The intimacy lent itself to that feeling of being part of the family," Jones said.

The film "Fierceness Served! The ENIKAlley Coffeehouse," celebrates this time.

These men are taking their pleasure into their own hands.

While this reality may not be revolutionary, especially considering the data from one study that suggests 92% of American men masturbate, these three Black gay men are doing two things the majority of the population refuse to do—they’re talking openly about their masturbatory practices, with two of the three men exclusively identifying as solosexual—individuals who prefer masturbation (or “bating” as it’s commonly called) over other forms of sexual activity. For these men, and perhaps, many more like them, getting off solo is not a substitution for “the real thing,” their sex lives are real and so are the mind-blowing orgasms they experience multiple times a day.

If Kipper Jones, 59, could go back in time to give himself advice, the celebrated songwriter and vocalist says he would simply say, “don’t be afraid.” For the man who famously penned hits for Vanessa Williams (“The Right Stuff,” “Comfort Zone'') and Brandy (“I Wanna Be Down,” “Brokenhearted”) that catapulted their careers and made them superstars, Jones has spent most his life running towards success and running away from himself. As a self-identified same-gender-loving man, Jones often wrote about love in songs that shot up the Billboard Hot 100 chart, while denying himself the experiences in his lyrics.