Dripping Queer Joy- Lick it Up
This was my second Pride being out and proud, and I’ve realized something: it’s all made up. Gender, the government—everything. We give it meaning. We decide what matters.
I’ve had enough of corporate Pride, so I skipped the parade and went to Dyke March instead. My girlfriend had to pee, I had blisters on my feet, but we caught the tail end. We marched a few blocks under the arch and passed Kween Jean—iconic for her rally speeches, from trans rights to “fuck ICE.” She wore a blood-red dress and somehow looked untouched by sweat, even as dykes and allies of all ages and bodies swarmed around her and the sun beat down.
We passed an older couple, probably in their 70s, holding each other like they’ve always known how. Like tree roots curved perfectly together. The march spilled into the Washington Square fountain, like it does every year—but this time, I saw it.
Exposed chests glistened with top surgery scars, sharpie slogans, and glitter—lots of glitter. People danced under the mist, bodies soaked in rainbow light—not the plastic parade kind, but real ones, refracted through grime and sunshine. It felt sacred. Like a mirage for queer folks in this country right now. But it was real. Even if only for a moment. They kissed, splashed, and laughed until the sun snuck away.
Later, we headed back to Brooklyn, giggling with the rest of the sun-licked queers on the train. Our tank tops read Dyke as in Fuck Trump in iron-on letters. Some people smiled. Others rolled their eyes. I barely noticed—I was too busy listening to my girlfriend talk about dinner. It was 9 PM.
Our final Pride Saturday stop: Sultan Room. When we arrived we passed the bar and Ribs by Lorde was playing. Wet bodies packed the room, shouting the lyrics like a war cry. Our friends spotted us and shrieked; we ran to them, arms flung wide, and sang together:
"You're the only friend I need
Sharing beds like little kids
And laughing 'til our ribs get tough
But that will never be enough"
I was 13 when that song dropped—peak Tumblr era. I bought it for $1.29 with a birthday iTunes gift card. I didn’t know I was queer then. I just thought I was weird. But in that moment, my inner teenager was right there beside me, hand in hand, jumping up and down.
And I was the happiest I’d been in a long time.
I didn’t know I needed that. But sometimes, healing looks like dancing under neon lights with your friends, in a club with no AC, dripping in queer joy.
And I drank it all in.
