FRUITY - Issue 1 (May 2022)

Meet Big Dyke Energy • Beneath the latex with Lola Haze • Radical dating STRAP

May 2022

ISSUE 1trans and non-binary folk for the LOUD AND QUEERFRUITY women,

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Photo by and Noraher Mariemartini.

Vatland Martine

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Photo by Nora Marie Vatland

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For the debut issue of FRUITY, we celebrate what it means to be young, loud and queer, inviting you into various pockets of the community. From the dark dungeons of London’s kink clubs to the novels you just cannot put down.

It is no secret that queer women, non-binary and trans people tend to be either overlooked or misrepresented in the mainstream media, which is why it is about time we write our own narratives.

Let us replace the fetishisation, all those boring tropes and the tragic endings with a kaleidoscope of success, empowerment and constructive discussion.

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Editor’s letter Editorial team

FRUITY is created by Martine Aamodt Hess, a year-long project forming part of her BA Journalism degree at Kingston University. Everything you see as you flip through the next pages is therefore written and produced by Martine. The magazine is printed on recycled paper using vegetables based inks.

In the South East, we meet the founders behind a sweaty rave and the matchmaker who is radicalising modern dating. A train ride away, we hear from Lynks, who is uniting drag and electronic beats in an amusing performance.

Our unapologetic queerness is what unites us and it has been a pleasure to give this love letter of a magazine back to our community.

Founder, editor and creative director: Martine Aamodt Hess @martine.hess / martinehess.com

This is FRUITY issue 1. Enjoy!

Cover photo:

@mayathings_ photographed at Big Dyke Energy by Charlotte Callis.

Special thanks to:

Adam Martin Bethan Elford Fiona O’Brien Lo River Lööf Nora Marie Vatland Queer Youth Art Collective Stephanie Robbinson

- Martine Aamodt Hess Editor-in-Chief

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Contents 01.

Regular

Editor’s letter

05.

Regular

The queer ABCs

06.

Community

For the love of carabiners

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Interview

Rebel, rebel, dating online?

12. Community “Representation is powerful but it’s not enough” 16. Interview Big Dyke Energy: Finding youself in a sweaty warehouse 26.

Inspiration

Six fruity accounts you wish you knew sooner

27. Interview Beneath the latex: Lola Haze on the shades of kink 31.

Inspiration

LGBT+ must-reads

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Regular

16 questions x Lynks

34. Community Confessions of the young & queer 36.

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Regular

Oh, to be a rainbow!

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STRAP

Photo by Lo River Lööf

Photo by Bethan Elford

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12 Photo by Stephanie Robbinson

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Words by MARTINE AAMODT HESS

Labels can be liberating once you know them, but they can also be confusing. Every issue of FRUITY will provide you with a guide to useful terminology so you will not have to reach for Urban Dictionary when discussing queerness.

Ally

Non-binary

Bisexuality

Out

Cisgender (cis)

Pronoun

Dyke

Queer

Fruity

Sexual orientation

Gay TikTok

U-haul

Do not identify as queer but stand with the community, support LGBT+ rights and educate themselves.

Attraction to two or more genders. A misconception is that it refers to men and women but it can be any gender.

Opposed to someone who is trans, a cisgender person identifies with the sex they were assigned at birth.

A slur, usually used about masculine-presenting lesbians, that have been reclaimed by the community.

Describes a member of the LGBT+ community. A slur that has been reclaimed by Gay TikTok.

Content made by and for queer people on TikTok. It can be informational, inspirational and comedic.

Do not identify with the gender binary. Instead, they can identify as male and female, neither or fluid.

Being open about sexuality, whether to family or co-workers. An alternative often preferred to “openly gay”.

Replaces a noun in a sentence and can therefore communicate gender identity. Example: she/they.

An umbrella term often used about people whose gender and/or sexuality does not fit the “norm”.

Refers to attraction (can be sexual, romantic and emotional). Should not be mistaken for gender identity.

Stereotype about lesbians getting serious and moving in together shortly after starting to date.

Heteronormativity Womxn The concept that heterosexuality is preferred or “normal” because that is what we are socialised to believe.

A much-debated alternative to “woman”. Used to remove the term from its patriarchal origins.

Intersex

Yassification

Generally used to describe someone born with anatomy that cannot be categorised as “male” or “female”.

A viral trend in the community. Heavily edited photos (makeup, airbrush, glamour) mocking influencer culture.

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A B C

REGULAR STRAP

The queer

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COMMUNITY STRAP 06 02

For the love of

CARABINERS FRUITY ISSUE 1

Photo by Nora Marie Vatland

Words by MARTINE AAMODT HESS

Smooth like butter against the skin. The gentle rattling of keys.

In various colours, shapes and sizes, the carabiner is spotted on the belt hoops of butches and femmes. But what made these metal loops a symbol of queerness? It is time to take a closer look at the obsession.

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tanding in the shadow of a yellow-leafed tree in Central Park, Andie Kent (@andieekent), 23, exclaims “I’m a lesbian”.

Pause for dramatic effect. “...and this is my carabiner,” they say and reveal a familiar object. The TikTok, posted in November 2021, has since gained 73K likes and is among the (close to) 500 videos of lesbians from around the world that are using the sound as an excuse to show off their carabiners. “I posted it thinking it would get a few thousand views, like my other videos. Suddenly, I saw an influx of notifications and the number of views soared,” they say about what remains one of their most-liked pieces of content. So, what exactly lies behind the magnetism between lesbians and carabiners, you ask.

Let’s go back in time, long before the height of TikTok. The story begins with our beloved masculine-presenting lesbians of the 1950s. At this point in history, many butches worked blue-collar jobs and carabiners were a practical choice of wear for those who needed easy access to keys. They naturally become a signifier among queer women, not only because utility wear is associated with masculinity, but because lesbian fashion has traditionally relied on subtlety. Communicating queerness comes at a risk and the power of the carabiner is that, while they seemed nothing but practical to an outsider, people in the community could recognise them. In the very beginning, carabiners were worn by gay men and women and could signal sexual preferences depending on the placement. Gay men soon replaced them with handkerchiefs but carabiners remain a well-known flagging device among women-loving-women to this day.

While carabiners were traditionally worn by butches, they are now also popular among “straight-passing” (appear to be straight based on stereotypes) femmes and bisexuals wishing to remain true to their style and simultaneously communicate sexuality. Similarly, queer people who have recently come out tend to appreciate signifiers, like the carabiner, seeing it as a way to connect with their newfound community. They might even feel more comfortable taking part in the community when they feel they “look the part”. Senior writer for Slate, Christina Cauterucci, describes carabiners’ significance in an article: “The beltside key ring is one of the most enduring sartorial symbols of lesbian culture, one of the few stereotypes of our kind that’s both inoffensive and true.”

Andie refers to the Mehrabian’s rule, which states that communication is seven per cent verbal and 93 per cent non-verbal, when explaining that signifiers provide a means for queer people to find one another without having to explicitly state what their sexuality is.

“Wearing a carabiner brings me joy as a masc-presenting lesbian. I love going to Trader Joe’s and seeing all of the other queer people walking up and down the aisles with their carabiners clipped to their pants,” they continue. Kerrina Williams (@kerrinarose), 24, who also jumped on the trend by posting a TikTok showcasing their carabiner, says: “Queer signifiers are empowering because you’re standing open and loud against a system that others you. You’re calling out that difference and embracing it.”

Kerrina points out that signifiers have always existed but social media has allowed for a more widespread and intentional creati-

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on of queer coding. “Platforms like TikTok have created spaces where people can learn from and celebrate each other no matter where they’re located. I think that’s resulted in queer signifiers being more widely known.” Similarly, Andie says the internet played a pivotal role in them embracing their sexuality: “The way these creators helped me come into my queer identity is what I want to do for others with my content on TikTok.” Boosted by social media, and more general acceptance of different sexualities, signifiers have become more outlandish than their predecessors. Whenever the mainstream co-opts these trends, they grow more exaggerated in order to still be recognised as lesbian. In other words, a far cry from the subtlety of the carabiner. “Lesbian fashion signifiers just keep updating themselves and getting simultaneously more obvious (like jewellery that says DYKE) and ridiculous,” says Tab Hawkes, 24, co-founder of Leftbians, an Etsy shop selling DIY gay jewellery. She uses the “lesbian earring” trend as an example. “A straight person may see someone on the tube with their lighter and lip balm on their earrings as ‘quirky’ but I see them as the queer icon they are. And I see the ‘practical accessory’ vein of our shared history and culture beautifully illuminating throughout the carriage.”

As queer trends continue to develop, carabiners still hold a special place in lesbian hearts, remaining one of the traditional signifiers that the mainstream is yet to adopt. Like Kerrina puts ever so eloquently: “What makes a trend queer is that queer people are doing it. Mainstream fashion can never take that history away.”

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INTERVIEW

Rebel rebel, dating offline?

Words by MARTINE AAMODT HESS

Whether it is the time-consuming nature of curating the perfect profile, the struggle to move beyond the talking stage or the ghosts you meet along the way, you are not alone in feeling defeated by dating apps. So why not try the hottest new trend of dating in real life?

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t is a cold afternoon, but inside Little Nan’s bar in South East London, it is toasty. Twinkle lights are glowing softly against the arching brick walls, and the eclectic trinkets and kitschy mugs radiate a warmth of their own. The space is booked for a Fruit Salad Social, a monthly meetup for queer people wishing to take dating offline.

As the sky turns dark blue, people start to appear, ordering mulled apple juice and sinking into crushed velvet chairs. Awaiting the night’s group of singles is a bundle of roses alongside a stack of conversation cards. Questions like “your thoughts on lemurs?”, “your favourite tradition?” and “the most romantic thing you’ve ever done?” will keep awkward silences at bay.

Nervous laughter and sweaty introductions quickly turn into lively

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discussions involving Fiona Apple, queer cinema and what side of Tumblr you were on as a child. The atmosphere feels so organic, you almost forget that gathering for a night of in-person mingling is bold in this day and age.

In charge of it all is matchmaker Kim Malone Crossley, who is striving to offer an alternative to the all-too-familiar online dating fatigue. “There are dating apps or super expensive ways to be looking for your future wife, but there is nothing in the middle,” says the 26-year-old. Under the name ‘A Whole Orange Matchmaking’, Kim decided to fill that gap with their own singles’ mixers, one-to-one sessions and matching for queer people searching for romance.

“When it’s solely on dating apps, you can lose the purpose of it.

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Kim ahead of the Fruit Salad Social.

Photo by Martine Aamodt Hess

You forget you are there to find someone you can connect with,” Kim says. They explain that when removed from the physical world, the focus quickly turns to the number of matches and how you appear to others, rather than figuring out what you want and communicating that. “Most people are presenting a very palatable version of themselves in their profile, and that is a very long-winded way of finding people who like you and who you can connect with.”

One of the people who have found their way to tonight’s social is Fliss Barrows, 23, who has the most prominent mullet of the group and is wearing a pair of heart-shaped earrings they made themselves.

“I’ve tried online dating but not seriously. I have all of the apps but I just know I’m not going to meet up with these people,” they say, highlighting the difficulties of moving conversations offline. The explanations for this barrier are many, one being that it is hard to tell whether photos reflect reality and whether true personality shines through the text bubbles exchanged before a date. Fliss says they prefer meeting people in real life because there are no expectations. You either take it or leave it. “I love meeting people. I’m here because I met a person at a queer writing group that I only met because of somebody at the London film festival who invited me along,” they say.

“I’m the opposite. I never do stuff like this, so I decided to step out of my comfort zone,” says Eve Flude, 21. Seated next to Fliss, they are wearing a long knitted dress complete with a 70s inspired floral pattern, bought specifically for the occation. In line with the lesbian stereotype, Eve explains how despite never having properly dated, they found themselves rushing into serious relationships which started on dating apps. According to Kim, this is the case for a lot of queer people because there is a tendancy to settle for a relationship out of fear of the other options.

In a heteronormative society, it can feel like the queer dating pool is incredibly limited and see that as enough reason to stay in a relationship that is not sustainable. “I recently redownloaded the apps because I was lonely, but I have been

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INTERVIEW

Kim’s events planner.

Photo by Martine Aamodt Hess

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were studying medicine in the Netherlands, where they also founded a feminist network. The decision to drop medicine and start a matchmaking service might not seem like an obvious transition, but Kim was eager to utilise the listening skills they had gained from talking to patients. Upon moving back to London, it felt intimidating to start from scratch and they reflected on how communities are created.

We’re just humans looking for other humans to spend time with.

”

following Kim for a while and I thought that instead of doing nothing on this app all day, I’m going to see what meeting people in person is like. It’s scary but fun,” Eve says.

There is no denying that dating apps are flawed, but that is not to say dating in person is a bed of roses either. Making the first move is always daunting, especially when the norm is that most people are straight. Sometimes it feels easier to do nothing and simply hope your crush also happens to be queer and can sense you are daydreaming about them while listening to Mitski’s ‘Pink in the Night’.

“Queer bars and clubs are the only places where you know that everyone else is queer,” Kim says.

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“On top of that, you have to be brave enough to ask if they are single.

And that leads to alcohol, which is not the most efficient way to find the love of your life,” they add. Kim is, therefore, determined to organise the kind of socials where there is no need for liquid confidence. The result is singles’ events involving crafting, zine-making, nail salons and city farming. In other words, events where you can make connections without too much pressure on time, conversation or fiddling with your hands.

“I don’t identify as a woman but I want to be everyone’s big sister in the world of dating. I want to be a supportive voice,” Kim says. Before becoming a matchmaker, they

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Considering the relationships formed thanks to the network they had previously founded, Kim knew they had the potential to create a community that mattered. “When people want guidance, I want to provide that. I just want to hold your hand through the process because dating is fucking awful sometimes but it doesn’t have to be.

We’re just humans looking for other humans to spend time with,” they say.

In the words of Kim, whether you are a total fairy who finds dating scary or if you identify as queer and spicey but your love life is dicey, searching for romance does not have to be a lonely journey. Navigating love is bound to be challenging but it is not necessarily made easier by repetitive online small talk or scrutinising dating profiles in search of potential red flags.

Regardless of your frustrations with dating apps, one thing is certain: if you think it is about time to reject the way we have been taught to date, Kim is ready to help you do so. “I think the concept of meeting someone in person - and sharing with a stranger your deepest desires and worries about dating and trusting me to find someone for you - is completely radical,” Kim says. You heard them, if you are ready for a hot queer summer, why not try something radical?

The Fruit Salad Social is hosted under a private arch in Deptford.

Photo by Martine Aamodt Hess

Fliss and Eve (from left) and their queer-themed stickers.

Photo by Martine Aamodt Hess

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Photo by Dille Doodle

Photo by Iesha Palmer

Photo by Rudy Loewe

COMMUNITY

“Representation is powerful but it’s not enough”

Words by MARTINE AAMODT HESS

Ariana Debose made history at the 2022 Academy Awards, becoming the first openly queer woman of colour to take home an Oscar. In light of this achievement, what better time to reflect on the meaning of representation? FRUITY asked three young and vocal creatives - who find themselves at the intersection of Black and queer - to share their experience and take on representation.

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RUDY LOEWE Touch on your ‘coming out’.

“In the media ‘coming out’ is often spoken about in a linear way. But this hasn’t been my experience as a Black queer trans person. I’m constantly negotiating coming out depending on where I am or who I’m with. I am very open about my gender and sexuality generally. But there are still lots of ways that this can be disrupted.”

makes it possible, for example, for the Conservatives to platform that they are the only political party in England to have had two women Prime Ministers, without having to address the harm caused by those women in power. And equally, having Black queer representation is meaningless if its used to uphold the same systems of power dominating Black queer people’s lives.”

Describe the lack of visibility “Representation can be validating of Black queer experiences.

Why representation?

and educational - letting people who have never seen themselves reflected know that others like them exist. But representation alone is never enough. Representation is not the end goal, it’s a tool on the way to achieving autonomy and liberation. Representation can be a way to have much needed deeper conversations, highlighting lived experiences and histories that are being actively suppressed.

But as a concept just on its own, it

“There are more examples than ever of Black queer characters in mainstream media. Unfortunately, these characters are still used as two-dimensional plot devices that propel other characters’ development. There is a lack of examples of Black queer experience speaking on behalf of itself and I think that the reason is that people in positions of power (editors, directors, funders, etc.) who would need to give up that power to let someone

@rudyloewe They/them.

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Visual artist, archivist and educator. else come in, and they don’t want to do that. Instead, Black queer people are invited in temporarily (if at all), to create something tokenistically.”

Which changes do you hope to see in the future?

“I would like to see more resources and funding being given to Black queer organisers, spaces, cultural producers and activists. Material resources are needed for real change to happen. And this would need to happen without stipulations - no expectations of something owed because of this. In order for real change to happen there needs to be a massive shift in who has power. One of the most important questions over the last decade for my artistic practice has been ‘Who is it for?’ I think of this as a central question for so many things. Who is this visibility for and who does it serve? If Black queer visibility isn’t nourishing the lives of Black queer people, then it isn’t working.”

Rudy centres their art around the lives of Black, queer and trans people.

Photo by Lo River Lööf

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IESHA PALMER @blvk.velvet They/them.

27.

Campaigns Officer at Mermaids.

Touch on your ‘coming out’.

“Coming out isn’t this one event you experience and you’re done, it’s a journey. I continually experience coming out or as Tanya so rightly put it ‘allowing people in’. My first real experience was with myself, after years of denial. I didn’t know what the other side would hold, how people (my family in particular) would respond. What I did know was where I was, wasn’t where I wanted to be. It was difficult. For such a long time I thought embracing who I was meant letting go of all that I knew. In choosing to live my truth there were some things and people I lost, but there’s been so much more that I’ve gained. My family struggled and still does, there are some family members who I’ve chosen not to share with and that doesn’t make me any less proud.

I’m learning that being proud doesn’t always equate to being loud, it’s always about being true to the one person who matters most, and that you as the individual.”

Describe the lack of visibility Which changes do you hope of Black queer experiences. to see in the future?

“The Black queer experience not being so visible, I don’t think is always a lack, maybe sometimes it’s out of preservation. Visibility without protection or context often just leaves us vulnerable.

You think of all the culture vultures - people and brands that have exploited and profited from Black queer culture while those within the community still struggle to be seen and treated as equal. We have seen the fruits of Black queer people over and over again but the lack of acknowledgement or credit is why we aren’t able to recognise it.”

Iesha works a UK-based charity supporting transgender, non-binary and gender-diverse people.

Photo by Iesha Palmer

Why representation?

“Representation is powerful and it’s crucial but we must acknowledge representation alone is not enough. We live in a society that is diverse in experiences, identity groups and culture. It’s important to amplify different voices and share their stories. Representation ignites the possibility of a thing: it’s possible for a trans woman to be elected, it’s possible for someone who is disabled to be a model. And on a more micro level, it’s possible to experience joy and love, grow old and be happy. Representation is the beginning. It’s the steps taken to challenge culture, fight against discrimination and create opportunities - that’s what really matters.

But if the representation doesn’t lead to change, what’s the point?”

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“What needs to happen first and foremost has to begin within the education system. There continues to be an erasure of Black queer experiences. There needs to be a proactive approach to creating that are inclusive based on race, sexuality and gender identity in curriculum, classrooms and education in general. And on a more general level, there needs to be acknowledgement and credit given where due. From music to fashion, to science Black queer people have been trailblazers and credit must be given.”

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DILLIE DOODLE @candyfae.luv They/them. Fae/faer.

23.

Influencer and visual arts freelancer.

Touch on your ‘coming out’.

“I’m a firstborn Congolese-American AFAB raised as a conservative Christian. I’ve always had pressure to be a perfect role model by not dishonouring our family name or deviating from the structures in place. Queerness, let alone transness, are not welcome in either of the cultural or religious spaces I’d grown up in. I came out to my parents about my romantic and sexual orientation in 2017. Things were said to me that I wouldn’t repeat to anyone and they even took the liberty to out me to their friends.

I was seen and treated differently for a few years. I regretted coming out until 2020, not-so-surprisingly sometime after I wasn’t being so ostracised. Internal conflict and external judgement go hand-in-hand.

Aside from supportive siblings and cousins, none of my other family members knows I’m queer and genderfluid and I have no intention of mentioning it. I don’t regret anything though. The shock of being nothing like they wanted me to be really freed me from the shackles that had been placed around my ankles at birth. I’m free as a dove.”

Describe the lack of visibility Which changes do you hope of Black queer experiences. to see in the future?

“Eurocentric features being viewed as favourable pushes queer BIPOCs to the back and queer white people to the forefront. When you think of the LGBTQ+ community, one of the first things that come to many people’s minds is a cisgender white man in drag. The more Eurocentric features, the more likely you are to be listened to, placed in the spotlight, and given access to resources - because our society views said criteria as the best model.

If you have multiple marginalised intersections at play, you’ll be given less representation and visibility.”

“We have to abolish our current system. You really can’t “reform” a Eurocentric (and therefore racist) and misogynistic system that’s built on gentrification, stolen land, and the centuries of enslavement.

You have to acknowledge that the system isn’t working for the people it claims to serve, dismantle it, rectify it - by giving BIPOC’s a platform to be listened to, reparations, wealth redistribution, land back, et cetera. Then work together to create and uphold a system that’s, in essence, almost the complete opposite of its predecessor.”

Dille use social media to document their vibrant style as well as art.

Photo by Dillie Doodle

Why representation?

“Everybody deserves to feel seen and heard, especially those of marginalised groups. We all deserve to see ourselves represented somewhere, be it in movies, TV shows, commercials, or ads in newspapers. It’s important to see BIPOCs as the queer star-crossed lovers as a happy healthy family.

The neurodivergent lead in a show that’s not centred around stigma and trauma, as the jetsetter living luxuriously. We deserve to be seen and heard everywhere because we are everywhere. And when we are seen we deserve to be depicted in a non-racist, non-stereotypical way.”

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STRAFEEEGEP INTERVIEW

Big Dyke Energy Words by MARTINE AAMODT HESS

The name is enough to warm the hearts of dykes and those who love ‘em, but what is happening inside the walls of Big Dyke Energy (BDE) goes far beyond a good pun. As the rave celebrated its three-year anniversary on April 30, FRUITY met the co-founders on a mission to liberate queer people.

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STRAP “Having a safe space, where you can be yourself outside the heteronormative structures of society, is so important.”

Photo by Charlotte Callis

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STRAP At BDE, anyone who is not a queer woman, non-binary, intersex or trans+ (or exploring their identity within that umbrella), are expected to pay more for their ticket.

Photo by Charlotte Callis

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There is no dress code at BDE. Participants are encouraged to wear what makes them comfortable.

Photo by Charlotte Callis

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BDE is running a ‘don’t ask’ policy at the door which means nobody has to be anxious about self-identifying in public.

Photo by Charlotte Callis

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INTERVIEW 24

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elcome to hedonism and euphoria, to sweat and harnesses, to vibration and movement. With a commitment to queer women, trans and non-binary communities, BDE is inviting people of marginalised groups to “rave safely and freely to underground music.” Founded in 2019, the rave was quick to success, with sold-out events and a rising reputation. These are nights Londoners look forward to for months, which is reflected in their extravagant outfits and an elated atmosphere.

But among the city’s many raves, what is it about BDE that speaks to young queer people in particular?

It is a Friday afternoon when I log onto Zoom for a chat with BDE founders, Melody Jones and Elliott Clemenson. While work never seems to stop for the two, they are happy to celebrate the last day of the traditional workweek and greet me with a beer in hand. Getting the sense they have seen each other through thick and thin, I ask Elliott to describe Melody only using three words. “Capricorn, boujee (you love the finer things in life), motivated (you go after what you want),” they say with a smile. Then, it is Melody’s turn: “You’re kind, calm and cheeky.” They share a contagious laugh. The kind of laughter that makes you wonder if it might be a good idea to go into business with your best friend after all. The duo, now running one of London’s most exciting queer nights, was brought together by the LGBT+ venue Dalston Superstore, where Elliott was DJ-ing at the time. A request from Melody to play at one of their DJ nights quickly blossomed into a friendship, and as time will have it, also business partners.

“I felt annoyed that there wasn’t a party in London that was hedonistic and also catered to people who defined as women, non-binary or marketed to people who were trans,” Melody explains. This frustration reached a tipping point when she was approached by a bar asking her to start an LGBT+ night due to her background in teaching women how to DJ. Being a headstrong lesbian with a vision, this was an exciting opportunity, but Melody found that as long as she was working for someone, she had to compromise. It was time to take

“ We are givin

space to peo underrep

matters into her own hands. Be her own boss. Start her own night. The kind of rave the community was so desperately lacking.

Together with Elliott, she came up with the name Big Dyke Energy, and the rave soon found a home in South East London’s warehouse-turned-venue MOT. “And that’s how it started. We had the first party, it sold out and the rest is history from there.”

But to what do they owe their success? “When you walk through MOT, there’s a sense of euphoria and complete removal from the everyday,” Melody says. In other words, whether the feeling of repression is brought on by Covid-19 measures, the political climate, your sexuality or gender, BDE offers an escape. She continues: “The idea of having a safe space, where you can be yourself outside the heteronormative structures of society, is so important. I think that is why there is such a big calling for it.

People just need a release.”

Elliott, who is trans, has been nodding along and emphasises the significance of such spaces for the young and queer in particular. “At the age of 18 to early 20s you are discovering yourself and a party like this allows you to do that,” they say, adding that growing up as a queer person means learning that the world around you, including the majority of parties, are not catered to you. “We are giving sound and space to people who are underrepresented.”

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The dedication to creating a safe space was not a question, it was a necessity. Melody recounts one night she was misgendered when using the bathroom in a club. Security broke down the door and demanded she used the urinals.

She was only 21. Nine years have passed since then, but not much has changed. “It’s sad that major clubs can’t make their spaces safe for everybody. But we’re still in this scenario, unfortunately,” she says.

“I’ve had loads of instances. What annoys me the most is that when you raise it with the clubs, nothing gets done about it.” Drawing on their personal experiences with harassment, the two of them are determined to do better. “Compared to bigger events, we have more control of what goes on,” Elliott says and adds that they have a presence at each party. They can be spotted wearing staff armbands, making them visible to those who might need help but are not comfortable speaking to security.

Other measures include briefing the people working on the door, making sure they use gender-neutral language and are aware that a photo ID might not match how a person looks now.

Melody and Elliott take pride in having a strict door policy that helps ensure people feel comfortable to let loose for the night. They are in a privileged position because selling out before most parties means there is no pressure to sell tickets on the door. The rave is not

ng sound and ople who are presented.

Elliott and Melody (from left).

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”

Photo by Charlotte Callis

inclusive in the sense that everyone is welcome, but inclusive because it is made for people who otherwise do not feel welcome in a club setting. “We have a space and an atmosphere where people are happy to dance without their top on and don’t feel threatened,” Elliott says. Inside these doors, queer women, trans and non-binary people are the priority, compared to most parties which are geared towards cisgender men.

Considering the crowd, setting the event to dance music is culturally significant. “Growing up, dance music was incredibly heteronormative. I went to illegal raves in Manchester and all the people behind the decks were men,” Melody points out. “It’s a boys’ club but you discover there is a huge queer history of it,” Elliott adds.

BDE is paving the way for a more inclusive nightlife by going into spaces that are heteronormative and running queer parties from them - but it takes hard work. “We’re getting better with it but running a party that grew in success so quickly is really hard,” Melody says.

The founders both works full-time outside their commitments to BDE and have spent the past two years navigating how to organise a rave in the time of a pandemic.

While BDE was embraced by the community from day one, they were only able to host four raves before the country went into lockdown. As restrictions started to ease, nightclubs opened but they

encountered licensing issues and had to move the rave around to different venues. Paying their staff and DJs, and keeping tickets at a minimum cost, became a challenge when licensing was decided by the council at the last minute, and grassroots parties did not receive government support.

Despite the challenges, BDE is the labour of love for Elliott and Melody.

“We want it to be exactly how we envisioned. That is why we go through the stress of it,” Elliott says. Melody’s favourite memory is walking down the street and being stopped by someone telling her they met their fiance at BDE. “Whenever we are in the thick of it, I take a step back and look at this party that means so much to people.”

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h ya

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l queeryout ha By @ rtc ol

INSPIRATION STRAP

e tiv ec

By M

By Bethan Elfor d

@queeryouthartcollective (ig)

@myahismyname (ig)

@grrrlzinefair (ig)

Based in London and available to people aged 18 to 26, the Queer Youth Art Collective hosts free virtual and in-person workshops led by LGBT+ artists. Creatives are invited to join weekly youth forums to develop their art and practice.

Myah is an award-winning documentary and portrait photographer. Being a woman of Barbadian-British heritage, she is often inspired by personal experiences when shooting, tapping into themes of Black and queer existence.

Independent and radical, there is something inherently queer about zines. Having already collected more than 600 worlds bound in paper, Grrrl Zine is a library of feminist and LGBT+ zines, or “tender revolt,” as the founder likes to say.

Six fruity accounts you wish you knew sooner Words by MARTINE AAMODT HESS

Some social media gems are bound to slip under the radar at the hands of an algorithm - and for that very reason, here is a human and thoughtfully crafted list of accounts to ensure your feed is fruitful.

k8 By @

Growing up as an Asian, non-binary lesbian, Hina never saw themselves represented, and on the rare occasion a lesbian did appear on-screen, they were a part of a tragic storyline. Therefore, Hina uses TikTok to spread a much-needed dose of gay joy.

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@mielaklv (TikTok)

20-year-old Kai uses TikTok as an opportunity to document their life and to start discussions. As a result, the content is varying from daily vlogs to reflections on coming out to immigrant parents and wrongful assumptions about sapphic relationships.

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eeklyarn myw

sabz

@ By

By @mielak lv

@k8sabz (TikTok)

@myweeklyarn (TikTok)

Queer + crafts is officially an iconic duo now that 177K people, also known as “knitbians”, have found their way to Ella’s account. The 22-year-old is always keen to share their passion for crocheting, sewing, chunky yarn and even the lost art of traditional rug braiding.

INTERVIEW

Beneath the latex:

Lola Haze on the shades of kink

Photo by Lola Haze

Words by MARTINE AAMODT HESS

Ever wondered what it is like to be a queer dominatrix? Or what goes on in a fetish club? Maybe you have dipped your toes in kink but feel unsure about taking the plunge. It is time for you to meet Lola Haze.

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INTERVIEW

D

reamy dyke. Mean mommy.

Domme. Kinkster. Lola Haze goes by many names, the latter being the pseudonym you might recognise from Instagram.

This platform, once used to promote their sex work, has turned into a self-affirming record of their journey as a queer dominatrix. Follow @primordialpissing and your feed will be graced with fishnets, rope, latex, and other scenes that might seem intimidating at first glance. “It appeals to me because it represents everything we’re not supposed to love. It’s gross, it’s painful, and it’s scary,” Lola says.

However, being largely misunderstood by the general public, there are sides to kink that go unnoticed.

“It’s also beautiful, tender, and healing. I feel a lot more at home in the queer kink community than anywhere else.”

Kink can be explored individually or with partners, and examples include role-play and BDSM (bondage and discipline, domination and submission, sadism and masochism). By definition, kink refers to something experienced as sexual or erotic despite not being considered so by mainstream standards. Using spitting as an example, just because it is not usually associated with sexual pleasure, does not mean it cannot be subjectively erotic. Lola explains that you do not need to receive any conventional sexual pleasure, such as genital contact or orgasms, to feel fulfilled. “To some people in the scene, mental fulfilment is just as important as physical. It can be so sensory. I think kink really opens up your mind to what can be erotic,” they say.

Considering how physical contact has been lacking in the past couple of years due to the pandemic, it comes as no surprise that London’s kink clubs are having a

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moment. But the recent success is not just the aftermath of isolation and social distancing. In fact, the scene is being reconstructed thanks to a generational shift. The exclusive nature of these clubs is changing in favour of inclusivity and queerness. As a result, London’s kinky crowd is becoming younger and more diverse, reminiscent of the well-renowned scene in Berlin. And representative of the new generation is none other than Lola Haze.

Lola’s life offline is, in many ways, different from what you might expect based on the collection of tiny squares on Instagram. In Yorkshire, known among locals as ‘God’s own country’, with farstretching moors and deliciously green dales, the 25-year-old works as a bartender as well as a research assistant at their local university. Outside work, they pass their time enjoying long walks and reading. The book they are currently carrying around just happens to be ‘Coming To Power’ - a collection of pieces on BDSM in the lesbian community. “While I’m not dressed head-to-toe in black latex when I’m nipping to Tesco, this side of myself makes up a huge part of my personality,” they say.

In that way, Lola’s domme self is not an alter ego they reserve for dark dungeons. They are simply two sides of the same coin. But that is not to say it did not take time and effort to reach this level of self-acceptance. “I think discovering my kink has come hand in hand with accepting my queerness,” Lola says. Understanding the label as a mindset and energy, they admit that despite coming out in 2018, they did not fully embrace their queerness until the past year.

Lola makes it clear that their journey towards acceptance is much owed to online sex work, which they

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turned to during the pandemic.

“It gave me so much freedom to try things I had never considered sexy before,” they say. Being a sex worker meant being open and non-judgemental of other people’s kinks, which in turn helped Lola come to terms with suppressed desires of their own. “I spent so long not caring about myself and my own pleasure. Any urges or curiosities I had for kink I just ignored like I did with my sexuality for so long.”

Lola’s experience is far from unique, but why is the queer and kinky so often entwined? “Because we’re all deviants,” they propose and refer to the wise words of their partner: considering how queer people are often cast aside as freaks and perverts, why not embrace it?

“Kinksters and queer people have a shared experience with being ostracised because the way we love

STRAP Getting ready for the London-based and sex-positive party Crossbreed.

Photo by Stephanie Robbinson

and the way we fuck is ‘wrong’,” Lola elaborates. Because of social stigma around sexuality that does not fit the norm, many are drawn to communities where they can live out these “abnormal” fantasies. Naturally, an overlap between queer and kinky is found within these spaces.

“Finding a queer community in kink has made me more confident and accepting of myself as a dyke and a kinkster,” Lola says. In other words, just because whips and floggers make up a part of the kinky scene, that does not mean you will be met with hostility when entering a new space. Quite the opposite. “I didn’t expect how overwhelmingly welcoming it felt being there,” they say, recounting the first time they attended a kink event.

The party was at Klub Verboten, an example of the contemporary fetish parties picking up steam in

London. Compared to more traditional events, which centre around a specific relationship status, fetish or sexuality, this space resonates with young queer people because it celebrates sexual fluidity.

For those who are curious, Lola point out the importance of doing everything at your own pace. As the research assistant they are, they emphasise that online forums and workshops are at your fingertips.

Lola adds that before big events, you can usually attend more relaxed socials. “Be honest about your newness and your curiosity. There’s nothing you need to prove.” After all, communication and consent is an essential part of kink. Boundaries, likes, curiosities, and safe words are always discussed, as the scenes rely on a good foundation of trust.

“I’m still learning a lot about myself in my kink journey and it al-

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most feels like coming out a second time,” they say. The beauty of the kink community is that you are allowed to express parts of yourself that the mainstream will tell you to hide or guilt you into suppressing.

Here, you can test your curiosities in a space devoid of judgement.

While there is still much stigma surrounding kink, Lola is proof of the freedom that can be found among ropes and latex. Like with any community, it is not perfect. However, it is important to remember that these flaws usually have more to do with what individuals bring to the scene than what a whole community stands for. “There’s a wrongness to it that’s so tantalising,” Lola admits, but that is not to say anything goes. Kink is about letting go of societal boundaries and replacing them with your own.

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Since I laid my burden down Brontez Purnell

Things we say in the dark Kirsty Logan

What more could you ask for than two women sharing a love for art, an island, and each other? The author, Tove Jansson, is known as the creator of Moomin, but a lesser-known fact is her relationship with graphic artist Tuulikki Pietilä.

‘Fair play’ is technically fiction but is written as a series of vignettes offering an intimate glimpse into their lives. The book stands out because it portrays a side of love amongst queer women that is rarely depicted. With a delicate touch, Jansson documents the changing shape yet persistence of love between two women growing old together.

Writing about sexuality and religion is far from an original concept, but Brontez Purnell’s ‘Since I laid my burden down’ is a breath of fresh air nonetheless. The novel tells the story of a man returning to his rural hometown for the funeral of a former lover. The journey forces him to confront his past and reflect on how to navigate being Black, queer and Southern. With the help of humour and brutal honesty, Purnell cleverly juggles several complex themes, while continuously blurring the line between funny and tragic. Despite being a short read, it is certainly impressionable.

‘Things we say in the dark’ is a collection of feminist short stories that are as haunting as they are beautiful. With each story, Kirsty Logan pulls you into yet another magical and equally eerie) universe while speaking of fear, desire and body image. With the help of supernatural elements and looming horror, Logan captures the intricacies of being a woman. Some elements are also inspired by her experience with bisexuality and being married to another woman. Sensual, yearning and questioning are all words that come to mind when describing this bizarre piece of fiction.

INSPIRATION

Fair play Tove Jansson

LGBT+ must-reads

(that are not Call me by your name) Words by MARTINE AAMODT HESS

With its own cinematic production and merchandise, ‘Call me by your name’ has become an LGBT+ classic, yet it only represents a fragment of the queer literature worth exploring. There is, indeed, a world beyond the gay romance novels fetishised by straight people.

Can the monster speak?

Paul B. Preciado

Design in conservative times Joanette van der Veer

Queer Intentions Amelia Abraham

You might already have heard of the controversial lecture held at a psychoanalysis conference in Paris in 2019. The speaker, Paul B. Preciado, was ridiculed for his critique of the psychoanalytic establishment that deems him “mentally ill” for identifying as a trans man in a non-binary body. The audience videotaped and shared parts of the lecture without context or consent. To set the record straight, Preciado published the complete text. The book is a thought-provoking read, giving insight into how we can rethink our definitions of gender and queerness.

In ‘Design in conservative times’, curator Joanette van der Veer, invites six professionals (fashion and graphic design) to share reflections on conservatism and politics’ influence on design. The scope of the starting point allows for a collection of varied perspectives which draw parallels between feminism, decolonisation and queerness.

Still not convinced? It features an essay by fashion designer and LGBT+ activist Yamuna Forzani.

Her writing is clear and confident as she discusses fashion inspired by ballroom culture and how to organise queer-inclusive events.

Want to dig deeper than the three-minute videos on queer facts that pop up on TikTok? A good place to start is ‘Queer Intentions’. In this piece of non-fiction, journalist Amelia Abraham travels Europe and the US, collecting interviews about the complexities of contemporary queer culture.

What does it mean to commercialise Pride? What is Turkey’s underground queer scene really like?

Why are LGBT+ clubs disappearing from London? Highly informative yet plenty of personality means this book is hard to forget even once the last page is turned.

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16 QUESTIONS x LYNKS

REGULAR

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Behind the scenes of shooting Lynks’ ‘Hey Joe’ music video.

Photo by Adam Martin

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Words by MARTINE AAMODT HESS

What do London’s underground scene and Elton John have in common? They have their eyes on Lynks, who is bringing drag, comedy and electronic beats together in a performance no less than an on-stage art project. As Lynks prepared for their first-ever headline tour, they joined us for a fruity Q&A. Let’s get to know them.

If Lynks was an acronym, ta get taxing/ You’d have to keep up a mask on, every act becomes that front even when relaxing/ So authentic because you are not bawhat would it stand for?

“Lads, you now know sexy!”

What do you love about Lynks?

“Because of the weird niche I’ve put myself in - it being music but also freaky weird - I have full creative control. I love that there are no boundaries whatsoever.”

If your life was a song, what would be the title?

“Hannah Montana’s ‘Best of Both Worlds’. I have such a great double-life going on with Lynks being so mad and my everyday life being so wholesome. I get out my demons with Lynks and then snuggle my friends the rest of the time.”

The intention behind Lynks?

“I’m obsessed with the club-kid and genderless drag aesthetic, so I was thinking ‘what if someone was given a larger-than-life costume, with heavy electronic beats and jokes lyrics?’. Trying to capture that moment of peak audience entertainment is what I want to do.”

One song you wish you wrote?

“Dick in the Air’ by Peaches. It’s taking the idea of songs telling women to shake their tits or ass and flipping that to male genitalia.”

Favourite lyrics of yours?

“I really like the bridge in Str8 Acting: ‘Being a hot str8 boy’s got-

why the fuck should I ever wanna be str8 acting?’. As a man, especially a straight man, you’re not allowed to show happiness, excitement or joy. There are a lot of challenges that come with being gay, but on the bright side, at least I’m allowed to smile.”

sing it on how someone might see or judge you. At the end of the day, you can step off the stage, take the mask off and nobody knows who you are.”

Something you will never be seen wearing?

Most absurd thing to ever “You know what I really hate? A mid-thigh sequin party dress.” happen to you?

“On tour with Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes, backstage in our latex two-piece, before the first show like ‘are we really going on stage in front of rock and roll fans and sing about bechamel sauce?’. It’s like a joke that has gone too far but that’s what people like about it. It’s exciting to see something surreal going into mainstream spaces.”

Your style in three words.

“Sexy wacky wavey inflatable tube man. Not three words but it’s me.”

You can’t live without?

“I use Johnson’s baby shampoo every day for facewash and makeup remover. Heidi Klum uses it so if it’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for me.”

A guilty pleasure?

“I don’t believe in guilty pleasures, pleasures are just pleasures.”

Something people would not have guessed about you?

Most treasured garment in “Joni Mitchell has been my top Spotify artist almost every year. My your closet?

“The red glittery devil’s suit. I love it because it’s simple and effective.

No fabric to trip over or hit somebody with, it’s like a second skin.”

Why the mask?

“Firstly, I just like the aesthetic of anonymous couture. Any outfit becomes special when there is a second mask. In my everyday life, I’m very conscious of how people perceive me, but when you have

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music taste is very different from what I make.”

A question you don’t want to be asked?

“Often interviewers ask to try the mask on. It feels gross because there is makeup and sweat on the inside. I do let them though.”

Words to live by?

“Run towards what you want, not away from what you’re scared of.”

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COMMUNITY

“

“

I read somewhere ‘It’s not like there are more gay people today than in any other time in history. We are just able to finally come out.’ I think that describes it pretty well. I’m femme presenting and in a relationship with a cis man so sometimes being confident in my sexuality is difficult as people assume I’m straight.

”

“

I think the erasure of women’s and non-binary peoples’ sexualities is something we are talking about more but need to continue to talk about.

”

”

CONFESSIO YOUNG &

“

Gen Zers around the world - from and Bordeaux - share thoughts on

We are seen as being a lot more promiscuous and experimental when that isn’t true.

It’s just easier to work out your identity in these times.

Gen Z is more comfortable with expressing themselves. Sometimes I wish I was straight and identified with the gender I was assigned at birth. I wish I was able-bodied. But the only reason I wish that is because of how difficult it is to be queer and disabled in a world designed for straight able-bodied people.

”

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“

”

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“

In an ideal life, I can go out and hold hands with my partner down any street and not worry about verbal abuse. I can dress and present myself how I want, if I feel more masc one day or more femme another, I want to just do that without having to label it or justify it to anyone. We have the opportunity to question more freely without fearing scary consequences.

”

“ ”

ONS OF THE & QUEER Montreal and California to Berlin what it means to be young & queer.

“

I don’t come out to people anymore, when I talk about the people I am attracted to or dating I don’t make a big deal about their genders. It has been surprisingly freeing not caring about having to explain myself or my sexuality to everyone listening.

Even more surprising is the fact that most people really don’t seem to care, or they just accept my answers without questioning them.

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“

More open discussions are being had and more emphasis is placed on normalising gay characters in TV and music, it’s not the same trope of ‘tragedy’ or ‘abandonment’ as it has historically been, which is nice. The only remaining issue is that the inclusion of queer people has often been performative for the sake of companies capitalising off of their acceptance and supposed allyship.

”

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REGULAR

Oh, to be a rainbow!

Words by MARTINE AAMODT HESS

In the words of queer icon Soko, “you’re a rainbow now”, so why not embrace it? From gigs to art workshops, there are plenty of ways to connect with your colourful community. So, without further ado, here are the upcoming LGBT+ events in London you cannot miss!

Queer East film festival

The film festival amplifying queer Asian voices in the UK opens. The first screening is at the Barbican.

Queer Spaces discussion

Panel discussion ahead of the ‘Queer Spaces: An Atlas of LGBTQIA+ Places and Stories’ book launch.

LGBT+ artist workshop

The free art workshop in Guilford encourages participants to explore LGBT+ identities in a safe space.

The Watermelon Woman

London LGBTQ+ Community Centre screens ‘The Watermelon Woman’ - about a Black lesbian filmmaker.

Fruit Salad Social

The monthly meet-up for queer singles returns to a private room in Little Nan’s Bar (LGBT+ bar).

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Pillow Queens

Pillow Queens, a band made up of four queer women, are bringing their tunes to Electric Ballroom.

MØ

LGBT+ ally and electro-popstar MØ is on tour with her new album, stopping by the gay club Heaven.

Glasshouse exhibition

Installation of a monthly rotation of queer artists (prioritising disabled and QTIBIPOC) at Glasshouse.

GenderFux book launch

Readings and launch of the poetry book ‘GenderFux’ which explores queer, trans and nonbinary life.

Quiz for Stonewall

The London Art Bar is putting on a quiz night in aid of Stonewall, Europe’s largest LGBTQ+ charity.

Big Dyke Energy

Venue MOT opens its doors once again for a queer rave prioritising women, non-binary, and trans+ people.

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Q&A x Lynks • Confessions of the young & queer • Carabiners

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