When the mayor of Lesbos tried to ban a group of actual lesbians from having fun on his island, I was sent to cover their visit. I learned nothing about my sexuality, but plenty about humility
The year was 2000, and some regulars from Soho’s legendary lesbian venue Candy Bar were planning a trip to Lesbos, which they advertised with a flyer titled “wet pussy pool party”, which somehow got on to the desk of the island’s mayor. In translation to the Greek, it became a bit more formal – a Greek friend translated it back to English for me as “suppurating vagina swimming event” – and the mayor of Lesbos banned the lesbians from the island. It turned out he didn’t have the authority to do that, and they went anyway. This is why local government is harder than it looks.
I went over to cover the event for London’s Evening Standard. Frankly, it would have been better to send a gay woman. I meant well, but I had only the very sketchiest notion of inclusive language, as in, I didn’t know whether I should call it a “lesbian bar” or just say “gay bar” and then indicate later that it was full of women.
