The Gay Handmaid’s Tale: Abortion Bans, Queer Cages, and MAGA Mike’s New Job

So, here we are in 2025: Trump 2.0 is back in power, and—surprise, surprise—America is falling apart faster than a glitter-covered drag queen's wig at last call at a gay bar. Trump’s off playing golf while his corrupt, bribery-ridden cronies are running the show, cranking out laws like the dismantling of ObamaCare straight from Project 2025, with gay marriage next on the chopping block. Everything’s spiraling toward disaster. But somehow? Somehow, gay bars are still hanging on—for now, at least. Guess we have Lindsey Graham to thank for that. After all, he’s probably more invested in saving them than anyone else. Never mind that Grindr, RuPauls Drag Race and Andrew Christian have all been shuttered or months. It's almost like they're trying to erase everything we love—oh wait, they are. We’re clinging to the edge, but hey, cheers, right?

Enter MAGA Mike. Unemployed and clutching a Coors like it’s his ticket to the good life. I mean, it could be worse, right? The one thing this guy is actually smart about? Knowing he’s got zero chance of pulling in anyone at a straight bar. So, naturally, he waltzes into the gay bar one night, wearing his Make America Great Again cap, thinking it might make him seem more interesting or edgy. His whole vibe screams, "I know I’m the hottest guy in the room." But let’s be honest—he’s about as thrilling as the last crusty hand towel in a sketchy highway rest stop.

He’s the type of guy who thinks that watching football and listening to Joe Rogan makes him more appealing. Spoiler: it doesn’t. His strategy? Assuming that being in a gay bar is enough of a novelty to get him some attention. And, ironically, he’s right—it does get attention, just not the kind he thinks.

But your bestie? Your ride-or-die BFF? Well, she’s had a few too many lychee martinis, and, in a moment of drunken optimism (or maybe desperation), ends up going home with him. You didn’t see it coming either because you know as well as anyone, this guy was not the type to turn anyone’s head.

The next morning, after she’s successfully managed to block out the trauma of the night before, you two share a laugh about it—because what else can you do?

You nudged her with a sarcastic grin. “Well, at least you didn’t let him think you were into him, right?”

Your girl, still cringing over the whole situation, shook her head, groaning. “He was so disgusting, and he wasn’t even good in bed. Like, I don’t even know what I was thinking.”

You both burst into laughter, but deep down, there’s a part of you that has to admit—you’re kind of proud of her. She never gets laid, and she somehow managed to avoid giving this guy a second thought beyond the regrettable drunken encounter. A small victory, sure, but a victory nonetheless.

By the time drag brunch rolls around, MAGA Mike has already become a laughable memory. He was the guy who briefly invaded your social nightmare, but nothing more. The whole thing feels like a bad dream—one you’ll probably laugh about years from now, but never want to relive.

A few months later, your girl’s period is late. You both stare at the pregnancy test in shock, as if it’s some twisted prank.

“No way, girlie, you can’t be pregnant,” you say, but the little pink line on the test doesn’t lie.

You stand there, awkwardly gripping your CVS bags—your usual haul of Fleet enemas and moisturizer—and your girl is clutching a pregnancy test like it’s a bomb about to explode.

And then it hits you: Who is the father?

You try not to think about it, but at this point, you can’t help it. Maybe, just maybe, the father could be some hot and hunky guy with a cute baby and a side of daddy vibes. You start to imagine—maybe this whole "family" thing could have some perks. A cuddle, a cute baby, maybe even a chance to snag some future straight man candy on the side for yourself.

So, you ask, “Girl, do you even know who the dad is?”

She hesitates, her face going blank for a moment. “Well, do you remember the guy in the MAGA cap?”

You stare at her, stunned. MAGA Mike? No way.

But your girl swears on her iced coffee—he’s the only one she’s slept with in the past six months.

And there it is. A MAGA-wearing, football-watching, Joe Rogan-podcasting dude. The guy who you barely tolerated for five minutes. And now he’s the father of your best friend’s baby. It’s honestly a nightmare.

And here comes the crushing blow: abortion is now illegal nationwide, thanks to Trump and his loyalists. Remember when he swore up and down he wouldn’t sign a national abortion ban? Yeah, turns out that was a little white lie to keep the red-capped rubes happy. And the Day After pill? That’s gone too, because who needs emergency contraception when you’ve got a president who can’t remember what he said five minutes ago? Classic.

Everything shatters.

Fast forward nine months, and here you are: your girl is a mom. But it’s not just the fact that she’s about to have a baby—it’s the whole nightmare that’s come with it. Ever since the government found out she was pregnant, the fetal personhood visits started. You’ve had to watch as they sent government-approved doctors to monitor the fetus every month, documenting its “progress” as though it was some kind of public property. It's not just a baby anymore, it’s a government asset. Your girl has been forced to comply with every invasive check-up and test, every step being scrutinized like some twisted reality show about who gets to control your body next.

And, well… your best friend, the one you used to go out with and cause all sorts of trouble with, has become little more than a federally controlled baby incubator. That’s what she is now—her body, her choices, stripped away, all in the name of “protecting life” (or whatever twisted, state-sanctioned rhetoric the government is peddling). She's not just your girl anymore; she’s a cog in the machinery of this messed-up regime.

Now, she’s home, juggling dirty diapers while you sit there, alone, trying to wrap your head around the fact that this is your new reality. You try to give her a little extra cash—anything to help—but you know it’s not enough. You even set up a GoFundMe for her, because, of course, unwed mothers aren’t allowed to receive welfare or any temporary assistance anymore. It’s a joke, right? But here we are, begging for scraps in a country that used to at least pretend to care about babies.

You can’t shake the thought that everything has changed—and not just for her, but for you too. You’re stuck in this dystopian mess, and no one can replace your BFF. The silence in your place feels louder than ever as you stare at the news, the latest roundup of immigrants flashing across Fox—because, of course, all the other news networks have lost their licenses to broadcast. The country is crumbling, but here you are, trapped in this surreal, nightmare version of your life where everything, from your best friend’s pregnancy to the future of your queer community, is being watched, controlled, and dissected by the very government that was supposed to protect you.

And guess what? She’s now engaged to MAGA Mike, the guy you wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot pole, let alone spent a second of your life thinking about. And now? Somehow, he’s in your life for the foreseeable future.

I guess on the bright side, he’s employed? Yeah, employed—of all things—working for the government, helping to round up immigrants. Because, naturally, that’s the kind of “incredible” contribution he’s destined for.

As you stare into the abyss, the question lingers. What happened? It didn’t have to be this way, did it? Trump won by just 4,000 votes in Pennsylvania. Four thousand. That’s it. That’s how we ended up here.

You sigh, already dreading the future, wondering what fresh hell will come next. Because this country? Yeah, it’s a mess. It’s starting to feel like the gay version of The Handmaid’s Tale, where every day brings new laws that chip away at your freedom. What’s next? Forced conformity at drag brunch? Oh, wait—those are outlawed too. A ban on rainbow flags? Oh, please, that’s already done. Hell, they’ll probably start arresting anyone caught wearing a glittery top or using the word fierce in casual conversation. It’s not a question of what’s next anymore; it’s more like how much worse can it get? God only knows, but whatever it is, it’s bound to be a Trump-level disaster.