Feasting on language, love and lesbian liberation at Pride
In some ways, this is a lesbian wonderland: sitting on the grass in a packed Dolores Park on the first day of San Francisco Pride, the city dubbed “the clitoris of America” by legendary sex artist Annie Sprinkle.
It’s certainly a spectacle. Everywhere I look, there are visual representations of the concept of freedom: two topless young women, glitter patches on their nipples, flashing underarm hair as they raise joints to their lips. A butch with a daisy chain in her hair and a banner declaring, “My pussy, my rules!” A plump, brown-skinned nymph in a green bikini, dancing her way through the crowds to rejoin her tribe.
This is my second Pride in California this month but still not, well, a sausage. I want to be cruised like the beating of hummingbird’s wings, ie 53 times a second. But I’m just sitting on the grass writing all this down in a notebook, hoping I look cool, in a Patti Smith kind of way. Or am I just the very image of someone not getting laid at Pride?
I find myself single for the first time in years. Plus, I’m now 55. Oh, and I’ve been living in a cave for the past two years in the Mojave Desert so I’m a little out of the swing of the Nancy Drew business of learning how to find lesbian love in 2022.
I used to joke that the LGBT letters sounded like a BLT sandwich. But now there’s a whole new platter of sandwiches being brought out. From apps like Bumble and Hinge, I learn that alongside lesbian and dyke there’s a mind-boggling range of ways to put yourself on the Sapphic market. Many of them encompass not just who you desire (your sexuality) but what gender you consider yourself to be (the new obsession of our times). Popular concepts include queer woman, non-binary, boi, pansexual, poly, asexual, aromantic, two-spirit, gender queer, gender non-conforming, trans fem, trans masc, zie (gender-neutral singular pronoun), AFAB (assigned female at birth), cis (the opposite of trans), sapiosexual (if someone’s brain turns you on) and demisexual, meaning, I think, that you’ll only go to bed with someone if you’ve become friends first.
I’m fed-up with seeing the same images of kink & queer sexuality: tall, skinny white women wearing leather or latex
This is the age of retooling sexual definitions. Heteroflexible is a common one seen on straight swinger sites now (the new bisexual?). But the “Lesbian Nation” (as Jill Johnston termed it in her famous 1973 book) now seems to have divided into a series of islands. At Dyke Day LA, the women-specific gathering at Los Angeles Pride two weeks before San Francisco Pride, there was a general feeling that “dyke” is coming back because it’s apt for the anti-woman political climate currently at large in America: ie it’s both combative and “inclusive” (a big imperative in the new Lesbian Nation.) Of course, the mainstream hasn’t yet caught up with all this. I posted “dyke” in a Facebook message on the morning of SF Pride and got a message back saying I’d been banned for using “hate speech”.
Another headline in lesbian land these days is that there are no more bars. Of the 63,000 bars in the United States, only 21 are lesbian. Thankfully, a new initiative called the Lesbian Bar Project, fronted by actress Lea DeLaria, is raising money to keep struggling lesbian bars open and help fund new ones. Over $151,000 has been raised so far.
Inspired by this project, three New Yorkers, Rachel Karp, 26, Sarah Gabrielli, 26, and Jen McGinity, 42, set off on a lesbian bar road trip around America and reported back via a podcast (cruisingpod.com.) The three women declare Oklahoma to be an unlikely hot lesbian spot, although Karp admits that that there are currently “zero bars exclusively for lesbians” but “many that are exclusively for gay men.” She adds, “It’s strange and sad that gay male spaces don’t focus more on inclusivity as an active goal.”
“What, you mean there’s no lesbian Grindr or Scruff?” my gay male friend, Dirk, 51, said later, showing me the hot dates he had lined up for that night alone. Things seem much simpler in the Homosexual Cis Male Nation. “We swap dick pics and agree to meet for coffee,” he shrugs. I tell him it’s way slower on the lesbian apps. I finally met up with an “LLL” (Late Life Lesbian) after two weeks of texting. She was a traumatised former Mormon who still lived with her husband for security and financial reasons. “What happens if my legs get cut off?” she demanded to know twice during our date. “Who’s going to come visit me in hospital?”
LA-based Elena Rosa has set up a virtual nightclub project called Last Butch. She has reconstructed lesbian bars of the past, dating back as far as the 1950s – with voice recordings from historians and former bar patrons. “These bars are birthing grounds to explore and frame our identity, history and activism,” she says. “Because of this I believe they are sacred spaces.” The next virtual bar night is on 13 August.
In the UK, there’s still one remaining lesbian bar in London, Girl Soho. But it’s underground with no windows. Filmmaker, writer and former commissioner at Channel 4 Jacquie Lawrence (currently working on a script called Triple L about an LLL in Newcastle) made a successful documentary this year called Gateways Grind. It’s about the historic lesbian club on the King’s Road. She’s now looking into creating a lesbian members club. “A lot of us are older now. We don’t want scuzzy clubs with blaring music.”
Yet Siobhan Fahey, 56, the award-winning producer behind this year’s smash-hit outsider-lesbian documentary, Rebel Dykes, about a group of underground punk feminist lesbians of the 1980s, likes the rough and tumble summer festivals that make up the queer women’s social circuit these days. She uses the word “queer” about herself (“I love it for being such a vague word”) and doesn’t particularly care for women-only spaces.
She doesn’t mind laughing and dancing in muddy fields at the likes of L-Fest or Oban Festival, where she’s going later this month while the gayboys are sipping their cocktails in Mykonos.