A sea of bodies, glitter and rainbows flooded the streets of Central London today, as it happens every year in July and I was there to drown myself in all of that shameless and unusual beauty that is, well, life itself.
You can call it whatever you feel like: a freakshow, a “glass menagerie”, a masquerade, a lame excuse for getting some attention, a beautiful mess, a desperate cry for acceptance or a wild escapade from reality; it will move you regardless.
The moment you find yourself in the middle of the crowd, swollen by all that striking conglomerate of flesh somewhere beween grotesque and ravishing, you get a sense of freedom and escapism. Nothing is too much. There is no shame in it. You might not even understand half of the things that get promoted by the queer masses and you might have never heard of paraphilic infantilism, abasiophilia, bug chasing, troilism, or formicophilia, you might not be sexually adventurous at all, or the exact opposite of that. And it’s ok. You are among friends now. You can be whomever you want to be – invisible, or a gay leprechaun; a gross Queen Elizabeth or a unicorn; a human pup or it’s handler; a dizzy flag holder or someone taking a selfie with the mayor of London, Sadiq Khan himself.
You will learn that you can feel a sudden attraction to a man who looks like a woman but also to a black bird who’s blowing you kisses. Or…it looks like it’s doing so. You will want to touch some of those bodies out of a very urgent sense of curiosity. You will curse the stars for not having given you the gift of turning those gorgeous men straight. You will be constantly moving your head in a desperate attempt to see everything in a single glance, because what if something extraordinary were to happen right around that corner, behind that giant balloon, or hidden behind that large group of people? Oh and most importantly, you will definitely find yourself questioning your sexuality. A lot. So much so, it will embarass you but you won’t confess it to anyone. But we know…we’ve all been there.
And there is much more to this event than showing off, being ridiculously creative, exposing body parts that are still considered taboo in most cultures, cheering for the queer, witnessing public displays of same sex affection or giving away candy and whistles to rainbow flag holding bystanders. Especially at this year’s parade, as it marks a half century of LGBTQ+ activism, debates and processions, riots, pushing societal limits and making pleas for tolerance and integration that got us to where we are today.
The Pride Parade was first held in 1972 and started as a march demanding acknowledgement and equality, then slowly turned into the flamboyant and colourful street-party that we mark every year on our July calendars in rainbow crayons. But what this year’s organizers and members of the LGBTQ+ community don’t want you to forget is that it’s been 50 years since it all began, on the 28th June of 1969 with furious riots against a police raid that took place at Stonewall Inn in Manhattan, New York.
And there are different reasons to why regular people would want to attend to such an event: curiosity, a reason to dress up as their favourite childhood character and sexualize the hell out of it (or punish it for some reason), boredom, they have queer friends, they don’t have any queer friends, they are the queer friend and don’t know it yet, or RuPaul’s Drag Race brought them here.
For me, it’s the third consecutive year attending the Pride Parade in London – a great excuse to take thousands of photographs – literally thousands – of the sequened Kings and dancing Queens, get “free hugs”, bow down to creativity, lose sight of who I am and observe the female form in all it’s splendour.
That’s right, I mostly come here to look at the women. I wait for them to turn, flinch, smile, twitch, grimace, look my way and capture their expressions. I can’t get my eyes off of their bodies, as they come – short, tall, low waisted, oblivious to the crowd or screaming along with the masses, letting a graceless belly show, wearing clown wigs and shorts, too many layers or nothing but a swim suit barely covering their ample bosom, delicate or powerful, bruised, glorious women from all around the world made out of freckles and vitiligo spots, fishnet stockings, birth marks and blue lipstick, imperfections and wonder.
This year, as the biggest and most diverse celebration so far, included over 30.000 participants from 500 different groups, over 1,5 million spectators and some of the most outrageously daring cardboard placard statements I’d ever seen (from which, the most shocking were by far “Allah is Gay” held up high by a proud fellow that was followed by a homogenous group of topless muslim women with plastic penises glued to their foreheads and bellies – and then, the Orthodox depiction of Jesus pointing out to his rainbow aura). So yes, there were a few moments of shock and disbelief during this year’s Pride Parade that made me wonder whether there was anything sacred left in the world that hasn’t yet been turned into a monstrous joke (and then I remembered the Dutch designer Mark Sturkenboom’s idea for a dildo that can be filled with the ashes of a loved one).
But maybe this is what July is all about: love, freedom, glitter and madness – all, in one single queer-drenched breath.
Green Eyed Kisses,
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