It’s most familiar to me on the freaky back channels of Gay Twitter, a way for mostly cis gay men to comedically revel in their messiness. Like “schadenfreude” and “late capitalism,” there’s a literary quality to “bussy,” in that I’m far more used to reading the word than hearing it spoken aloud. Time slowed as I acquainted myself to the acoustics: the hard and guttural bus, the sí a definitive yes, though everything in my body was saying no. But the portmanteau of “boy” and “pussy” was uttered so casually - something to the effect of, “and then he ate this bussy up” - that I almost didn’t realize it was there, wilting next to a spicy tuna roll and a carafe of sake. This shouldn’t have come as a shock considering we were two gay men talking about sex. My friend recently said the word “bussy” over dinner.
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