Pride is not just a protest. Pride is a movement.

The Hungarian government is trying to restrict peaceful protests with a critical voice by targeting a minority. Therefore, as a movement, we will fight for the freedom of all Hungarians to protest!

Hungarians are a freedom-loving nation. We know that if the government tries to ban protests with critical voices, they will face resistance from the whole of society. That is why we need a scapegoat, a distraction, another wave of hatred. A little bedbuging. They lie to their voters about a child protection measure, but there is no child protection in this bill.

Just two days after the anniversary of the Hungarian revolution and war of independence of 1848, many people were outraged by the hypocrisy of the government’s attempt to strip us of our hard-won freedoms. The slogan of the 1848 revolution against the Austrian Empire was “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity,” defying oppression and censorship. When Pride organizers and participants stand up for their own freedoms, they are standing up for the rights of all Hungarians. It is a new level of fascism when only those who support those in power are allowed to march in the streets of a country. 

If the government tries to restrict the right of citizens to demonstrate peacefully by means of made-up rules, it will be that any demonstration can be banned for any fictitious reason. We will not allow future generations to grow up in such a country. We are at home, we will be here, and we will work to make Hungary a freer country.

The LGBTQ community has been a target of attacks from the ruling parties for years. If attempts are made to ban demonstrations for the rights of the LGBTQ community, there is no guarantee that peaceful demonstrations by groups that the governing parties call the enemy, “the bedbugs,” will not be banned, on the false grounds of child protection.

As members of the LGBTQ community, it is part of our lives from childhood that we have to defend ourselves, that we have to fight for acceptance and equal rights. Even though those in power try to dehumanize us, we LGBTQ people are all human beings who want freedom, safety and equal rights. The pride march is one of the most visible parts of this struggle, but equally as important is the resistance we wage every day to lead a free, authentic and happy life in our own country.

It would never occur to a democratic leader to restrict the fundamental rights of those who disagree with them. Elected representatives should not work for their own self-interest, but for all citizens.

We are asking Viktor Orbán’s government: How will they guarantee that all Hungarian citizens, including LGBTQ people, can live and protest freely? If they cannot guarantee this, it is an admission of their own incompetence.

The senator from Wyoming was authenticity itself — a Western force coming at you like a bobcat with a crooked smile. Indeed, the name of his ranch outside of Cody is the “Bobcat.” It was at the Bobcat near Yellowstone Park, where my friend Sen. Alan K. Simpson (1931-2025) did some of his best thinking about history, politics, and how people live and fight.  

When he came to Washington, Al Simpson was steeped in this uniquely Western Bobcat Ranch heritage — from his grandfather, who represented W.F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody and prosecuted Butch Cassidy to his mother, a founder of the Buffalo Bill Historical Center that today displays paintings by Thomas Moran and Annie Oakley’s rifles. He was an old-school live-and-let-live conservative Republican, but one with a Western twist — one part sneer, one part laugh-out-loud funny. It was that twist, I believe, that made him unique.

Sen. Simpson stood with his friend Congressman Barney Frank in 1998 on the Capitol steps at the candlelight vigil after the murder of Matthew Shepard in Laramie. Shaken by the barbarity of what happened, Simpson denounced Shepard’s killing as an “ugly, ugly butchering.  The people of my state and the University of Wyoming want you to know this is not who we are.” Then came a wave of boos and the heckling of Al as a Republican from Wyoming. He told me he never forgot that booing and resolved to continue fighting with us for our equality in the years to come. On this, he was good to his word.

A Houston gay community effort challenged and appealed the sodomy charge of John Lawrence and Tyron Garner in Texas. We believed our organization, a gay-straight alliance, the Republican Unity Coalition (RUC) had a role to play. Alan Simpson stepped forward to serve as our chairman, signing our amicus brief in support of Lawrence and Garner to strike down the Texas sodomy law. He then reached out to his friend “Jerry Ford” (former President Gerald Ford) to join our effort. Ford did so becoming the first and only president to join an LGBTQ advocacy group. In 2003, on the day the Supreme Court heard oral arguments on the Lawrence case, Al wrote in an op-ed published by the Wall Street Journal, “Homosexuality should be a non-issue for the GOP… sodomy laws are contrary to American values protecting personal liberty and opposing discrimination.” Al was thrilled when the Court voted 6-3 in favor of Lawrence ending the criminalization of homosexuality. 

When Al came out in support of same-sex marriage in Massachusetts, the Rev. Fred Phelps (“God Hates Fags”) denounced Al as a “senile old fag lover.” Al responded with grace and hilarity in the style of one of his heroes, cowboy humorist Will Rogers. “Dear Rev. Phelps, I just want to alert you to the fact that some dizzy son of a bitch is sending out mailings and emails using your name! I know you are a god fearing, Christian person filled to the brim with forbearance, tolerance and love…and this other goofy homophobe nut must be something opposite.” Al did not pull back from his support for same-sex marriage. He opposed President George W. Bush on his proposal to amend the Constitution to ban same-sex marriage. Al wrote in the Washington Post, “Several Senate members want to create more anguish by pushing a proposal to amend the Constitution … but a federal marriage amendment would do nothing to strengthen families, just the opposite.”

For the rest of his long life, Al remained supportive of the LGBTQ community and our families. We disbanded the old Republican Unity Coalition, a delusion we once shared to make “homosexuality a non-issue for the Republican Party.” There are no more Alan Simpson Republicans. They are from another country. I happily left the party and married my “pard” as they call partners in Cody. We were married with a reception in Washington, made all the brighter with Al’s attendance and his wife Ann’s blessings. Later, they gave our son his first stuffie. 

Alan Simpson’s many obituaries and tributes briefly mention his support of “gay rights” without elaboration. We should all pause to reflect on just how far this 93-year-old Republican rode with us when no one else would.

Charles Francis, president of the Mattachine Society of Washington, D.C., served for 10 years as a Trustee of the Buffalo Bill Center of the West in Cody, Wyo.

(Editor’s note: This is the second of a two-part story. Click here to read the first installment.)

Last month, I started watching “The X-files.” 

For the most part I loved the show, with Agents Scully and Mulder as the primary reasons why. Yet what I found most frustrating was watching their investigations. As early as episode one, set in a small town of scared people guarded by scary men, Agent Scully proposed coincidences while Agent Mulder proposed aliens. Despite the episode having “cult” written all over it, both agents seemed none the wiser. 

Recently, I learned the FBI has an open process for writers and other creatives to learn how the agency works. I also discovered the FBI has a history of monitoring writers. In fact, the FBI is about as image-conscious as your typical D.C. gay, making me wonder how the “X-Files” moved forward with little pushback. That’s about as interesting as UFOs being discovered in New Mexico as we tested the atomic bomb. 

But if you’re reading this, you likely want me to shut up about the “X-Files” and get back to my story. When I left off, my friend had disappeared and my work cleared me of any wrongdoing. That said, I was mysteriously fired in September 2022—nearly a year after the initial incident—and just six weeks after my boss learned that I wrote books. 

The process of my firing was strange, to say the least. First and foremost, I was never given a reason. To this day it remains a mystery. My now-former employer—a high-profile lobbying firm—then bullied me into signing an NDA to access my severance. 

By the way, I negotiated up. While I don’t know what I did, I had a feeling I had that power. I was right. 

Just prior to the firing, they asked me to bring in my laptop so they could download my files. This rang an alarm for me, primarily because they never gave me a laptop. So, they wanted me to bring in my personal laptop. As a writer with original materials, I reasonably asked what constituted a work file. I never received an answer. 

Coincidentally, I met my ex-boyfriend exactly one week before I got fired. He is the same ex-boyfriend from my religion piece, in which I mentioned he fell into hard times. Specifically, I was referring to concerning signs I spotted last April, primarily on the gay apps, and with memories of the last boy still fresh on my mind, I refused to let another slip from my grasp. 

So, what did I do? I dove headfirst into hell in a messy attempt to rescue him. After playing this new game of cat-and-mouse in which I was said mouse, allow me to share what I learned: Over the course of several months, I spotted sketchy characters at my ex’s place—characters I suspected dealt hard drugs, which was highly out of character for him. Moreover, I found online accounts promoting extremely suspect pornography and, yes, pimping services on X (formerly Twitter), some of which looked a lot like my ex. While I didn’t know what exactly was happening, I knew something was off, but when I confronted my ex, he denied it. 

Being the stubborn asshole that I am, I decided to check these sketchy characters out for myself. It turns out I was spot on about their sketchiness. I learned they not only drug unsuspecting young men in a coordinated manner, but once drugged they sexually violate them and—if drugged enough—begin recording videos. It’s all made to look random yet safe; for example, there always seems to be a nurse in the group who is “experienced” in administering needles. 

Once I had proof these people were unsafe, I took further action for my ex. In mid-November, I reached out to someone in his personal life, which was a tough decision since he was closeted. I was strategic and chose someone who knew he was bisexual, and after connecting with her on Instagram, spoke on the phone with her the next morning. Upon hearing my concerns, she agreed based on her own observations. 

Apparently, she spotted signs of him being physically harmed over the summer. She and I spoke for hours on end about the situation and how we could help him. Then, just a week later, I lost contact with her and my ex. I haven’t heard from either since. 

I eventually grew concerned enough to contact the police and the FBI. In the meantime, particularly following my trauma article, sex workers approached me to share their stories—primarily stories of rape and abuse alongside a power structure rooted in it. As for those who try to oppose this system? They’re often written off as mentally ill. 

I don’t know about you, but I refuse to live in a world where young queers are shepherded into this system. That’s the opposite of what I envision for the queer community. 

Mid-Atlantic Leather weekend arrived in January, along with more sex workers. Once again, some approached me to share their stories—about their aspirations, about their art, about their perspectives on the world. And once again, about the system of abuse designed against them from the start. I heard stories of young boys raped by their fathers, or friends of their fathers, or about the drugs used to coerce them into sexual activity. Sadly, just like a UFO witness, they are usually written off and never taken seriously, especially if they have a record of drug abuse or mental illness. Seems to be a pattern, doesn’t it? 

That said, these men are not solely victims. If anything, they took their trauma and turned it to their advantage. I’d like to take this moment to thank them. They’re unsung heroes—each and every one—in a nation that often shames them. 

Yet as proud as I am of these sex workers, my heart was equally broken. These stories were painful to hear, to say the least. I quickly grew paranoid of people around me, even friends at times. There were other times I sat alone in my apartment, bawling over the men I had lost, along with the pain others had experienced. This only strengthened my resolve to end it. 

To top this all off, my final discovery came just two months ago. Turns out there’s an X account publicly teasing me about this entire affair. The account even references this column and, according to the receipts, started well before I noticed concerning signs about my ex in the first place.  

Hello there, dear X account. It appears you’ve been observing me. Consider this my proverbial tapping back on the glass. 

Wow—there seems to be a lot of time, energy, and effort spent on little ole me. Why is that, I wonder? I’ve mentioned before I’m just a measly little barback who has been fired twice. Although looking back, those firings were strange too, weren’t they? 

Is it the abuse I uncovered? Is it the details of my lover’s past? Is it something I wrote? Is it a combination of the three? And is it possible that the little dark cloud that’s been following me in D.C. is more intentional than I once thought? 

I may never learn the truth on my own, but I can pose another question: what’s the only thing scarier than UFOs? To me there’s just one answer: that UFOs were never real in the first place. Occasionally, answers to unsettling mysteries simply unearth more unsettling mysteries. 

I mentioned before in this column that I arrived to D.C. naïve about the world, perhaps just as naïve as Agents Scully and Mulder. Yet in my naiveté I tripped on something: the rot hiding beneath the surface of our nation’s capital. No, it isn’t coincidence. It isn’t aliens, either. But whatever it is, I alone cannot identify it. 

Throughout my time uncovering this story, I’ve come across friends, acquaintances, and even relatives who suffered abuse, along with threats or shaming to keep them quiet. They come from all races, creeds, backgrounds, and orientations, and as it turns out, some of the infrastructure of power in D.C. and in towns across this nation are built around it. While I’m ready to tear it down, this isn’t just my story. I might be the one starting it, but it’s not on me to finish. 

The most I can do is hand the pen over to the victims. I’ve shared my part. Now it’s their turn. As for the audience: I hope you’re now ready to start believing.  

Jake Stewart is a D.C.-based writer and barback.