WORDS ROXY BOURDILLON
I’ll always remember my first Pride. I was fresh off a 32-hour flight to Sydney, but jet-lag be damned, I wasn’t going to miss out on Mardi Gras. I had never seen so many queer people in one place and, god, we looked gorgeous: leatherclad dykes on their Harley Davidsons, topless tomboys skipping along behind them and glistening Adonises being worshipped like the disco gods they were. It was a magical, euphoric experience, Disneyland for gay grown-ups. Here was the very thing I’d buried, for fear of other people’s reactions, being celebrated in the streets. I had never felt so happy to be a homo.
Incredible things happen at Pride. People fall in lifelong love or momentary lust. They come tumbling head-first out of the closet, they march for causes they care deeply about and they express themselves with wild abandon. It’s the one day of the year when we all come together, but despite that heart-warming sense of unity, we each have our own unique Pride experience.