By Rachel Brook
We’re living through the self-proclaimed “Dyke Renaissance.” But I’m bi, actually.
Yes, I’ve heard Renée Rapp’s album. Yes, I listen to Chappell Roan. The straights are late to the party.
Outside the Rio Cinema, a sign proclaims: CHALLENGERS at 6:15 is SOLD OUT. LOVE LIES BLEEDING at 9:05 is SOLD OUT.
Kristen Stewart is everywhere, and I’m definitely not complaining. Of course not; I don’t shut up about her. Kristen Stewart’s haircuts. Kristen Stewart’s tube socks. Kristen Stewart’s crotch-flashing outfit. Kristen Stewart, Kristen Stewart, Kristen Stewart. On my phone, on a billboard, on my t-shirt.
For some reason, I queue for hours to see the musician girl in red bartending at a fundraiser, and finally get inside to find the venue—a tiny former print shop with the signage still intact—has completely run out of drinks. But it was more fun making friends in the queue anyway, giggling as people hid from exes they didn’t want to see.
I Kissed A Girl, but IDK How To Talk To Girls.
Are all baristas hot and queer? Sometimes it seems like it, and the simple task of buying coffee is filled with fresh panic and possibility.
Almost everyone I fancy has at least one nose piercing, and now I do too.
***
Suddenly, Queer Brewing is all over the place. It makes me wonder, can you bottle queer joy? Can it be captured, canned, or kegged, then tapped and poured whenever you need a fresh draught?
I know what I’d put in:
The posts my friends send me from Sapphic Sandwich, Autostraddle, them. Sometimes I’ve already seen them, but that is not the point.
Gender-neutral hairdressing.
Turning up to dates in identical outfits.
Shirts, but no sleeves; this is the era of the gay little vest.
Rings, and removing them. Stickers. Denim jackets. Tattoo reveals.
Books, and talking about them. Rubyfruit Jungle and Rosewater and Cleat Cute.
Butterflies. Beads. Badges. Bruises that hint at nights filled with more pleasure than pain.
Poems screenshotted and shared, .doc and .pdf files in our chats. Familiar voices in my ear. Sharing our words, and thoughts, and feelings, even though it’s hard.
Joyful updates from across the Atlantic; euphoric selfies of Harry’s face changing on T. Pronouns and bodies change but people don’t. They only become more themselves, and it’s a privilege to watch.
Much better “me too” moments, and friendships that already were but now sprout deeper roots, and bloom stronger.
A couple buying each other the same book, Love Letters: Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West, and gifting me the spare. So many small kindnesses like this one, freely given. More than I’ve ever known, and with no questions asked. A free ticket to the theatre, a gig at the Roundhouse. A discount code in my DMs, just because they can.
And music, so much music.
Romy. FLETCHER. Paramore. Kae Tempest. Billie Eilish. Soccer Mommy. Dream Wife. Pale Waves. Tegan and Sara. Lauren Sanderson. G Flip.
The right song at the right moment. Hundreds of the right songs, for all the moments. Probably about 217 songs, if I had to be precise.
Liking queer covers of Taylor Swift songs better than the originals. Knowing all the songs that play through the speakers before a gig, and making new friends at gigs. Making new friends.
Listening to MUNA, every day. I do know a place. I know lots of places: The Common Press. Hackney City Farm. Queer Britain. Toilet cubicles with music piped in. My pink Barbie dream room.
Daring to lean closer on the Tube. Walks on canals, and kisses on kerbstones. Nights spent vibing hard outside Dalston Superstore, feeling that energy. Flirting over shuffleboard.
Watching films on rainy days, and sometimes leaving them unfinished. Portrait of a Lady on Fire is your favorite? It’s mine too.
And hands on thighs and fingers in hair. Legs entangled, and lips, and teeth, and tongues.
And that euphoric post-date feeling. Hitting play on my “Good Date” playlist. I was enchanted to meet you. And thinking, is this what Taylor meant, but knowing she’s wrong about some things. It’s okay they’re in love with someone else. It’s okay that they have somebody waiting. I do, too.
And going home, and telling that boy, the first one that mattered, how good a time I had.
That Bank Holiday Monday lying in bed, telling him how much I love them and miss them. How amazing is that?
***
And I wonder, will I ever be able to “keep it casual?” Probably not. That’s okay, I don’t want to.
How could I feel casual about these beautiful, vulnerable, magical people?
Come in. Let me in. Let’s make each other a little less lonely.
Let’s acknowledge our little rituals, and find names for milestones others might not recognise. We want to, and that is more than enough.
Rachel “Rach” Brook (she/they) is an award-winning creative and commercial writer based in London, UK. Their personal essay “A Window Opens” was included in City Lit’s 2024 anthology.