Brandon is a published author, writer, blogger, and podcaster on https://brandonellrich.substack.com. I love cooking, cats (there's a comma between those two 😝), tennis, reading, and watching movies. Please subscribe to my channel and visit my website.

Brandon is the most accomplished gay chef ever, on par with Dylan Hollis, and just as funny

“ I’ve had fun recording these live cooking and baking videos, and I’m so glad that other people enjoy them too! If you have the means, I’d appreciate it if you’d become a paid subscriber to help support me. I rely on Substack as part of my income, and I’d love to make it a full-time gig. It’s $6 per month or $60 per year.” — Brandon Ellrich

Trigger Warning: This article includes language and descriptions of violence against the Queer Community. It’s been 27 years since Matthew Shepard was brutally beaten, tortured, tied to a fence, and left for dead, all because he was gay. He eventually died six days after the attack, but simply saying he was “murdered” would be sugar-coating it. During the two decades since this attack against an innocent young man, we’ve seen progress. The Respect for Marriage Act legalized gay unions, more companies prominently express support for the LGBTQ+ Community, and we’ve seen an increased representation in political positions as well as in films, TV, and other media. But hatred never dies. It only sleeps until someone wakes it up — someone evil, maybe even the Devil himself.

Hatred for the Queer Community is wide awake once again. We see it in the outlawing of displaying Pride flags. Representation is pulled out from under our feet as rainbow crosswalks are erased. Trans people feel it in the restrictions of gender-affirming care. We all feel it when citizens — and even prominent public figures — label us as terrorists or express the desire for us to be killed. Most people who grew up as part of Generation X in the United States probably heard about the horror inflicted on Matt. At least, I hope you did. When this 22-year-old gay college student walked into a local bar in Laramie, Wyoming, he had no reason to be afraid. The bartender knew Matt, as he’d been there many times, and the bar was in the same town where he was attending college.

Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson were strangers to Matt, but they offered him a ride home. To further entice him, they pretended to be gay. During the ride, Aaron pulled out a gun and used it to hit Matt repeatedly. He alleged that Matt made a sexual advance, but only after the gun appeared, which makes no sense. Even so, would that justify beating him with the gun? They drove to a remote location where they continued to pistol-whip and torture Matt. Then, they tied him to a fence, took his wallet and shoes, and left him there to die. October nights in Wyoming sometimes dip down near freezing. He was there for 18 hours before he was found.

Though he was taken to the local hospital, his injuries were so severe that he had to be transported to another hospital with a more advanced trauma facility. The incident garnered national attention, with all major news outlets flocking to rural Wyoming. Candlelight vigils were held, and hospital administrators provided regular updates to the press on Matt’s condition. Matt never regained consciousness and died six days after the attack. Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson didn’t know Matt, but they knew he was gay. After Matt was found, along with evidence linking the two men to the incident, McKinney was taken into custody and interrogated by Detective Rob DeBree.

The transcription of McKinney’s confession shows DeBree asking McKinney what Matthew looked like. McKinney responded, “Mmm, like a queer. Such a queer dude?” “He looks like a queer?” DeBree asked for clarification. “Yeah,” McKinney confirmed. “Like a fag, you know?” Many people wanted to downplay the attack, claiming it was a robbery gone bad. However, McKinney’s confession, along with the “Gay panic defense” that defense attorneys employed, leaves no doubt that this was a hate crime.

The two young men were charged with aggravated robbery, kidnapping, and attempted murder. After Matthew’s death, the charges were upgraded from attempted murder to first-degree murder. Both men were eligible for the death penalty. Henderson avoided trial and the death penalty by confessing to kidnapping and murder. He was sentenced to two consecutive life sentences. McKinney went to trial and was found guilty of felony murder. Matthew’s father, Dennis, read a statement directed to McKinney after the verdict. In it, he granted life to his son’s murderer and told him he had Matthew to thank for it. Matthew’s family worked out a deal to remove the death penalty as a possible option for sentencing. McKinney was sentenced to two consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole. Earlier this year, Russell Henderson applied for a commutation of his sentence, but it was denied. I wrote a blitz poem to bring awareness to violence enacted on people in the LGBTQ+ Community. Mouse Without Tale

Brandon recounts the suffocating weight of growing up queer in the church—praying desperately for God to change them, then begging to die when transformation never came. The homophobia festered entirely inward, a blade turned against themselves rather than others. While many with internalized hatred lash outward at openly LGBTQ people, theirs was a silent, self-directed violence. The confession pulses with the ache of fervent prayers unanswered, the exhaustion of fighting their own existence, and the crushing isolation of self-loathing.

Three queer voices converge on National Coming Out Day, trading stories thick with nostalgia and hard-won freedom. One spent years cloaking himself in girlfriends; another navigates the sharp stares of rural Missouri in makeup and earrings. They dissect open relationships with surgical honesty—unpacking jealousy like childhood wounds, tracing fear to its root in the body's core. The conversation pulses between vulnerability and defiance: wearing "Gay as Fuck" shirts through hostile territory, finding liberation in being desired, learning that love doesn't demand monogamy to mean devotion.