On a cool spring evening in 2019, I found myself in shiny silver pants and a crop top, standing self-consciously at the bus stop opposite my friend’s South London flat. A break from breathing in their living room mould, we were en route to a queer club night that only welcomed those who were not cisgendered men.
As a genderless, awkward being, I’d allowed myself to bubble with glee at the idea that, for one of the first times in my life, I was going to experience what it was really like to be gay. The fluidity of a queer London gathering was about to wash over my tense, tired bones. It was going to be liberating, gorgeous, indulgent, ridiculous.
To my surprise, my friends and I ended up congregating in the quietest part of the club, drinking soda and combing through excuses to leave as early as possible. Not as exciting as assumed.
So… maybe I don’t fit in with your typical queer club night-goer. That’s fine, right? Not a big deal. It’s not like when you come out, you immediately turn in your favourite mug and fuzzy socks. Queerness is ultimately about liberation, and an individual’s interpretation of the LGBTQ+ experience is entirely personal.
“There isn’t a lot of opportunity to bond with my community in spaces that aren’t plagued with £9 cocktails”
I’ve tried to understand that. Really! I spend my Saturdays with a cup of Earl Grey and watch videos of strangers on YouTube telling me what they eat in a week until I fall asleep in front of the harsh blue light of my age old MacBook Air. Wash, rinse, repeat, right? What exactly am I missing out on? Sweaty 20-somethings? I can sweat for England under the comfort of my bedsheets, thank you – I don’t need to pay £5 for a flimsy wristband in order to have a good time.
Except, there isn’t a lot of opportunity to bond with my community in spaces that aren’t plagued with £9 cocktails. The loneliness comes back, and I wonder what my friends are doing – what I could be doing if I wasn’t afraid to step out of my comfort zone. I could be a shimmering beacon of lesbian excitement, if only I was to embrace the queer culture of night life, something so historically important and integral to the LGBTQ+ experience.
Another integral part of queer culture is pride month, which comes by every June.
Pride month has never been, and should never be, quiet. I’ve never been particularly soft in my queer presentation, and the sheer volume of the protests that laid the foundations for the Pride parades we are so familiar with today have allowed that. I’ve been beating strangers and friends over the heads with my reflections on identity since I was 14, but in spite of that... I still don’t feel ‘right’ at a gay club. I feel like I stick out. The extroverted gays, they can sniff out my discomfort, and they don’t want to give me a chance. I get out my phone and I scroll through the health app to see how many steps I’ve taken that day, half sober, and definitely not occupied with having fun. Carly Rae Jepsen blares behind my ears and I sing along to myself.
“This June, look out for your displaced, lightly confused gay friends. You can identify them from the blank stare that they might acquire in the parade crowd.”
Where do the quiet gays go? It’s a question that comedian Hannah Gadsby brought up in her stand-up special Nanette, and I think about it a lot. Maybe they take to the internet. Is there a Reddit forum for quiet gays that I just haven’t found yet? Can someone direct me to it?
Maybe the circle of dissatisfaction continues from there. Finding my place and feeling a hole that I thought I’d filled.
This June, look out for your displaced, lightly confused gay friends. You can identify them from the blank stare that they might acquire in the parade crowd, and how quickly their voices may give out from chanting. They aren’t used to it. Offer them a cup of tea.
If you are a quiet gay, take care of yourself, but don’t knock being loud until you try it. Your copy of Fun Home will still be there once you step out of the Uber home and back into your flat. Get excited, be proud. Find whatever feels good.
And know I’m right here with you.
Kat Albiston is a freelance writer. Follow them on Twitter at @mossheadlives