I was thrilled to be part of The Queer Beach exhibition on display at Jubliee Library and at the sea front gallery organised by The Socially Engaged Art Salon (SEAS) – You can see the whole exhibition online here and read my exclusive story here:
The perfect lesbian beach by Helen Trevorrow
We are here in every weather, in the frothy swell of winter, and the viscous skin of Spring. But on this, the perfect lesbian beach, we always begin at dawn, our collective breath taken as we descend into the cold spice of water. We prefer the Summer, naturally, but still we undress, breathe and dip our bodies into the sea on each and every day of the year, including Christmas.
Our laughter rides the surf, amplified, and undiminished. On the beach we are all at once together again recharged in our original source. You can tie us up and throw us in but us modern-day witches, will always float.
The only cock we see for miles comes with a tail and served over plenty of ice. Please note that this is an all-inclusive fantasy resort and we welcome all women. In the designated VIP area, Cate Blanchett, dressed in a vintage Carol Aird-esque swim-suit and 1950’s over-sized sunglasses reclines on a sun-lounger while beach boy Timothee Chalamet attends to her fringed umbrella.
From the shallows Jodie Foster screams out encouragement, blowing her whistle at swimmers, and as the energy of the day builds Kristen Stewart, encircled by a gang of pals, arrives on a jet ski doing doughnuts, and spouting loud dance music from her engine. Many of us deserve the pleasure of solitude. We are all goddesses when we hit the beach away from prying eyes. We sometimes like to be alone, dripping in solitude, free to be ourselves.
But on this perfect beach we are all together. Scores of women run across the sand, (shingle and stone), attired in the uniform of SuperDry, some in much much less, we hope, yet most of us in Dry Robes. We like tight neoprene suits, swimming gloves and distressed baseballs caps. But mostly we pray for women to run towards us with those plentiful puppies, beautiful bouncy puppies in all shapes and sizes (no pun intended) for our beach is a canine paradise.
We leave our cats at home. We have a lot of stuff. Barbecues, sauces, bottles of fizz, windbreakers, paddleboards, kayaks, deck chairs, large speakers and a gazebo just in case it rains. We are mothers after all, used to caring for little people, but today we have the babysitters in and from time to time we check our phones to see that all is well.
To transport the many things we bring and parked in neat rows are our camper vans; the Mazda Bongo, the VW Transporter, and the Ford Transit van, fully converted, at great cost by a man in Wales. The sun blares down on us and once the temperature starts to rise the DJ turns up the heat and dishes out house music, her black skin shining, she smiles, moves her head to the beat, long braids whirling.
We don’t queue. Delightful tapas is brought to us by senoritas, and plates of sushi delivered to our sun loungers. We barbecue like Australians, chatting while we cook and drink beer and Champagne, while ensuring that there is separate provision for our vegan sisters. No toxic love here just good vibes. And love there is. Old love holding hands and rubbing sun cream into each other’s backs, new love touching fingers, staring and rubbing sun cream into each other’s bodies.
England’s glorious women’s football team organise a barefoot kick-about with us in the sand. We respectfully tackle them. An androgynous Olympic team of volleyball players leap about athletically, their efforts underscored with whoops and grunts. Occasionally we turn our heads to listen, and to stare. And as the sun sets, our we gather around the glowing embers of the fire to talk and laugh. And we imagine a huge superyacht arriving to transport us, one and all to Lesbos, our spiritual home.
Helen Trevorrow 