Lesbian Visibility Week, April 21st to 27th, serves as a vital global platform dedicated to celebrating and understanding the diverse lives, experiences, and contributions of LGBTQIA+ women and non-binary individuals across generations. This year, as we collectively recognise the importance of visibility and authentic representation, writer Roxy Bourdillon—an award-winning writer and the editor-in-chief of DIVA, the world’s leading magazine for LGBTQIA+ women and non-binary people—offers a uniquely intimate and insightful perspective.
In the following piece, Roxy thoughtfully details her eye-opening experience within the often-misunderstood space of a queer sex club, contributing to a richer and more nuanced understanding of queer culture and connection during this significant week.
Five feet away from me a PVC-clad couple is doing it doggy-style, thrusting in time to the techno beat. Then I spot a guy on all fours, being led around by a leash. I’m distracted yet again by the sight of two tattooed women fingering each other enthusiastically. I can’t help beaming at this. I’m genuinely delighted for my fellow sapphics, having such a lovely time. I have an irrational urge to give them a high-five, but think better of it. I suspect they would leave me hanging.
As a lesbian who grew up in a patriarchal, heteronormative society, the extraordinary night I spend in a queer sex club is eye-opening, entertaining and in all honesty enlightening. I learn more about the vast spectrum of human sexuality in one evening than I ever did in sex education at school.
How did I get here? On a minibreak in Berlin, my friend Bessie tells me that her birthday wish is to visit a den of iniquity she read about online. I am a very good friend. And, I confess, I am curious.
We nearly don’t get in. Giddy and nervous in the balmy night air, we queue outside the concrete, graffiti-covered venue. The bouncer wears assless chaps. A man of few words and two visible buttocks, he takes one look at us and shakes his head. “Nein.”
It’s true we don’t look very “sex club”. Bessie is in a cute top and jeans. I’m wearing a polka-dot sundress and wedges. The wedges, in particular, feel like a sex club fashion faux pas. Worried that Bessie’s birthday wish is already slipping through our fingers, I desperately explain to the bouncer, in broken GCSE German, that “wir are hier fur sex club und wir are kinky!” The sex gods must be smiling down on us because, reluctantly, he nods us through.
After paying our entrance fees, we head to the cloakroom, where people are undressing to reveal showstopping ensembles: harnesses, tutus, fetishwear. It becomes immediately obvious that we won’t be allowed any further unless we get our kit off. Obediently we disrobe and suddenly I’m starkers except for my matching floral bra and knickers set from Marks & Spencer. I’m in M&S, surrounded by S&M.
Shakily, I hand my frock and phone to the clothes check girl. She has already checked in her own clothes and is now at work in nothing but a crotchless bodystocking. Friendlier than the security guard, she seals my belongings in a clear plastic bag and calls me “zehr attraktive”. It’s a thrill, but also a social minefield. What is the sex club etiquette here? How do I return the compliment? “Danke, and you and your fanny look splendid”? I smile shyly, hyper aware that we’ve only just met and I’m in my pants and she’s not wearing pants and this is A LOT. But, I remind myself, I’m in sex club land now. This is no time to be prudish.