Last Friday, I attended my second Meetup for London International Lesbians. „L“, the organizer, is the goddess of women’s secrets, an icon of her time, secretly a queen, but she is unaware of it. While I engage in conversations with various women and answering the same questions over and over like a robot, my gaze silently and repeatedly drifts across to finding L while the sound of an electric guitar in the background slowly fills me in. She is like a hidden object. Suddenly I catch a whisper of her inner voice, „Find me“. I’m drawn into her intense eyes so focused, trying to keep everyone and everything in sight.

She scans across the bar to make sure everyone is having a good time, with a drink on their hand and no one is left out. Now she is sitting on the edge of a sofa, her expression remains deceptively still, crossing her legs, her hand is holding the other elbow that sits on her thigh, and her chin is resting on her index and middle fingers of the other arm. So noble and calm, as if there were no pulse, like the iconic Elizabeth Tower, aka Big Ben. Only her eyeballs flicker across the room. And when her non-verbal gaze of  „is everything alright?“ slowly approaches me,  I play it cool, either diving into a conversation with nearby ladies or casually taking a sip of my wine.

The evening surrenders to the night and falls into the arms of forgetfulness. Every time newcomers arrive, she greets them with kisses on the right cheek, kisses on the left. And butterfly whispers in my belly. She kisses many cheeks in one night. And all these women are headed towards the bar counter to quench their thirst. There, the thirst of desire accumulated at that counter, and the bodies skilfully nestled against each other. Glances, stares and smiles are exchanged. I’m not really listening to the most conversations. Instead my gaze drifts to the window, where a rainbow flag dances the Charleston into the void of this London alley. „L“ sitting on a green velvet sofa. Her silk kimono, perfectly matches the decor of the room; the combination of resembling tulips, green leaves, and pink blossoms. A sofa full of women, full of beautiful water lilies.

So tonight, I hold on to my thoughts to fly away with them. My second meetup. A spring trickles refreshed over old acquaintances, tickles new encounters, strokes them, clasps them, admires them, memorises them. Their colours are vivid. To shake these dried flowers from my pillow, years later, I let them dance out the window, one two three, one two three, into the open sky, because they keep me awake at night. They return. Delicate hands, like brittle petals, leaves on thin stems, reach out, haunt and transfix me. In the Retro Bar. Near Charing Cross Station. A magical bar. You ascend a staircase. Leave all burdens waiting below. You stand in a pink room, with all the artists and legends. Madonna, The Cure, Nina Hagen, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Sinéad O’Connor, Yoko Ono, The Talking Heads, and The Rolling Stones. All our icons conversing in pictures, in a dull echo of countenance and honor, in a golden frame.

So proudly they adorn the old walls. Close together, all the stories woven into fairy lights, so delicate, thousands of little colorful lights. An enchanted memorial, as if they were all raising their glasses with us. „Who wants to live forever?“ I hear Freddie Mercury sing in his frame.

I took the Jubilee line from Bermondsey and changed to the Northern Line at Waterloo. Whistling, I jumped out of Charing Cross Station, leaving it behind and disappearing to the right. About 3 minutes later, a few steps on the right lead down into a long narrow alley. In this narrow alley, the Retro Bar stands alone, like a proud only child. It entertains its guests even before they enter the bar and thus, one of millions of possibilities seduces them into dreaming in London.