I’m off to a masquerade thing this weekend, and so need to sort out a suitable mask for Lady S. Fortunately there’s a place near me that stocks all sorts of things so I’ve dragged myself out of bed in my day off to pop down to Kingston.
It’s a bit soggy. It’s raining so much the pigeons are hiding under the old barbecue on my balcony. From the sound of the cooing they’re busy making new pigeons. I’m half expecting to see them wearing galoshes the next time they’re perched on the railings.
Being Pride month, and an obstinate bugger, I’ve thrown on my Queer Umbrella t-shirt. It’s buried under my hoodie and thick coat, but it’s there. The last time I wore it was while at Con when popping out for supplies while Lady M was laid up with a migraine and heatstroke.
On that occasion I had a man yell “Queer!” in my face, which I suppose proved he could actually read. I looked at him. Every cosplayer on the street looked at him. He looked up in the silence and realised I was a head and a half taller than him and twice as wide. He dipped his head and went away.
I’m lucky. I’m a white male who easily fits into the bear stereotype in appearance. I’ve woken this morning to read two stories of homophobic assaults just in the first ten minutes of being awake, and as many incidences of people shouting about straight pride. I’m not dignifying that with capitals.
Pride is protest and visibility in the face of aggression. It’s political, it always has been, it started as a riot in the face of police brutality.
I’m queer. I’m bisexual, polyamorous, sex-positive, kinked and not going anywhere. Sorry, not sorry.
Just, who ordered all this rain?