"Don't they have anything besides this hard seltzer bullshit?" I fume to nobody in particular. Only a handful of people are foolish enough to be sweating their asses off out here on the front porch, instead of inside, where they would still be sweating their asses off but also dancing or flirting or getting laid. "I think the good drinks are in the kitchen," says a young, heavily bearded white guy sprawled on the porch swing. "The planning committee got, like, ten cases of this stuff donated, so they're trying to offload it." I recognize him vaguely from the few Pride planning committee meetings I attended last summer and fall. I think his name is Mike. "Right." I sigh, pick up a seltzer and inspect it--Seabrook Black Raspberry--then drop it back into the sea of melting ice. I'm sure if I go inside, I could find something better in the fridge. Our hosts, Samantha and Aurelia, are craft beer lesbians. But Sam and Aurelia are also nonmonogamous lesbians who are, apparently, an hour or less away from a threesome with my ex-girlfriend Leah. I was inside for five fucking minutes before I caught a glimpse of Aurelia caressing Leah's neck. No beer is worth that. Excerpted from The Z Word by Lindsay King-Miller All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.