I step into the leadership of the National Minority AIDS Council at a time of both extraordinary possibility and profound peril. We are living in a moment where science has given us the tools to end HIV as a public health threat—PrEP, PEP, U=U, long-acting injectables, and decades of research that have transformed what was once a death sentence into a manageable condition. And yet, the systems meant to deliver these tools are under siege.

Public health is being politicized. Science is being undermined. Civil and human rights are being rolled back. The safety and security of LGBTQ+ people—especially Black and Brown queer and trans folks—are increasingly fragile. In some states, even saying the word “gay” in a classroom is considered controversial. In others, access to gender-affirming care is being stripped away. And all the while, HIV continues to disproportionately impact communities that have been historically marginalized and medically neglected.

So yes, I step into this role with a sense of urgency. But I also step in with pride. Because I know what it means to be underestimated. I know what it means to be told you don’t belong. As a Black, church-going, gay boy from the South Side of Chicago, I grew up in a world that didn’t always see me, didn’t always protect me, and certainly didn’t expect me to lead a national movement. But here I am. And I’m not alone.

I carry with me the legacy of those who came before—of Marsha P. Johnson and Bayard Rustin, of Magic Johnson and Ryan White, of the activists who lay down in the streets and shouted “Silence = Death” until the world finally listened. I carry the wisdom of Black grandmothers who raised generations through grief and grit. I carry the fire of young people who refuse to be silent, who organize, who vote, who demand better.

At NMAC, we are not just fighting a virus, we are fighting the systems that allow it to thrive. We are fighting racism in healthcare, transphobia in policy, and stigma in every corner of society. We are fighting for Black and Brown communities, for LGBTQ+ youth, for aging people living with HIV who deserve dignity, not invisibility.

This is not just a job, it’s a calling. And it’s a call to action for all of us.

We must raise our voices louder than the attacks. We must claim space in rooms that were never built for us. We must demand funding that reflects the urgency of our communities’ needs. We must protect the programs that work—like Ryan White, HOPWA, and PEPFAR—and expand access to innovations like long-acting PrEP.

We must also tell the truth: that ending the HIV epidemic is not just a scientific challenge, it’s a justice challenge. It requires confronting poverty, housing insecurity, criminalization, and the erosion of civil rights. It requires centering people who live at the intersection of multiple oppressions. It requires love, radical empathy, and unapologetic leadership.

I am ready to lead. But I cannot do it alone.

To every activist, provider, policymaker, and person living with HIV: this is your movement too. Your voice matters. Your story matters. Your survival is revolutionary.

Let’s build a future where HIV is no longer a threat—not because we ignored it, but because we faced it head-on. Let’s build a future where public health is protected, science is respected, and every person—regardless of race, gender, or sexuality—can live with dignity and thrive.

Let’s build it together.

Harold Phillips is incoming CEO of National Minority AIDS Council. 

September is Suicide Prevention Month, a time to address often-ignored painful truths and readdress what proactivity looks like. For those of us who have lost someone they love to suicide, prevention is not just another campaign. It is a constant pang that stays.

To lose someone you love to suicide is to have the color in your life dimmed. It is beyond language. Nothing one can type, nothing one can say to a therapist, no words can ever convey this new brand of hurting we never imagined before. It is an open cut so deep that it never truly, fully heals.  

Nothing in this world is comparable to witnessing someone you love making the decision to end their life because they would rather not be than to be here. Whether “here” means here in this time, here in this place, or here in a life that has come to feel utterly devoid of other options, of hope, or of help, the decision to leave often comes from a place of staggering pain and a resounding need to be heard. The sense of having no autonomy, of being trapped inside pressure so immense it compresses the will to live, is no rarity. It is a very real struggle that so many adolescents and young adults carry the weight of every day.

Many folks in our country claim to uphold the sanctity of human life.  But if that claim holds any validity or moral grounding, it would have to start with protecting the lives of our youth. Not only preventing their deaths but affirming and improving the quality of their lives. We need to recognize and respond to the reality that for too many adolescents and teenagers, especially those who are marginalized and chronically underserved, life does not feel so sacred. It feels damn near impossible.

Today, suicide is the second leading cause of death for Americans ages 10 to 24. That rate has almost doubled since 2007. Among queer-identifying youth, the statistics are crushing. Nearly 42% have seriously considered suicide in the past year, and almost 1 in 4 have attempted it. These are not just numbers. These are the children and teens we claim to care for and protect. These are kids full of potential and possibility who come to believe that their lives are too painful or meaningless to go on.

For our youth who identify as both queer and BIPOC, the numbers soar to even more devastating heights. Discrimination, housing insecurity, trauma (complex, generational, or otherwise), and isolation pile on the already stacked mental health risks. Transitional times like puberty, continuing education, coming out, or even being outed can all become crisis points. And yet, the resources available to support these youth remain far too limited, particularly in rural and underfunded communities.

We must also call out a disheartening truth. Suicide is not just a mental health issue but also a political one. Despite years of advocacy and an undeniable increase in youth mental health crises, funding for prevention is barely pocket change in regard to national budgets. In 2023, the federal government spent an underwhelming $617 million on suicide prevention efforts. To provide some perspective, that’s less than what we spend each year defending the border wall.

Meanwhile, school-based mental health services, one of the most effective means of reaching children and teens early, are being decimated. A $1 billion mental health grant program, which began after the Uvalde school shooting aiming to increase school counseling services, was recently pulled from hundreds of school districts. In some places, that left over 1,000 students for every 1 mental health provider. And in others,  it left entire counties with zero youth therapists.

This rollback is not an isolated agenda. It operates in tandem with a cultural and legislative attack on the LGBTQ+ community and our access to affirming education, healthcare, and visibility. Programs that create safe spaces and lifelines are being wiped away. The LGBTQ+ line of the 988 suicide hotline, created to offer identity-affirming, culturally competent crisis support, was recently defunded, despite having provided help to over 1.3 million callers. The political message here is unmistakable. Only some lives, some pain, and some needs of a select group are worth the money and care.

I can’t help but contrast this with how our country controls the process of childbirth. Over the last decade, particularly following growing awareness and resulting concern around maternal mortality rates, the U.S. has consistently increased investment in maternal health. Federal funds now support initiatives like Healthy Start, safety improvements in birthing facilities, and dedicated maternal mental health hotlines. In 2022, the Into the Light Act was passed, allocating $170 million over six years for screening and treatment of postpartum mental health conditions. These are great and necessary efforts. But even here, we fall short. A study published in JAMA Psychiatry in November 2023 examined drug overdose deaths among pregnant and postpartum women in the U.S. from 2018 to 2021. The findings revealed that suicide and overdose were the leading causes of death during this period.

Yet even this limited progress for new parents shows us an undeniable contradiction. As a nation, we have shown we are capable of legislating support for life when we are politically and morally motivated to. We can pass bills, allocate funds, and create crisis hotlines. What’s missing is the motivation to extend that same urgency to the mental health and well-being of young people before they become statistics.

At the same time, astonishing amounts of public money have been directed toward restricting reproductive freedom. Since the overturning of Roe v. Wade in 2022, states have collectively spent hundreds of millions of dollars enforcing abortion bans, funding legal battles, surveillance infrastructure, and crisis pregnancy centers that often provide misleading information. 

In 2023 alone, Texas allocated over $140 million to the Alternatives to Abortion program, while at the same time slashing funding to health providers that offered comprehensive reproductive care. Nationwide, anti-abortion lobbying and litigation have received sustained state and federal backing, often at the expense of preventive care, contraception access, and the very maternal health supports that claim to be prioritized. Only the willful can ignore the blatant contradiction here. While suicide and overdose silently claim the lives of mothers post-childbirth, far more political and financial energy is funneled into controlling whether people can become mothers in the first place.

Real prevention should not be limited to easy words and good intentions each September. Real prevention should be about intrenching mental health support into the daily lives of young folks. It means funding school counselors and social workers so that every child has someone to talk to. It means restoring services that center the needs of queer, Indigenous, and BIPOC youth, who are far too frequently left behind. It means guaranteeing that crisis lines are open. It means creating and nurturing environments where vulnerability is not discouraged but invited.

We also have to stop criminalizing mental health crises. Way too often, suicidal and struggling youth are met with handcuffs or hospitalization that adds layers to trauma rather than with compassion. Prevention must be proactive, not punitive. We need peer support groups, trauma-informed teachers, and trusted adults who are trained to notice the signs before the worst happens.

We are also overdue for a culture shift. A society with the alleged aim to value life does not shame those who are struggling to hold onto it. Contrary to popular unsaid belief, strength is not stoicism. Strength is connection. It’s knowing when to ask for help.

If we as a country actually and honestly cherish life, we have to prove it. We have to prove it not with words but with resources, policy, and compassion. Suicide prevention cannot begin and end with simple slogans and annual awareness. It has to mean a continuous investment in systems of care that affirm life, especially for those who are most vulnerable.

This September, as we recognize Suicide Prevention Month, I dare us to do more than to just memorialize those lost. Let’s start fighting for those living. Let’s create a world where no child, teen, or young adult feels that their only way out is to stop living. They are not expendable. They are not alone. And their lives are sacred. If only we had the heart to act like it.

I am almost ashamed to say that it wasn’t until I lost someone I love to suicide that I began volunteering my time to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. The work that the AFSP does is not only needed, it’s imperative today more than ever. If nothing else, please hit this link and donate.

At a time when the world feels like it’s already choking on mouthfuls of disheartening news every day – genocide on the Gaza strip, climate crisis, political descent here and abroad – the last thing any of us want to hear about is another headline on a young star reportedly hospitalized following a possible overdose. Yet here we all are, watching a very familiar pattern unfold. This time, it’s our beloved queerby Lil Nas X.

According to TMZ, Lil Nas X, né Montero Lamar Hill, was reportedly hospitalized for a possible overdose mere months after he opened up publicly about how difficult the last few years of his career have been. He took to social media, stating, “I jumped straight into adulthood with extreme fame around me. So it was really nice to be just outside walking and meeting people in the streets and eating at restaurants, just even alone, spending a lot of alone time in solitude.”

Sound familiar? It should. The razzle-dazzling surface of fame seldom shows us the internal clutter and chaos, the pressure, the expectation to always be on, meanwhile mental health is brushed aside. And for our queer artists, particularly Black queer artists like Lil Nas X, the burden becomes that much denser.

We’ve seen this before. Demi Lovato. Aaron Carter. Whitney Houston. Talented, beloved artists who, for one reason or another, found themselves unraveling under the unrelenting scrutiny and chaos that comes hand in hand with fame. Some of them make it through. Some don’t. Many cry for help ages before things reach a breaking point. But what did we do? Did we listen? Did we leave Britney alone? Or are we the ones who light the match, pull out our phones, and film the flames? For once, please don’t tag me.

Lil Nas X sashayed onto the scene not just as a chart-topping artist, but as a cultural disruptor. Diva wore dresses to award shows. He clapped his cheeks on Lucifer in the music video for Montero. He vogued his way into the conversation on gender, sexuality, religion, and race that made a whole lot of folks uncomfortable, and that was the point. We were living for it, for him. We liked, we shared, and we reposted. We ate it tf up and licked our fingers clean. But did we ever truly care?

When a person like Lil Nas X steps out of the spotlight to say, “I’ve been having a  hard time,” do we respond with any empathy, or just wait around for the next head turning lewk or satanic lapdance? It’s easy to forget that behind the headlines is a real human. One with a nervous system, a childhood, a family, and so much more. And, what most often goes ignored by all, a limit.

There is something particularly painful about seeing this happen to queer people in the public eye. We’re told that visibility is freedom. And to an extent, it is. Lil Nas X became a rare symbol of queer Black excellence in mainstream media, an unapologetic icon. But visibility without protection has the potential to be fatal. Fame doesn’t guarantee safety – not physically nor emotionally. As a matter of opinion, for queer people, it’s more often than not the opposite.

When you’re queer in the spotlight, you’re performing resilience first and music second. You’re expected to rise above, to remain unbothered, to smile at all times no matter the weight of the pressure, to be a walking teachable moment at every moment. And when you break down? People either turn their backs or turn you into a meme.

FACT: mental health in the queer community is already a crisis. Study upon study have consistently shown that LGBTQ+ identifying folks are at significantly higher risk for anxiety, depression, and suicide. Add international stardom to the mix, and you don’t get immunity from this. You get fast-tracked.

And yet, we continue to lap up these public struggles like entertainment. The media machine feeds on our thirst, and we keep clicking. Headlines about a “possible overdose” become the most clicked clickbait. Tweets become jokes. Vulnerability becomes viral.

So then we have the question, what does it mean to authentically support an artist like Lil Nas X, not just when he’s on stage, but when off stage as well? When the posts stop posting. When the glitter dulls. Are we prepared to support our icons through their harder times the way we do when they’re on top of the world?

We can start by changing how we engage. Honestly take a moment to ask yourself, are you clicking on these stories to gag or to understand? Are you giving compassion or commentary? Are you holding a mic to their cry for help, or are you fetishizing their struggle?

We also need to shine a light on the entertainment industry to offer real mental health resources and protections, especially for young and marginalized artists whose career they are both responsible for and profit immensely from. Care does not come hand in hand with fame. It’s often the reason care is a concern.

We don’t know the full story of what happened with Lil Nas X, and jumping to conclusions is like eating at Chick-fil-A: only those of low intellect are tempted. But what we do know is that someone allegedly ended up in the hospital after publicly saying they were struggling. That alone should be enough to warrant concern. Not for the gossip or clicks but for simple humanity.

In the past decade,  rainbow-clad crosswalks have popped up in cities across our country, serving as affirmations of long-overdue queer solidarity and resilience. But today, in more and more places, those colors are now being scrubbed away, painted over, and banned under new regulations. What may seem to some as an inconsequential repaving is, in reality, a call to action. It signals a shift away from inclusion, toward an erasure and the sanitizing of public spaces where visibility is becoming, once again, a luxury for select populations. This is not a simple matter of public art. It’s a matter involving power, belonging, and the right to exist as who we are.

Let’s see this for what it is. In stripping away our technicolor stripes, we also lose the unspoken sense of safety and acceptance that they provide to so many who need just that. Rainbows speak to an array of identities and experiences. Taking this away signals a return to conformity, and ultimately, invisibility. These crosswalks have long functioned as not just decoration but straight-up declarations. They say to LGBTQ+ pedestrians “You belong and you belong here.” Taking away these symbols actively communicates something just as loud yet far more bleak… “Not anymore.”

The erasure of Pride-themed crosswalks echoes a consistent pattern seen throughout American history where public symbols tied to marginalized groups are challenged, removed, or reframed under the gaslighting of neutrality and “tradition.” Just in the past few years, murals honoring Black leaders or giving voice to movements like Black Lives Matter have been vandalized, painted over, and removed after receiving backlash or through political pressure. In some cases, city officials have justified the removals by citing noncompliance with local ordinances or “divisiveness,” ignoring the reality that these images provide our communities with powerful affirmations of identity and solidarity.

Indigenous communities have faced similar symbolic erasure through the renaming of landmarks and suppression of their time-honored cultural practices. In some places in the States, school districts have banned Native regalia at graduation ceremonies using the argument that it conflicts with dress codes and willfully disregarding its deep- rooted significance. Still more, attempts to preserve monuments or language programs are frequently met with bureaucratic pushback, labeling these cultural expressions as “nonessential.” These moves are never one-and-done. They’re the first steps in a broader rolling back of visibility and voice. What starts with paint or policy often crescendos into something much much louder – unless communities recognize the signs early and step up .

Hillary Clinton recently sounded the alarm over the future of same-sex marriage in the United States, warning that the Supreme Court may soon “return the marriage issue to the states,” much like it did with abortion. In a stark comment that has since echoed across Queer advocacy circles both on and offline, Clinton advised LGBTQI+ couples to “get married now.” Clinton explained, “I don’t think they’ll undo existing marriages, but I fear they will undo the national right.” Her statement spotlights the sobering reality that rights once considered settled are no longer secure. Clinton is not simply politically forecasting here. In a way, she is calling us all to action, urging LGBTQ+ folks to safeguard what we can. Clinton’s words mirror a growing recognition that removing symbols – this time being our rainbowed crosswalks – tend to usher in judicial reconsiderations.

Meanwhile, Kim Davis – the former Kentucky county clerk who went to jail in 2015 for refusing to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples – has petitioned the Supreme Court to overturn Obergefell v. Hodges. Davis, Represented by Liberty Counsel, argues that the landmark ruling is grounded in a flawed doctrine of substantive due process and describes it as a “legal fiction.” Liberty Counsel asserts that her First Amendment rights to religious freedom and free exercise were unjustly penalized, asserting that she should not have faced contempt, imprisonment, and a substantial monetary judgment just for simply “acting on her beliefs.” So this is where we are at.

In 2025, a sweeping wave of anti-LGBTQ+ policies has wrapped its talons around multiple levels of government, significantly lessening protections and visibility for queer and trans communities in our country. At the federal level, the Trump administration announced that starting in 2026, gender-affirming care will no longer be covered under the Federal Employees Health Benefits and Postal Service Health Benefits programs, affecting thousands of transgender federal workers and their families. Meanwhile, the Department of Education has labeled several Northern Virginia school districts, including Fairfax, Arlington, and Loudoun, as “high-risk” due to their upholding of inclusive policies for transgender students. These districts must now front over $50 million in education funding.

At the state level, hostility toward LGBTQ+ rights has swelled. More than 700 anti-LGBTQ+ bills have been introduced or passed in 2025 alone, targeting everything from flag displays to healthcare access. In Utah, Pride flags are now banned from government buildings, with daily fines imposed for noncompliance, while funding for Pride events has been drastically reduced. Nowhere is this oppressive legislative surge more aggressive than in Texas, where over 200 anti-LGBTQ+ bills have been introduced, including measures to restrict gender-affirming care, erase gender identity from official records, censor LGBTQ+ topics in schools, and redefine legal sex in rigid binary terminology. Stacked up, these developments represent a coordinated campaign to reverse decades of progress.

What can we do? First, we have to stay engaged. For starters, stop telling people that the news is too depressing to watch and find an outlet or three that resonate. Also, attend city council meetings, demand transparency from elected officials, and hold leaders accountable. Push for alternative expressions of support (public art, monuments, the whole gamut) that preserve the spirit of inclusion even when laws change.

Ultimately, we must amplify visibility. At a time in our country’s story where silence is easily mistaken for obedience, communities must get louder than ever in affirming their values. Take photos, tag photos, share stories, and call out those in places of power. Our rainbow crosswalks may be dropping like soldiers but the people they represent are still standing. Despite this bleak climate, WorldPride 2025 was held in Washington, D.C., doubling as both a queer-centric celebration and an indisputable act of protest against these escalating threats. Let’s keep that energy going, shall we?

In the end, what’s at stake is much greater than paint on pavement. It’s the affirmation that everyone deserves to be protected regardless of their identity. Let’s not wait until the last color is washed off our streets. Let’s repaint and resist. Let’s reimagine a country where all of us belong, every shade on that rainbow we hold so dear. We’re not red, white, and royally f*cked quite yet. Let’s make sure we never are.

In Dhaka, Bangladesh, a young gay man who had traveled five hours to meet us at the U.S. ambassador’s residence spoke softly about the violence he endured. For years, activists like him would meet with U.S. officials to tell their stories, trusting our government to publish their truth for the world to hear. Last week, the Trump administration betrayed that trust and cast aside decades of bipartisan work. Instead of fair and accurate reporting, it systematically deleted almost all references to abuse and persecution of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, and intersex (LGBTQI+) people in the 2024 U.S. Department of State Country Reports on Human Rights Practices, known as the Human Rights Reports (HRRs).

Mandated by Congress since the 1970s, the HRRs cover every country in the world. They are an essential resource for courts, governments, and non-governmental organizations (NGOs) in evaluating human rights abuses, allocating resources, and crafting policy. Though the reports originally did not cover anti-LGBTQI+ violence, persistent education and advocacy from our community led Republican and Democratic administrations, including the last Trump administration, to document abuses based on sexual orientation, gender identity, and sex characteristics annually for the past two decades.

When we served as the Office of the U.S. Special Envoy for LGBTQI+ Rights, these reports were a priority. During our service, we reviewed and incorporated reporting from our embassies, the UN, NGOs, universities, media, and — most importantly — from survivors themselves. By the time we left government in January, every country’s report contained a dedicated, robust section documenting abuses against LGBTQI+ people.

These sections filled a void. They mapped where U.S. investments in human rights could do the most good, reinforcing work by human rights defenders, foreign governments, and allies to make the world safer for LGBTQI+ people. They helped asylum judges evaluate claims from LGBTQI people fleeing persecution. They told activists that their struggle was seen.

This year, the Trump administration did the opposite. After a long delay, they released them last week during the congressional summer recess in order to bury the truth. They erased whole categories of abuse and watered-down others, including against women and girls, workers, indigenous peoples, people of African descent, Roma, and LGBTQI+ people. The LGBTQI+ section was deleted outright. A keyword search across all the 2024 reports we’ve read yields almost nothing: no “LGBTQI+,” virtually no “sexual orientation,” no “gender identity,” no “intersex.” What few references remain are shortened, sanitized, and buried deep.

Read the 2024 chapters for Uganda and Russia, and you might believe there are no LGBTQI+ people or abuses in either country. But read the report from 2023 and you’ll see 45 reports of anti-LGBTQI+ abuses in Uganda and 36 in Russia. Clearly, it is not possible to resolve such systematic abuse in one year. Instead, our State Department just removed any reference to most of the most egregious abuses of LGBTQI+ people worldwide. 

In Iraq, for example, parliamentarians passed an anti-LGBTQI+ law that equates homosexuality with “prostitution,” and punishes same-sex relations with up to 15 years in prison. But that law, reported on in 2023, gets no mention. Same in the Kyrgyz Republic, where a nationwide “LGBTQI+ propaganda” law forced a shutdown of perhaps the country’s oldest LGBTQI+ service provider. No mention. And, in Afghanistan, unspeakable acts of anti-LGBTQI+ violence and abuse at the hands of the Taliban, all reported last year, are gone too.

This erasure is deliberate. It tells authoritarian governments they can abuse minorities with impunity. It also signals to Americans that LGBTQI+ equality is negotiable here at home, too, landing just as the Supreme Court received a petition to overturn marriage equality.

But here is the truth: erasure has never defeated us. Visibility has always been our movement’s most powerful tool — and history shows it cannot be permanently denied. From Stonewall to marriage equality in the United States to countries around the world that have struck down sodomy laws and codified transgender rights, LGBTQI+ people have always overcome silence with courage and persistence. Across continents, when they try to erase us, we turn exclusion into progress.

The administration’s refusal to report on human rights abuses of LGBTQI+ people and other marginalized groups is a political act, not an accident. We urge you: call your U.S. senators and representatives today via the Capitol switchboard, (202) 224-3121, and ask them to confront the administration for failing to do its job on the HRRs and pass Senate bill S. 2611 mandating that future reports cover LGBTQI+ rights and other key categories. We urge other governments to expand their own reporting to rigorously document and condemn abuses. All of us can fill the gap by elevating high-quality data from NGOs, universities, and think tanks that are already setting the global standard for reporting on the status of LGBTQI+ people around the world.

The administration may rewrite its reports to fit its narrow view of the world, but it cannot erase the courage of those who tell their stories or the victories we have already won. Our history as LGBTQI+ Americans proves that visibility, once claimed, cannot be buried for long. The task before us is simple and urgent: to insist on truth, to defend it in every forum, and to carry it forward until equality is beyond erasure.

Jessica Stern is a Senior Fellow at the Carr-Ryan Center at the Harvard Kennedy School and co-founder and principal of the Alliance for Diplomacy and Justice, an organization co-founded by eight former ambassadors, special representatives, and special envoys advocating for human rights in U.S. foreign policy. She is the former executive director of Outright International and the former U.S. Special Envoy for the Human Rights of LGBTQI+ Persons. 

Suzanne B. Goldberg is the Herbert and Doris Wechsler Clinical Professor of Law at Columbia Law School and former senior advisor in the Office of the Special Envoy to Advance the Human Rights of LGBTQI+ Persons.

Reggie Greer is a Global LGBTQI+ Fellow at the Harvard Kennedy School and a former Biden-Harris Administration appointee, serving as Senior Advisor to the U.S. Special Envoy to Advance the Human Rights of LGBTQI+ Persons as well as White House Director of Priority Placement and Senior Advisor on LGBTQI+ Engagement.  

Cruising once meant lusty side-glances in our cities’ inconspicuous public parks, pubs, and even the phone booths at Macy’s. Nowadays it’s the far too familiar swipe, grammatically flawed DM, and the vast sea of headless torso pics. Grindr, once the ever so modest rosebud of today’s digital gay cruising, has now bloomed into so much more, upping its game with new features similar to other social media platforms, infusing it with AI matchmaking, and uncensored content under one rainbow‑tinted roof. Is the only connection that matters these days a decent Wi-Fi connection? Arguable.

Grindr’s legacy began as the grid‑style, location‑based hookup platform that we all know and love… to delete only to reinstall two days later. Simple, sexy, and surface-level satisfying. Today, however, Grindr is going under a bit of a nip/tuck. Infused with AI‑powered personalization (think of it like an AI wingman), global discovery (“Discover”) and travel tools like “Explore Heatmap” and “Travel Pass” that give you jet‑setting Gayborhood vibes in real time.

Already at play is the new feature Right Now, a lusty live‑feed not too different from a disappearing story on poppers – post a pic or text that vanishes after an hour – with users now able to signal, “get in me bro,” getting straight to the di… to the point.

But Grindr hasn’t stopped there. Queue Grindr Presents, a hot hot hot new in‑app content hub that offers all types of queer media like video series (hello, Katya’s Who’s The A-hole?), playlists, editorials, behind-the-scenes tour clips, and then some. A pinch of Instagram, a touch of TikTok, a mouthful of YouTube, all intertwined into our shiny new Grindr.

At the core, it’s your hookup app and a commune of queer media. Your one‑stop stop shop for one (hopefully) uncensored and fabulously fae content feed. Grindr describes it as “an unapologetically safe space where the community can be themselves, be heard, and be fabulous without fear of suppression.” Cool, yes, but what about the unfiltered side of that freedom? 

With this digital facelift, Grindr Presents could quite possibly be a girthy gold mine. For adult content creators, it has the potential to be the new brightly lit stage for visibility to fuel income. Expand your brand beyond X, Bluesky, and other password‑protected peen-clad platforms. Get attention from a captive (and c*ck-hungry) audience right when they’re browsing for… connection.

For creators, the above-mentioned AI features help users reconnect. A‑List picks out your hottest yet perhaps more reluctant potential matches, giving creators more chances for recurring benefactors. Chat summaries allow casual viewers to re‑engage without repeating the same flirtatious verbiage. Meanwhile, global discovery tools have the potential to reach new audiences for your content without a passport or risking flying out from Newark.

Let’s talk about Sniffies for a moment. For those who are unfamiliar, Sniffies is our beloved map‑based cruising platform that didn’t bat an eyelash at explicit photos and mapped nearby users and cruising grounds worldwide. It made its iOS debut in March 2025 only to be yanked by Apple around late May due to “ongoing content restrictions” despite implementing a “Safer Work Mode.” The website remains, but the app was scrapped.

This brings up a deliciously delicate question: could Grindr face the same fate? Both Grindr and Sniffies cater to queer cruising, and both push sexual content boundaries of the status quo. The difference is that Grindr has been Apple‑approved to this day. It does have the authority to sanitize profile pictures (would you settle for PG-13?) and frames itself as “dating” as opposed to cruising or hooking up. Sniffies’ unapologetically overt purpose to get down likely was the catalyst for a multitude of sanitized corporate scrutiny whereas Grindr’s more nuanced facade was given the green light.

Still, with Grindr Presents delivering uncensored queer media, even if curated, the Apple gods might clutch their pearls. Particularly in our current political climate where queer content is increasingly met with rigid censorship. But Grindr’s mainstream status and framing as a “social hub” rather than purely pornographic might give it more freedom, for the time being at least.

With Grindr being so free from censorship and regulation, it teeters on the familiar fine line between freedom of speech from salacious to unsavory. Let’s look at X as an example, the same platform that gave voice to the Black Lives Matters Movement while also holding space for white supremacists. On one side of the coin, no censorship means creative freedom, raw authenticity, spontaneous connection, and radical queer expression. On the flip side, it opens the door for hate, trolling, fetishization, and unsafe content to flourish if left unchecked, especially for vulnerable communities.

Grindr’s task then is to enable expression without sliding into the waters of harmful content or hate speech. The platform’s safety, moderation, and responsibility will inevitably be tested. Without a watchful eye, Grindr Presents could become a megaphone for extremist and regressive voices, or at the very least, spotlight internal community biases. Yes, free speech is hot, but unmoderated speech can be a real buzzkill.

Only time will tell which trajectory Grindr is set on. Ignite an eruption of queer creativity and creator‑centric monetization, or get tangled in regulatory red tape, or worse, push back from within the community. Grindr has evolved from a quintessential hookup app into a multifaceted  platform functioning as a gay social hub and media outlet.  In today’s climate of growing anti‑queer censorship, the challenge will be striking a balance between moderation and freedom of expression.

So, sweet little cruisers, charge your iPhone, swipe that grid, and drop into Grindr Presents.  Let your curated content ride the wave. The digital cruising scene is evolving, and Grindr is the savvy (and maybe scandalous) chauffeur ushering us into a new day and age of getting that d. Let’s buckle up and pop our PrEP. It’s gonna be a wild ride.

By John M. Erickson, West Hollywood City Councilmember and Candidate for California
State Senate District 24

California is home to some of the most innovative thinkers and boldest visions in the world. We have led the way on human rights and climate change. Yet sometimes, interpersonal politics get in the way of implementing the simplest, most straightforward ideas—even when it means saving lives. 

A glaring case in point is what is happening on Fountain Avenue—a street that twists and turns from Los Angeles through West Hollywood and has become a hazard that can easily be fixed by infrastructure changes, but has been caught up in a nonsensical process that has become more political than practical. 

Since March 2021, just a few months after I was sworn in to the West Hollywood City Council, I authored legislation to redesign Fountain Avenue because of the weekly near-fatal or fatal accidents that occurred there. My proposal was straightforward: add protected bike lanes, widen sidewalks, and calm traffic so that people can move safely whether they’re walking, biking, or driving.

The council voted 5–0 in favor. The public supported it. Experts endorsed it. The need was beyond obvious.

And yet—here we are, six years after that first vote, and nothing has changed. The City Council has taken six separate votes just to approve a street design we unanimously agreed on in 2021. Why?

I believe it is because in our car-centric society, age-old ideas of public safety and interpersonal politics have gotten in the way of upholding the first responsibility of an elected official: to keep people safe.  In the meantime, multiple people have been struck and killed by cars on Fountain Avenue, the most recent happening right across the street from my home. Every day we delay implementing the changes we approved years back, we are jeopardizing people’s lives, and as one public commenter said at our last city council meeting, the process is killing people.

This is not just a West Hollywood problem. This is a California problem. Across our state, commonsense projects that would make communities safer, greener, and more livable are caught in an endless tangle of redundant approvals, over-engineered reviews, and bureaucratic inertia. We’ve built a system that treats progress—even public safety—as something to be studied into submission rather than acted upon with urgency.

We need structural reform to change that. Here’s all it should take to make our streets safer for everyone:

1. Set clear timelines for infrastructure changes—and stick to them. If a city council votes to
   approve a project concept, the clock should start. Departments and agencies must meet
   hard deadlines for design, environmental review, and groundbreaking. Endless “re-
   authorizations” only add delay and cost lives and waste taxpayer money on this endless
   cycle.
2. Limit duplicative votes. Six council votes for a single street project is absurd, and frankly,
   maddening. All it should take is one vote to approve the concept, one vote to approve the
   final design, and then build it. We need to get back into the business of doing things rather
   than talking about them to death.
3. Empower staff to act. Once elected leaders set policy direction, professional staff should
   be able to carry it out without returning to the council for permission every step of the way.
   Accountability shouldn’t lead to paralysis.
4. Adopt “safe streets first” protocols. If a corridor is identified as high-injury, safety
   improvements should be fast-tracked—not forced to compete with routine maintenance
   projects for years on end.

I am working to implement these changes—not just for Fountain Avenue, but for every community waiting on a safer crosswalk, a protected bike lane, a new housing development, or a climate-resilient infrastructure project.  Because if we truly value human life as we claim, our actions cannot sit idle in a staff report. They must mean more than cutting a ribbon or holding a vigil at the site of a fatal accident.

The time has come to take swift action to legislate the infrastructure change process, so that our actions can live up to our number one responsibility as elected officials: keeping the public safe, whether they are in a car, on a bicycle, or walking.

Over the past few decades, LA’s Westside has changed rapidly. Rents have skyrocketed. The median home now costs over 12 times the median household income—one of the worst ratios in the state. Our housing shortage is pricing out the immigrants, artists, workers, people of color, and young people who make the area so vibrant.

As three elected officials under 40 representing West Hollywood, Santa Monica, and Culver City, we’ve experienced this crisis firsthand. Countless young people in our cities can’t afford to build a life in the communities they grew up in, and others who made their home on the Westside because of its inclusivity are now being displaced by a housing market becoming more unfriendly every year.

For decades, West Hollywood has been a refuge for LGBTQ+ people who couldn’t live openly elsewhere, and both Santa Monica and Culver City were home to large working-class communities. But today’s housing costs are pricing out many of the Westside’s young queer people, workers, Black and brown residents, and seniors hoping to retire. 

The affordability crisis is hitting our queer communities especially hard. LGBTQ+ people in LA County are more likely to rent their homes –and more likely to be cost-burdened by housing – than their straight counterparts. Queer people are twice as likely to have experienced homelessness within the past five years. For trans and nonbinary folks, the difference is even more stark. 25% of trans and nonbinary people in LA County are currently unhoused compared to 1% of the general population.

We understand that the housing shortage has been a direct result of decades of policy failures in our cities – and it’s beyond time we finally address it with urgency. If we want the Westside to remain a welcoming place –not just for the wealthy, but for everyone –we have to make it possible for more people to live here. That means building more homes.

Enter SB 79, a bill under consideration in the state legislature that would make it legal to build small apartment buildings near major transit stops. It’s desperately needed across LA —but especially in communities like ours, where access to cleaner air, strong schools, and good jobs should be available to more than just long-time homeowners and the wealthy. 

Too many neighborhoods around LA’s transit stations are still reserved exclusively for single-family homes, even as taxpayers have invested nearly $80 billion in expanding our public transit system. That keeps housing costs sky high and prevents working families from living anywhere near them.

The result is both unjust and inefficient: underused transit, supercharged housing prices, and the workers our city relies on being subjected to hours-long commutes.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

We know that when there’s housing near transit, people use it. At stations like MacArthur Park and Wilshire/Vermont—which are surrounded by apartments—tens of thousands of riders board each day. And when we reduce car dependence, we also reduce pollution: climate experts estimate that adding homes near transit can cut climate-warming pollution by up to 31%.

Some worry that new housing causes displacement. But history and research show the opposite. When we don’t build enough homes, demand spills over into older, more affordable neighborhoods — driving up rents and pushing low-income renters out. By making room for more people, we’re actively reducing pressure on existing tenants.

On the Westside, we’ve fallen behind. We’ve created tens of thousands of high-paying jobs, but built far fewer homes; indeed, the populations of Santa Monica, Culver City, and West Hollywood haven’t grown meaningfully in over 50 years. That stagnation, driven by restrictive zoning, has priced out all but the most affluent.

SB 79 gives us a chance to change course.

This is about more than zoning. It’s about who gets to live here and what kind of communities we want to be. Are we comfortable becoming a place of diminishing diversity, where only the wealthy can belong? Or can we foster places where teachers, nurses, service workers, artists, LGBTQ+ people, and young families can still build their future?

We’re proud to represent cities committed to tackling this crisis head-on. With SB 79, our state will take a major step toward a more affordable, inclusive future.

Chelsea Lee Byers is the Mayor of West Hollywood, Jesse Zwick is a Santa Monica City Councilmember, and Bubba Fish is a Culver City Councilmember.

SYRACUSE, Italy — It was shortly after 7 p.m. on July 22 when I left the beach and returned to my apartment in Ortigia, a small island in which Syracuse’s Old City is located, and turned on the television. An Italian newscast had yet another story about an AI-generated video on Truth Social that showed FBI agents arresting former President Barack Obama in the Oval Office as President Donald Trump watched.

“The Italian news all day has been reporting on Trump’s deep fake showing Obama’s arrest. Is that for real? And seriously WTF? 🤦,” I asked Washington Blade White House Correspondent Chris Kane in a text that I also sent to a mutual friend.

The video that Trump shared on his social media network was fake, but it was yet another example of our commander-in-chief embarrassing our country. Not even a two-week vacation in Italy could temper the embarrassment that I feel as an American with Trump in the White House.

There are myriad other examples of Trump embarrassing our country about which I have written while abroad. Here are some examples:

• I was on assignment in the Mexican border city of Tijuana on Jan. 28 when Trump suggested, without evidence, the Biden-Harris administration’s diversity, equality, and inclusion policies could have caused the midair collision of a U.S. Army Black Hawk helicopter and an American Airlines regional jet near Reagan National Airport that left 67 people dead. 

“He is doing everything possible to ensure the U.S. will no longer stand for human rights — around the world and in our own country — and basic decency,” I wrote in the Blade on Feb. 4.

• Trump on July 16, 2018, defended President Vladimir Putin during a press conference that took place in Helsinki after they met. I watched the spectacle unfold on television while I was on assignment in Mexico City.

“President Trump’s defense of Russian President Vladimir Putin on Monday after their summit in Helsinki was yet another moment when I felt embarrassed for my country while on assignment outside the U.S.,” I wrote in the Blade on July 19, 2018. “This ridiculous spectacle also proved once and for all the U.S. under this administration cannot claim with any credibility that it stands for human rights around the world.”

• Hurricane Maria on Sept. 20, 2017, devastated Puerto Rico. I was on assignment in Chile a few days later when Trump attacked then-San Juan Mayor Carmen Yulín Cruz. Our commander-in-chief later threw paper towels into a crowd at a church in Guaynabo, a suburb of the Puerto Rican capital.

“His outrageous attacks against the mayor of an American city who is doing everything possible to help her citizens survive are the latest in a long list of actions (or inactions) that have left this gay American journalist who routinely reports overseas embarrassed,” I wrote in the Blade on Oct. 2, 2017. “I am also increasingly ashamed to identify myself as an American while this man occupies the White House.”

I wrote in response to Trump’s exchange with Putin in Helsinki that American exceptionalism, “however flawed, teaches us the U.S. is a beacon of hope to those around the world who suffer persecution” and also “teaches us the U.S. is the land of opportunity where people can build a better life for themselves and for their families.” These ideals, seven years later, ring hollow. 

A optimist may think the Trump-Vance administration should spend their time on far more important things: protecting transgender people from discrimination and violence, pressuring Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and his government to stop committing what two prominent Israeli human rights groups this week described as genocide in the Gaza Strip, forcing Putin to stop his war against Ukraine, ensuring undocumented immigrants in U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement custody have access to due process, and negotiating in good faith with trading partners. A realist may conclude these aspirations are beyond reach with the Trump-Vance administration in the White House.

Trump clearly has his own aspirations. He is a self-serving buffoon who continues to embarrass his country in the eyes of the world.

Recently, the gay internet was abuzz with the news that entertainment mogul David Geffen, 82, and his tad bit younger husband, model Donovan Michaels (né David Armstrong), 32, were splitting. It was the breakup heard around the mega-yacht docks from the waters of Fort Lauderdale to Marina di Capri, from tweet to shining tweet.

Geffen is, inarguably, one of the most powerful entertainment titans of the last half-century – a music kingpin, Broadway backer, and billionaire art collector. Michaels, Geffen’s husband for two years but together for nine, came from a background that couldn’t be more different: foster care, survival, and, eventually, modeling and escorting. The two first clocked each other on Seeking.com (previously, SeekingArrangements.com), where they each sought an arrangement that benefited both parties, each with their very different yet historically compatible motives. 

Now that the union is dissolving, the backlash has come hard and strong. Geffen is being painted as the predatory puppeteer, quite possibly viewing his child of the sugar as a crystal-cut and curated addition to his art collection. Michaels, meanwhile, is being labeled a gold-digging hustler. So subtle the internet is…

But providing such defamatory, diminutive, and, quite frankly, two-dimensional commentary on the recently divorced is too easy. Perhaps we can approach  Geffen and Michaels’ nullification of nuptials with a touch more compassion and understanding. So many facets to consider, so little time. Let’s dive in.

Of course, the age-old “trophy boy” trope has been given a facelift here. Overdue? Maybe. We have seen this dynamic time and time again. An older, wealthier daddy (or grand-daddy) shacks up with younger, shinier beau with cheekbones to die for. Both parties involved are hungry in their respective avenues.  Comparable instances, however, occur in the straight sphere quite often and we barely bat an eyelash at it. Leonardo DiCaprio swaps out twenty-something year old models like iPhones, resulting in little more than a meme or twelve that he laughs along with. Others win elections.

But when a billionaire butt-connoisseur “friend of Dorothy” does it? Oh no, a scandal. Of course, there’s truth to the concern. Geffen, worth over $7 billion, is at that level of wealth that distorts reality, intimacy, and so, so much more. Michaels, on the flip side, was granted access to a world he wanted into and (hopefully) stepped over the glistening threshold willingly. The question isn’t “Did he know what he was getting himself into?” It’s “Are we prepared to admit that mutually beneficial arrangements are, in fact, also ‘real’ relationships?”

Yes, there’s a 50-year age gap. Yes, that’s pretty far out. But let’s be real for a second – May/December pairings are far from new. What’s intriguing this time around is how judgment shifts when the couple is both same-sex and interracial. A touch of the Meghan Markle effect with a queer twist at play? One can only wonder. Had Geffen been a straight mogul shacking up with a 30-something pageant queen from who-knows-where in the Midwest, folks would still gossip, no doubt, but there’d be less performative outrage and less cultural micro-dissection.

Is it empowering or exploitative? It is silly to believe that only one is possible here. Could it not be both transactional and emotional? The public is far too obsessed with seeing things as black and white, predator and victim, groomer and opportunist, day and night.  On the contrary, reality rarely functions in this binary fashion. Perhaps Donovan found safety, luxury, and more in their relationship. Geffen likely found beauty, admiration, and companionship he didn’t anticipate finding as an octogenarian. The relationship might’ve had its roots in a good ol’ transaction, but maybe it evolved into something more emotionally complex, not to mention legally binding.

It was the lack of prenup that likely fueled the headlines and had people clutching pearls. But if we drop the tabloid tone, it’s worth noting that Michaels offered Geffen the bulk of his twenties and gave his energy to a relationship that asked him to show up emotionally, socially, and (reportedly) carnally. This begs the question, if one spends nearly a decade in someone else’s gold-gilded ecosystem, should they not walk away with something to say for it?

A settlement in this case is not necessarily opportunistic in nature. It is back pay for time served in the multi-billion dollar empire of Bev Hills royalty. Whether that includes a Malibu house, a Warhol print, or just financial breathing room, don’t hate the player. Nine years in Geffenland is practically tenure.

The reality is, partnering purely for love is a relatively modern concept. For the grand part of recorded history, people were motivated into partnership by status, protection, land, and survival. Romance is a Disney-fueled concept barely older than modern plumbing. The word lust predates the word love, and frankly, so does practical partnership.

If anything, Geffen didn’t hide the terms. He made the offer. Donovan accepted. And both benefited. That is, until the arrangement got blurred with real feelings, real power, and real legal exposure. That’s not scandalous. That’s just human nature at its most raw.

Geffen’s legacy has always been about control. He’s curated everything: from record empires to MoMA board appointments to multimillion-dollar art installations. So what happens when the most uncurated element –  his relationship with Michaels – doesn’t quite follow the script he had drafted in his mind?

Look, is Geffen a hoarder of wealth in a world where millions go hungry? Unquestionably. Is he an avatar of late-stage capitalism’s grotesque gap between rich and poor? Most def. But when it comes to his relationship with Michaels, Geffen’s heart, however warped by luxury and excess, seemed to be authentically engaged. He didn’t treat Michaels like single-use plastic. He married him. No prenup. And for someone whose entire life has been about contracts, that’s more than a gesture, it’s a leap of faith. Maybe even trust? Maybe…

So give the poor ol’ queen a break. He hasn’t done anything new. Except, perhaps, look out for the well-being of a sugar child he fell deep and hard for. Listen, I get it. It’s messy. But let’s not pretend it isn’t also deeply, heartbreakingly human.

Geffen will be fine. I have a hunch he has his student loans paid off. Michaels? Hopefully, he will be too. If not today, then eventually. He’s young, sharp, and, fingers crossed, a soon-to-be billionaire. Whatever he walks away from this with, he’s already beaten the odds stacked against a dude with his upbringing.

And the rest of us? We should stop treating their split like a morality play and start treating it like a mirror. These kinds of relationships – cross-class, cross-race, cross-power – are all around us every day – just with less TMZ coverage. The only difference is Geffen and Michaels gave it a name and gave us a front-row seat to see what happens when affection meets arrangement at the icy pinnacle of the 1%.

Three cheers to Mr. Geffen for allowing his heart – and his pocket – to take a leap of faith and embark on a new romance in his golden years; and three more for Michaels, who possesses the wherewithal to advocate for himself and his needs. In a day and age where tuning into the news is an almost constant reminder of the mess that is humanity, it is a joy to know that a foster child can one day become a billionaire. Talk about a Disney ending.