F L A

I had felt queer pleasure before this night. More romantic and emotional, yes, but infinitely more restrictive and confining? Also yes. These intimate moments always came with the knowedge that we had a limit. Limits. Of the space in which we could be together, and the time we were allowed to share in a single day before we were confronted with some form of imposed shame. Subjected to guilt that would burn within us, lit by the flames of tradition, expectations, and, in our youth, our parents.

A certain brand of shameful secrecy that queer people sadly know all too well. An emphasis on the word ‘friends’. The sound of heavy footsteps that we had memorised, getting louder on the hardwood floor as one of our suspecting parents approached to ‘check on us’ in our childhood bedrooms. Forbidden from soft exploration, the celebration and gentle worship of each other. Needing to spring apart at a moment’s notice. Acting normal. Spinning a neatly packaged holy alibi that was believable to whom we needed to explain ourselves to. ‘Just in case’.

But not on this night. That old script didn’t exist. I am relieved to say that I did not once thinkof recreating that scenario on this night, my now young adult self, newly exploring the night in Fitzroy as a queer fem, straight out of one of Melbourne’s last lockdowns. I was welcomed to a gathering of shared and new friends in my friend’s cozy, unabashedly queer, shared apartment. The laid-back atmosphere paired with the excitement of meeting people, us