Rachael Eyre's Blog
January 12, 2024
Adversary
You ask why I
Forgive him
When he betrayed
Me so completely -
When he sold
My dreams
My visions
Out of spite
And fear
When he lied
Straight to
My face
Knowing that
I knew
I should have
Watched him
Fall, never
Looked back
Heard the
Rumours
With a shrug,
A sigh -
Exiled.
Damned.
Forgotten -
Save for a
Secret crack in
My heart -
But I am his
Mother, he is
My son
Family is family.
Love is eternity.
Forgive him
When he betrayed
Me so completely -
When he sold
My dreams
My visions
Out of spite
And fear
When he lied
Straight to
My face
Knowing that
I knew
I should have
Watched him
Fall, never
Looked back
Heard the
Rumours
With a shrug,
A sigh -
Exiled.
Damned.
Forgotten -
Save for a
Secret crack in
My heart -
But I am his
Mother, he is
My son
Family is family.
Love is eternity.
December 23, 2022
Free Promo: Book 666
If you fancy something different this Christmas season, why not a spot of supernatural romance?
Beginning today and finishing 27th December, #Book666 will be free on Amazon!
“Being a demon is no picnic. Especially when your full-time job is trying to Tempt a nine year old who thinks unicorns are the coolest thing ever. Oh, and you have to send your evil uncle updates. No pressure.
But when Meg Wormwood falls in love with Selina, the Guardian Angel at her posting, all hell breaks loose. In fact, it may even mean the end of humanity as we know it …”
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Book-666-Rac...
Beginning today and finishing 27th December, #Book666 will be free on Amazon!
“Being a demon is no picnic. Especially when your full-time job is trying to Tempt a nine year old who thinks unicorns are the coolest thing ever. Oh, and you have to send your evil uncle updates. No pressure.
But when Meg Wormwood falls in love with Selina, the Guardian Angel at her posting, all hell breaks loose. In fact, it may even mean the end of humanity as we know it …”
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Book-666-Rac...
October 28, 2022
Free Promo: Hello Satan
It’s Spooky Month, meaning #HelloSatan is free on Amazon!
The second book in the Paradise Found trilogy, it’s the story of the war in Heaven and the Fall - as told by Lucky himself.
Why did he fall out with God? What really happened in Eden? Did he seduce Judas Iscariot?
There’s only one way to find out!
The second book in the Paradise Found trilogy, it’s the story of the war in Heaven and the Fall - as told by Lucky himself.
Why did he fall out with God? What really happened in Eden? Did he seduce Judas Iscariot?
There’s only one way to find out!
August 28, 2022
Amazon Prime’s A League of Their Own is a Lesbian Landmark
I wasn’t enthusiastic when I learned there was going to be a series of A League of Their Own. As far as I was concerned, it was one of those frothy, feel good, vaguely feminist films they liked to make in the Nineties, its only selling points Tom Hanks and Madonna. My lack of interest in sport meant it was unlikely to be on my To Be Watched list.
It had been out for a few days when sapphic Twitter lit up. GIFs of characters kissing, intriguing tweets, eye opening threads - it seemed to be not so much a sports show with lesbians but a coming out story that happened to have baseball in it. I was sold.
Carson, the first of our heroines, has been unhappy in her marriage to Charlie for a long time. She takes advantage of his absence - he’s serving in World War Two - to pursue her dream of becoming a baseball player with the Rockford Peaches. During try outs she meets the alluring Greta, who’s clearly a lesbian and just as evidently attracted to her. When they’re accepted on the team, they dance around each other, but eventually give in to their feelings and begin a passionate affair.
In a regular show, it would be one subplot of many, but here it’s the primary storyline and romantic arc. It doesn’t condemn Carson’s adultery, making it clear Greta is her true love, even if it started as a fling. Since they’re women in their thirties with baggage, their relationship is more realistically handled and certainly more compelling than the teenage crushes of mainstream media. Even better, they’re not the only queers in the Peaches, with Greta’s best friend Jo and two other teammates being sympathetic, multidimensional butch lesbians other women find attractive. Win-win!
If this wasn’t enough, there’s a second queer heroine: Maxine, or Max, a young Black woman who has always wanted to play baseball. She is a better player than anyone in the Peaches, but the racism of the time means they won’t consider her. Instead of hovering on the periphery, like she might have in another series, she has her own separate narrative and ensemble cast, including a budding romance with Esther, a professional player, and her relationship with her Uncle Bertie, a trans man who has been disowned by Max’s family. Another vital part of her life is Clance, her married best friend - but we realise how frail such ties can be when the oblivious Clance calls Bertie a “freak,” hurting Max deeply.
Max stumbles across Carson and Greta kissing early on. Carson worries she might spill the beans, but over time the two women develop a friendship, telling each other things they could never confide in anyone else in their lives. Some viewers might find this contrived - but they’re obviously not gay. Speaking from personal experience, it breaks the ice between strangers faster than anything else.
There are so many touches that remind you this is a queer show for queer viewers. Greta making sure she’s seen with men so people don’t suspect; the comphet Carson and Max feel they have to enact; their intimidating chaperone ‘Sarge’ letting Jess know she’s “one of their own.” It has one of the most joyous depictions of a gay bar I’ve seen, with the lesbian characters finally able to be open and out with their loves and others like themselves. This catharsis makes it doubly distressing when the bar’s raided and its owner Vi brutally beaten. The scene is harrowing but necessary, demonstrating how homophobia was once government policy, and how hard won our present freedoms are.
This has been a challenging year for lesbian representation. After so many disappointments and cancellations, please let A League of Their Own break the curse. The Peaches deserve to play another season.
It had been out for a few days when sapphic Twitter lit up. GIFs of characters kissing, intriguing tweets, eye opening threads - it seemed to be not so much a sports show with lesbians but a coming out story that happened to have baseball in it. I was sold.
Carson, the first of our heroines, has been unhappy in her marriage to Charlie for a long time. She takes advantage of his absence - he’s serving in World War Two - to pursue her dream of becoming a baseball player with the Rockford Peaches. During try outs she meets the alluring Greta, who’s clearly a lesbian and just as evidently attracted to her. When they’re accepted on the team, they dance around each other, but eventually give in to their feelings and begin a passionate affair.
In a regular show, it would be one subplot of many, but here it’s the primary storyline and romantic arc. It doesn’t condemn Carson’s adultery, making it clear Greta is her true love, even if it started as a fling. Since they’re women in their thirties with baggage, their relationship is more realistically handled and certainly more compelling than the teenage crushes of mainstream media. Even better, they’re not the only queers in the Peaches, with Greta’s best friend Jo and two other teammates being sympathetic, multidimensional butch lesbians other women find attractive. Win-win!
If this wasn’t enough, there’s a second queer heroine: Maxine, or Max, a young Black woman who has always wanted to play baseball. She is a better player than anyone in the Peaches, but the racism of the time means they won’t consider her. Instead of hovering on the periphery, like she might have in another series, she has her own separate narrative and ensemble cast, including a budding romance with Esther, a professional player, and her relationship with her Uncle Bertie, a trans man who has been disowned by Max’s family. Another vital part of her life is Clance, her married best friend - but we realise how frail such ties can be when the oblivious Clance calls Bertie a “freak,” hurting Max deeply.
Max stumbles across Carson and Greta kissing early on. Carson worries she might spill the beans, but over time the two women develop a friendship, telling each other things they could never confide in anyone else in their lives. Some viewers might find this contrived - but they’re obviously not gay. Speaking from personal experience, it breaks the ice between strangers faster than anything else.
There are so many touches that remind you this is a queer show for queer viewers. Greta making sure she’s seen with men so people don’t suspect; the comphet Carson and Max feel they have to enact; their intimidating chaperone ‘Sarge’ letting Jess know she’s “one of their own.” It has one of the most joyous depictions of a gay bar I’ve seen, with the lesbian characters finally able to be open and out with their loves and others like themselves. This catharsis makes it doubly distressing when the bar’s raided and its owner Vi brutally beaten. The scene is harrowing but necessary, demonstrating how homophobia was once government policy, and how hard won our present freedoms are.
This has been a challenging year for lesbian representation. After so many disappointments and cancellations, please let A League of Their Own break the curse. The Peaches deserve to play another season.
August 7, 2022
Helluva Boss, Season 2 Episode 1: The Circus
Now we’ve had time to process, we can say it: The Circus, Helluva Boss’ second season opener, is a milestone in queer representation.
The indie animation has never shied away from LGBT characters and topics. In the season one finale, Blitzo and Stolas’ arrangement crumbled, as both men realised their feelings went deeper than transactional sex - but they’re too damaged to express it.
Which begs the question: where do we go from here? Does The Circus pick up where the last episode left off?
Thanks to an extended flashback, we learned a young Stolas encountered Blitzo during a trip to the circus with his neglectful father Paimon. The little prince immediately falls in love, gazing at the imp in awe. This is the first time I’ve seen a gay child in media, his crush granted the same weight as a straight protagonist’s. If I had watched something like this as a closeted kid, I would have felt less alone.
One dodgy bargain between their dads later and the boys are playing in the Goetia mansion. Blitzo’s crooked father Cash has instructed him to steal all the loot he can; he turns it into a game. The kids are soon having a whale of a time, bonding despite their wildly different personalities and backgrounds. They share their ambitions, hope they will know each other in the future. They could have - should have - been friends in a fair universe. Instead they grow up in Hell.
There’s a time skip to twenty five years later, to the day he and Blitzo are reunited. Here is the second instance where the episode is groundbreaking: it portrays Stolas as a victim of comphet, or compulsory heterosexuality. He is trapped in an arranged marriage with the appalling Stella, who never misses an opportunity to abuse him. He’s on anti depressants, uses alcohol as a crutch, and judging by how gaunt he is, might have an eating disorder. The one happy spot in his life is his daughter Octavia; everything he does is for her.
When Blitzo is caught breaking into the mansion, a drunk, depressed Stolas says he can handle him. Smitten with his childhood friend all over again, he makes the moves on him the instant they’re alone. Once Blitzo recovers from the shock, he decides to roll with it. The sequence that follows is the kind of black comedy Helluva specialises in: Blitzo desperate to steal the grimoire, Stolas in ecstasies because he thinks his fantasies have come true. The soundtrack switches from porno muzak to a billowing romantic score, Blitzo growing exasperated by Stolas’ awakened passion.
It’s the sole comedic part of a serious episode. If anyone had imagined an explicit sex scene, they were destined to be disappointed. It ‘pans to the drapes,’ with a guilty Blitzo deciding to give the owl some pity sex - that lasts all night. As the imp leaves the next morning, it recreates the iconic scene from the pilot, where he lands on top of Stella’s tea party and tells her what he’s done. A euphoric Stolas shrieks they’re getting a divorce.
The high doesn’t last. Now we’re back in present day, a devastated Stolas laments his predicament to Stolas Speaks, his leitmotif. It’s the big queer Disney breakup number I never thought I’d witness; Bryce Pinkham performs it superbly.
Of course he’s interrupted by Stella. Their showdown confirms what queer fans always suspected: Stolas only stayed for Octavia, their marriage is over, and Stella openly delights in torturing him. In the episode’s most harrowing moment, she goes to hit him; it’s obvious she’s done it before. Although his heart is breaking, he musters the courage to demand a divorce. This scene would be remarkable in a live action show; in a cartoon, it’s incredible.
If you’ve ever doubted it, here’s the proof: Helluva Boss is not just a comedy about funny, horny demons. It can deliver real drama and pathos, address important issues. In sharing Stolas’ story, it’s spoken for anyone who has grown up gay, endured comphet or been an abused partner. Like the owl prince himself, it’s so much more than it seems.
The indie animation has never shied away from LGBT characters and topics. In the season one finale, Blitzo and Stolas’ arrangement crumbled, as both men realised their feelings went deeper than transactional sex - but they’re too damaged to express it.
Which begs the question: where do we go from here? Does The Circus pick up where the last episode left off?
Thanks to an extended flashback, we learned a young Stolas encountered Blitzo during a trip to the circus with his neglectful father Paimon. The little prince immediately falls in love, gazing at the imp in awe. This is the first time I’ve seen a gay child in media, his crush granted the same weight as a straight protagonist’s. If I had watched something like this as a closeted kid, I would have felt less alone.
One dodgy bargain between their dads later and the boys are playing in the Goetia mansion. Blitzo’s crooked father Cash has instructed him to steal all the loot he can; he turns it into a game. The kids are soon having a whale of a time, bonding despite their wildly different personalities and backgrounds. They share their ambitions, hope they will know each other in the future. They could have - should have - been friends in a fair universe. Instead they grow up in Hell.
There’s a time skip to twenty five years later, to the day he and Blitzo are reunited. Here is the second instance where the episode is groundbreaking: it portrays Stolas as a victim of comphet, or compulsory heterosexuality. He is trapped in an arranged marriage with the appalling Stella, who never misses an opportunity to abuse him. He’s on anti depressants, uses alcohol as a crutch, and judging by how gaunt he is, might have an eating disorder. The one happy spot in his life is his daughter Octavia; everything he does is for her.
When Blitzo is caught breaking into the mansion, a drunk, depressed Stolas says he can handle him. Smitten with his childhood friend all over again, he makes the moves on him the instant they’re alone. Once Blitzo recovers from the shock, he decides to roll with it. The sequence that follows is the kind of black comedy Helluva specialises in: Blitzo desperate to steal the grimoire, Stolas in ecstasies because he thinks his fantasies have come true. The soundtrack switches from porno muzak to a billowing romantic score, Blitzo growing exasperated by Stolas’ awakened passion.
It’s the sole comedic part of a serious episode. If anyone had imagined an explicit sex scene, they were destined to be disappointed. It ‘pans to the drapes,’ with a guilty Blitzo deciding to give the owl some pity sex - that lasts all night. As the imp leaves the next morning, it recreates the iconic scene from the pilot, where he lands on top of Stella’s tea party and tells her what he’s done. A euphoric Stolas shrieks they’re getting a divorce.
The high doesn’t last. Now we’re back in present day, a devastated Stolas laments his predicament to Stolas Speaks, his leitmotif. It’s the big queer Disney breakup number I never thought I’d witness; Bryce Pinkham performs it superbly.
Of course he’s interrupted by Stella. Their showdown confirms what queer fans always suspected: Stolas only stayed for Octavia, their marriage is over, and Stella openly delights in torturing him. In the episode’s most harrowing moment, she goes to hit him; it’s obvious she’s done it before. Although his heart is breaking, he musters the courage to demand a divorce. This scene would be remarkable in a live action show; in a cartoon, it’s incredible.
If you’ve ever doubted it, here’s the proof: Helluva Boss is not just a comedy about funny, horny demons. It can deliver real drama and pathos, address important issues. In sharing Stolas’ story, it’s spoken for anyone who has grown up gay, endured comphet or been an abused partner. Like the owl prince himself, it’s so much more than it seems.
July 30, 2022
Helluva Boss!
If you spend much time on animation Twitter, you could be forgiven for thinking it’s the Second Coming. Posters with cartoon avatars are counting down, swapping GIFs and using cryptic hashtags such as #Stolitz. What’s going on?
Wonder no more. The second season of Helluva Boss, SpindleHorse’s cult indie animation, drops today. It’s nine months since the first season finale; fans have been living on slashfic and speculation ever since.
Helluva Boss is the tale of Blitzo (the o is silent), a skeezy imp running an assassination start up called I.M.P (Immediate Murder Professionals). His colleagues are Loona, his surly hellhound adoptive daughter; and Moxxie and Millie, the happiest married couple in Hell. The company has a unique selling point: by using a grimoire or spellbook, they can go up to Earth (‘the human world’) and off anyone at their clients’ request.
So far, it sounds like a standard adult animation - but this is where it gets interesting. Blitzo only has the grimoire because he slept with Stolas, an owl prince of Hell, and stole it from him. Stolas has become infatuated with the imp, so they’ve forged a Faustian pact with a difference: he will allow I.M.P to keep using the book if, every month on the full moon, they have a night of “passionate fornication.”
In any other show, this would be played for black comedy, with Stolas as an old school queer villain and Blitzo as a straight hustler - and indeed that’s how some viewers interpreted the pilot. But the situation is far more complex, with Blitzo gradually returning his feelings. Their will they, won’t they relationship is the central arc of the series - #Stolitz, to use their ship name.
It doesn’t help that Stolas has a wife, Stella, who is livid she’s been betrayed with a lowly imp. Or that he loves his daughter Octavia dearly, no matter how toxic his marriage is. The writers have managed to make Stolas a sympathetic, relatable character despite his infidelity - a deeply repressed, closeted gay man, recognisable to anyone who grew up in less tolerant times.
The LGBT rep doesn’t stop there. Blitzo is pan, with lovers of all genders. Moxxie and Millie, who are essentially the infernal Gomez and Morticia, are bi and perfectly open with one another. Fizzarolli, Blitzo’s enemy and implied ex, is in his own secret relationship with a prince of Hell, Asmodeus. Sallie May, Millie’s sister, is trans but it’s treated as completely unremarkable; she’s her parent’s favourite and loves winding her sibling up. Unlike other cartoons, the representation is part of who the characters are, not the subject of constant commentary or debate.
Should anyone think this is a ‘worthy’ show: it’s billed as an adult animation for a reason. It’s foul mouthed, filthy and hilarious, with buckets of gore and pitch black satire. It’s also a musical, with one fabulously choreographed and performed number per episode. The animation is gorgeous: quite aside from the vivid character designs and intricate backdrops, there are so many Easter eggs and fine details, you’ll find yourself pausing to take screenshots. Which you can, this being on YouTube rather than Netflix (thank God).
Being a Helluva Boss fan has been an experience like no other. The creator, Vivienne Medrano, aka Vivzie, is bi; her co-writer (and Blitzo’s VA) Brandon Rogers is gay. They love and engage with their fans, responding positively to fan art and fics. This is so refreshing after years of queer fans being treated like freaks, only allowed under sufferance. It shows what fandoms could and should be like, if there were more queer creators and showrunners.
If Season 2 is better than Season 1, it’s going to be phenomenal. I can’t wait to watch and review it #HelluvaBoss
Wonder no more. The second season of Helluva Boss, SpindleHorse’s cult indie animation, drops today. It’s nine months since the first season finale; fans have been living on slashfic and speculation ever since.
Helluva Boss is the tale of Blitzo (the o is silent), a skeezy imp running an assassination start up called I.M.P (Immediate Murder Professionals). His colleagues are Loona, his surly hellhound adoptive daughter; and Moxxie and Millie, the happiest married couple in Hell. The company has a unique selling point: by using a grimoire or spellbook, they can go up to Earth (‘the human world’) and off anyone at their clients’ request.
So far, it sounds like a standard adult animation - but this is where it gets interesting. Blitzo only has the grimoire because he slept with Stolas, an owl prince of Hell, and stole it from him. Stolas has become infatuated with the imp, so they’ve forged a Faustian pact with a difference: he will allow I.M.P to keep using the book if, every month on the full moon, they have a night of “passionate fornication.”
In any other show, this would be played for black comedy, with Stolas as an old school queer villain and Blitzo as a straight hustler - and indeed that’s how some viewers interpreted the pilot. But the situation is far more complex, with Blitzo gradually returning his feelings. Their will they, won’t they relationship is the central arc of the series - #Stolitz, to use their ship name.
It doesn’t help that Stolas has a wife, Stella, who is livid she’s been betrayed with a lowly imp. Or that he loves his daughter Octavia dearly, no matter how toxic his marriage is. The writers have managed to make Stolas a sympathetic, relatable character despite his infidelity - a deeply repressed, closeted gay man, recognisable to anyone who grew up in less tolerant times.
The LGBT rep doesn’t stop there. Blitzo is pan, with lovers of all genders. Moxxie and Millie, who are essentially the infernal Gomez and Morticia, are bi and perfectly open with one another. Fizzarolli, Blitzo’s enemy and implied ex, is in his own secret relationship with a prince of Hell, Asmodeus. Sallie May, Millie’s sister, is trans but it’s treated as completely unremarkable; she’s her parent’s favourite and loves winding her sibling up. Unlike other cartoons, the representation is part of who the characters are, not the subject of constant commentary or debate.
Should anyone think this is a ‘worthy’ show: it’s billed as an adult animation for a reason. It’s foul mouthed, filthy and hilarious, with buckets of gore and pitch black satire. It’s also a musical, with one fabulously choreographed and performed number per episode. The animation is gorgeous: quite aside from the vivid character designs and intricate backdrops, there are so many Easter eggs and fine details, you’ll find yourself pausing to take screenshots. Which you can, this being on YouTube rather than Netflix (thank God).
Being a Helluva Boss fan has been an experience like no other. The creator, Vivienne Medrano, aka Vivzie, is bi; her co-writer (and Blitzo’s VA) Brandon Rogers is gay. They love and engage with their fans, responding positively to fan art and fics. This is so refreshing after years of queer fans being treated like freaks, only allowed under sufferance. It shows what fandoms could and should be like, if there were more queer creators and showrunners.
If Season 2 is better than Season 1, it’s going to be phenomenal. I can’t wait to watch and review it #HelluvaBoss
July 27, 2022
Renew First Kill!
I’m a sucker for lesbian vampires. When they announced First Kill, I was thrilled; never mind I wasn’t the target demographic.
Touted as “Buffy meets Killing Eve,” the Netflix series is the story of Juliette Fairmont, an adorkable lesbian vampire. She falls hard and fast for Calliope Burns, the new girl in school. Alas, Cal belongs to a family of monster hunters, trained from birth to take creatures like Jules and her family down. A heated encounter in a pantry and attempted staking later, the attraction is mutual and undeniable. Will our heroines be able to defy centuries of enmity and be together?
Cal and Jules’ relationship isn’t an easily ignored subplot but the raison d’etre of the show. Both girls have always known they are queer, meaning the tedious teenage coming out plotline can be dispensed with. They are an interracial couple, with the Burns family receiving as much focus as the waspy Fairmonts. They do what young lesbians in love and lust actually do: kiss and have sex. Which hasn’t been missed by critics, who moan the show “oversexualises” the pair. Would they say this if they were a straight, white couple?
One of the most important relationships in the show is that of Jules and Ben, her best friend since childhood. Most media portrays lesbians and gay men as separate species who loathe one another; these two are a mutual adoration society, giving advice and support where their families can’t. He’s a sobering reminder homophobia still exists in this universe: his on-off boyfriend Noah is closeted and refuses to dump his girlfriend, leaving Ben heartbroken.
Other than the queerness, I love that the central relationship is age appropriate. One of the cornerstones of vampire romances seems to be a staggering age gap, which translates as a hundred years plus year old man grooming a teenage girl, however you look at it. In the case of American stories, it frequently entails characters having Confederacy pasts (True Blood, Twilight) - roughly equivalent to a European author romanticising Nazis. Best of all, Jules is alive, waving aside the spectre of necrophilia that haunts most vampire yarns. Win-win!
The innovation doesn’t end there. Vampires are reimagined as a matriarchal society, with ‘Legacy’ vampires - the rarest kind, practically impossible to kill - descended from Lilith. Jules’ parents Margot and Sebastian face discrimination from other vampires because he is a human she fell in love with and turned. Their glamorous grandma Davina embodies all the pride and prejudice of their heritage, but if the show has a villain, it’s Elinor, Jules’ Machiavellian bombshell of a big sister. A power hungry serial killer, she has managed to ostracise her twin Oliver from the family, making out he’s the evil one. Understandably, he wants payback.
Critics have been quick to pillory the show with the sneering they reserve for teenage girls and queer properties. A sniffy Variety review claimed it was a “tired take on teenage lesbian vampires” - trust me, it’s hardly a populous field, with only the Carmilla webseries and the dismal film of The Moth Diaries in the past few decades. The CGI has come in for some flak, which is forgivable - the last shot of the show is endearingly naff - but we endured fake fangs and moth eaten dog costumes in other series and nobody complained then.
It looks as though Netflix won’t renew First Kill, continuing their marked disdain towards wlw series. They didn’t promote it until the very last minute, raising questions. Previously they’ve argued cancellations were due to “the pandemic” or “low ratings,” but that excuse won’t wash here. The show was a word of mouth hit on Twitter, with sapphics the world over urging each other to watch. They’ve renewed Heartstopper when its ratings are considerably lower; you can’t help suspecting lesbophobia and other prejudices are at play.
The wider world betrays its complacency every time a queer franchise is cancelled or ends badly. “It’s only a TV show,” they shrug, “there are plenty of others.” Not for us. With its queer heroines, one of whom is Black, and message of love overcoming all, First Kill is unique and has the potential to be a life affirming, empowering show for millions of young women around the globe. It deserves another chance #RenewFirstKill
Touted as “Buffy meets Killing Eve,” the Netflix series is the story of Juliette Fairmont, an adorkable lesbian vampire. She falls hard and fast for Calliope Burns, the new girl in school. Alas, Cal belongs to a family of monster hunters, trained from birth to take creatures like Jules and her family down. A heated encounter in a pantry and attempted staking later, the attraction is mutual and undeniable. Will our heroines be able to defy centuries of enmity and be together?
Cal and Jules’ relationship isn’t an easily ignored subplot but the raison d’etre of the show. Both girls have always known they are queer, meaning the tedious teenage coming out plotline can be dispensed with. They are an interracial couple, with the Burns family receiving as much focus as the waspy Fairmonts. They do what young lesbians in love and lust actually do: kiss and have sex. Which hasn’t been missed by critics, who moan the show “oversexualises” the pair. Would they say this if they were a straight, white couple?
One of the most important relationships in the show is that of Jules and Ben, her best friend since childhood. Most media portrays lesbians and gay men as separate species who loathe one another; these two are a mutual adoration society, giving advice and support where their families can’t. He’s a sobering reminder homophobia still exists in this universe: his on-off boyfriend Noah is closeted and refuses to dump his girlfriend, leaving Ben heartbroken.
Other than the queerness, I love that the central relationship is age appropriate. One of the cornerstones of vampire romances seems to be a staggering age gap, which translates as a hundred years plus year old man grooming a teenage girl, however you look at it. In the case of American stories, it frequently entails characters having Confederacy pasts (True Blood, Twilight) - roughly equivalent to a European author romanticising Nazis. Best of all, Jules is alive, waving aside the spectre of necrophilia that haunts most vampire yarns. Win-win!
The innovation doesn’t end there. Vampires are reimagined as a matriarchal society, with ‘Legacy’ vampires - the rarest kind, practically impossible to kill - descended from Lilith. Jules’ parents Margot and Sebastian face discrimination from other vampires because he is a human she fell in love with and turned. Their glamorous grandma Davina embodies all the pride and prejudice of their heritage, but if the show has a villain, it’s Elinor, Jules’ Machiavellian bombshell of a big sister. A power hungry serial killer, she has managed to ostracise her twin Oliver from the family, making out he’s the evil one. Understandably, he wants payback.
Critics have been quick to pillory the show with the sneering they reserve for teenage girls and queer properties. A sniffy Variety review claimed it was a “tired take on teenage lesbian vampires” - trust me, it’s hardly a populous field, with only the Carmilla webseries and the dismal film of The Moth Diaries in the past few decades. The CGI has come in for some flak, which is forgivable - the last shot of the show is endearingly naff - but we endured fake fangs and moth eaten dog costumes in other series and nobody complained then.
It looks as though Netflix won’t renew First Kill, continuing their marked disdain towards wlw series. They didn’t promote it until the very last minute, raising questions. Previously they’ve argued cancellations were due to “the pandemic” or “low ratings,” but that excuse won’t wash here. The show was a word of mouth hit on Twitter, with sapphics the world over urging each other to watch. They’ve renewed Heartstopper when its ratings are considerably lower; you can’t help suspecting lesbophobia and other prejudices are at play.
The wider world betrays its complacency every time a queer franchise is cancelled or ends badly. “It’s only a TV show,” they shrug, “there are plenty of others.” Not for us. With its queer heroines, one of whom is Black, and message of love overcoming all, First Kill is unique and has the potential to be a life affirming, empowering show for millions of young women around the globe. It deserves another chance #RenewFirstKill
July 16, 2022
Free Promo: Diary of a Teenage Lesbian
Starting tomorrow (Sunday 17th July) and finishing Thursday (21st July), #DiaryOfATeenageLesbian is free on Amazon!
Laura is a fourteen year old girl growing up in the West Midlands. Her brother Ben is acting like a condescending knob and her mum is dating her creepy teacher. If that isn't stressful enough, she's secretly in love with her best friend Christina.
It's the year 2000. Section 28 is in force, preventing schools from even mentioning homosexuality, and she's scared. She doesn't want to be a lesbian. And what if Christina finds out?
Laura is a fourteen year old girl growing up in the West Midlands. Her brother Ben is acting like a condescending knob and her mum is dating her creepy teacher. If that isn't stressful enough, she's secretly in love with her best friend Christina.
It's the year 2000. Section 28 is in force, preventing schools from even mentioning homosexuality, and she's scared. She doesn't want to be a lesbian. And what if Christina finds out?
July 10, 2022
Why Cancelling Gentleman Jack Is One Disappointment Too Many
Earlier this week I woke to devastating news. Streaming giant HBO announced they were cancelling Gentleman Jack after two seasons.
Based on the diaries of lesbian trailblazer Anne Lister, it followed our unconventional heroine as she wooed Ann Walker, a haunted heiress who could be out of a Wilkie Collins novel; it also chronicled her business ventures and travels abroad. It was a period drama like no other, swapping the usual comedy of manners with sapphic love triangles.
The best part? Lister wasn’t the invention of a modern author reimagining history with a queer slant, but a real woman who lived in Halifax in the nineteenth century. Her meticulously kept diaries were discovered by one of her descendants, John Lister. Gay himself, he was scandalised by their content, and advised to destroy them. Luckily he was a historian and recognised their worth. They were ignored for years until twentieth century historians deciphered them and were shocked. They straightwashed Lister by claiming the coded entries were so dull, no one would wish to read them.
It wasn’t until an English writer called Helena Whitbread decrypted the diaries in the 80s that their true nature was discovered. It became her passion project; she was motivated partly because her own daughter had recently come out. Critics at the time insisted they must be a hoax by a lesbian feminist, but when the diaries were examined, they were forced to conclude they were genuine. Ann Walker’s own diary was discovered in 2020.
This is more engrossing than yet another Austen adaptation could be. There was an earlier show starring Maxine Peake, The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister, but it disappeared without a trace. Fortunately Sally Wainwright - creator of Last Tango in Halifax and Happy Valley - had long been fascinated by Lister, and had wanted to dramatise her remarkable life for years. The time had never been quite right; executives were convinced no one would want to watch the adventures of a Regency butch lesbian.
With Wainwright they had the right writer; in Suranne Jones, one of the UK’s finest actresses, they had the ideal Lister. With a single tip of her top hat and wiggle of her eyebrows, she won the hearts of women loving women across the globe. Its impact was so significant, it’s been given its own name: the Gentleman Jack Effect. Women have formed fan clubs, climbed the same mountains as Anne (she was the first person in recorded history to ascend Mont Vingemale), created hilarious memes and written novels based on the characters. Shibden Hall, her ancestral home, has become a tourist hotspot; a statue of her in pensive mode has been installed in Halifax. She has gone from obscure historical figure to gay icon.
It’s difficult to articulate how meaningful this show has been. It puts paid to the myth that homosexuality in general and lesbianism in particular is a modern identity; Anne knew exactly what she was and found many other women like her. Butch women are almost never portrayed on television and wrongly regarded as an offensive stereotype. Anne proves that not only were butches alive and well in the 1800s, they could be sexy, charismatic and smooth with the ladies - almost like a Georgian lesbian James Bond. But the show doesn’t sanitise her; she could be snobby, controlling and selfish, and her true blue politics are distasteful to today’s audience.
Above all, her relationships with Ann and other women are achingly real and all too relevant to today. They are faced by obstacles from every side, whether it’s interfering relatives, society’s homophobia, or old flames. Mariana, Anne’s ex who married a considerably older man, is a nasty piece of work - a manipulative, negging, histrionic hot mess. Their relationship hit the rocks because of her embarrassment at Anne’s butchness - a situation relatable to anyone who has dated a closeted woman who suffers from internalised homophobia.
Ann herself struggles with mental health issues, which are sympathetically depicted. Again, many queer women suffer from depression and anxiety, frequently because of the conflict between their sexual orientation and society.
The show charts how these two very different women met, fell in love and forged a same sex marriage in a time where that was unthinkable (the recent Great Drumsheugh Case had ruled that lesbianism was an imaginary crime on par with witchcraft). It captivated audiences who would never have watched period dramas, or found themselves rooting for a lesbian relationship. Many women have been emboldened to come out due to Gentleman Jack; numerous fans have met and fallen in love.
Now HBO has decreed it must come to an end. It acknowledged the series during Pride Month, but otherwise it’s virtually ignored it - a tactic it employs with other queer themed shows, like the gay pirate comedy Our Flag Means Death. The message seems clear: queer viewers are a mere gimmick at best, a nuisance at worst. Wainwright and the BBC have expressed a desire to carry on, but realistically speaking, this has sounded a death knell for the show.
It’s not enough. Not any more. Women loving women are sick of being treated like a novelty act whose feelings don’t matter. We hate that sapphic characters are disproportionately killed off (the dreaded Bury Your Gays trope), often oversexualised and their relationships viewed as lesser. The disastrous Killing Eve finale highlighted how straight writers take us for granted and regurgitate these insulting cliches, not realising how hurtful they are. If there had been even one queer woman in that writing room, there’s no way that ending would have made the final cut - not least because they have a happy one in the novels.
In the old days we snatched at any form of representation, no matter how dubious. We grinned and bore it when lesbian shows were cancelled for “lack of interest” - believe me, we would watch golf if there was the promise of girl on girl action. We endured our secondary status as the heroine’s best friend or little sister because we thought that was as good as it was going to get.
Gentleman Jack has given us a glimpse of a brave new world where lesbian characters can be flawed heroes and their romances the primary focus of the show. Once you’ve had a banquet, why would you go back to a grubby little takeaway?
Cancelling the series when there’s still so much material left to adapt is a grave mistake. It will break the hearts of countless lesbians.
It’s one disappointment too many.
Based on the diaries of lesbian trailblazer Anne Lister, it followed our unconventional heroine as she wooed Ann Walker, a haunted heiress who could be out of a Wilkie Collins novel; it also chronicled her business ventures and travels abroad. It was a period drama like no other, swapping the usual comedy of manners with sapphic love triangles.
The best part? Lister wasn’t the invention of a modern author reimagining history with a queer slant, but a real woman who lived in Halifax in the nineteenth century. Her meticulously kept diaries were discovered by one of her descendants, John Lister. Gay himself, he was scandalised by their content, and advised to destroy them. Luckily he was a historian and recognised their worth. They were ignored for years until twentieth century historians deciphered them and were shocked. They straightwashed Lister by claiming the coded entries were so dull, no one would wish to read them.
It wasn’t until an English writer called Helena Whitbread decrypted the diaries in the 80s that their true nature was discovered. It became her passion project; she was motivated partly because her own daughter had recently come out. Critics at the time insisted they must be a hoax by a lesbian feminist, but when the diaries were examined, they were forced to conclude they were genuine. Ann Walker’s own diary was discovered in 2020.
This is more engrossing than yet another Austen adaptation could be. There was an earlier show starring Maxine Peake, The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister, but it disappeared without a trace. Fortunately Sally Wainwright - creator of Last Tango in Halifax and Happy Valley - had long been fascinated by Lister, and had wanted to dramatise her remarkable life for years. The time had never been quite right; executives were convinced no one would want to watch the adventures of a Regency butch lesbian.
With Wainwright they had the right writer; in Suranne Jones, one of the UK’s finest actresses, they had the ideal Lister. With a single tip of her top hat and wiggle of her eyebrows, she won the hearts of women loving women across the globe. Its impact was so significant, it’s been given its own name: the Gentleman Jack Effect. Women have formed fan clubs, climbed the same mountains as Anne (she was the first person in recorded history to ascend Mont Vingemale), created hilarious memes and written novels based on the characters. Shibden Hall, her ancestral home, has become a tourist hotspot; a statue of her in pensive mode has been installed in Halifax. She has gone from obscure historical figure to gay icon.
It’s difficult to articulate how meaningful this show has been. It puts paid to the myth that homosexuality in general and lesbianism in particular is a modern identity; Anne knew exactly what she was and found many other women like her. Butch women are almost never portrayed on television and wrongly regarded as an offensive stereotype. Anne proves that not only were butches alive and well in the 1800s, they could be sexy, charismatic and smooth with the ladies - almost like a Georgian lesbian James Bond. But the show doesn’t sanitise her; she could be snobby, controlling and selfish, and her true blue politics are distasteful to today’s audience.
Above all, her relationships with Ann and other women are achingly real and all too relevant to today. They are faced by obstacles from every side, whether it’s interfering relatives, society’s homophobia, or old flames. Mariana, Anne’s ex who married a considerably older man, is a nasty piece of work - a manipulative, negging, histrionic hot mess. Their relationship hit the rocks because of her embarrassment at Anne’s butchness - a situation relatable to anyone who has dated a closeted woman who suffers from internalised homophobia.
Ann herself struggles with mental health issues, which are sympathetically depicted. Again, many queer women suffer from depression and anxiety, frequently because of the conflict between their sexual orientation and society.
The show charts how these two very different women met, fell in love and forged a same sex marriage in a time where that was unthinkable (the recent Great Drumsheugh Case had ruled that lesbianism was an imaginary crime on par with witchcraft). It captivated audiences who would never have watched period dramas, or found themselves rooting for a lesbian relationship. Many women have been emboldened to come out due to Gentleman Jack; numerous fans have met and fallen in love.
Now HBO has decreed it must come to an end. It acknowledged the series during Pride Month, but otherwise it’s virtually ignored it - a tactic it employs with other queer themed shows, like the gay pirate comedy Our Flag Means Death. The message seems clear: queer viewers are a mere gimmick at best, a nuisance at worst. Wainwright and the BBC have expressed a desire to carry on, but realistically speaking, this has sounded a death knell for the show.
It’s not enough. Not any more. Women loving women are sick of being treated like a novelty act whose feelings don’t matter. We hate that sapphic characters are disproportionately killed off (the dreaded Bury Your Gays trope), often oversexualised and their relationships viewed as lesser. The disastrous Killing Eve finale highlighted how straight writers take us for granted and regurgitate these insulting cliches, not realising how hurtful they are. If there had been even one queer woman in that writing room, there’s no way that ending would have made the final cut - not least because they have a happy one in the novels.
In the old days we snatched at any form of representation, no matter how dubious. We grinned and bore it when lesbian shows were cancelled for “lack of interest” - believe me, we would watch golf if there was the promise of girl on girl action. We endured our secondary status as the heroine’s best friend or little sister because we thought that was as good as it was going to get.
Gentleman Jack has given us a glimpse of a brave new world where lesbian characters can be flawed heroes and their romances the primary focus of the show. Once you’ve had a banquet, why would you go back to a grubby little takeaway?
Cancelling the series when there’s still so much material left to adapt is a grave mistake. It will break the hearts of countless lesbians.
It’s one disappointment too many.
June 12, 2022
The Decision
I’m worried about the way the world is going, so I wrote a #flashfiction about it.
—
My wife and I have made up our minds. It hasn’t been easy, considering how long we’ve been trying for this baby, but it’s the right decision, fairest for all parties.
My wife’s voice is quiet but strong. “I’d like a termination.” Pride swells inside me. She’s so brave.
The doctor nods, understanding what we’re going through. “It’s hard, but you’re doing the right thing. You won’t regret this.”
Her hand finds mine. I don’t think I’ve ever loved her as much.
We’d been married for five years when we first started trying. We had a big enough house and decent incomes; she didn’t like her job and needed a break. It was time. I’d noticed her staring longingly at her friends’ babies, holding them too tightly and for too long. She’d lock herself in the bathroom and cry, washing her face in an attempt to pretend nothing was the matter.
I wasn’t keen initially, but gradually I came round. I liked the idea of a son I could have a kick around with in the park, a daughter I could spoil rotten. We chose names: Emily if it was a girl, Christopher if it was a boy. I imagined a little life who was a mixture of the two of us, endlessly fascinating.
For whatever reason, nothing happened. We both went for checkups and they couldn’t find anything wrong. It was a mystery. My wife was beside herself; she had dedicated her life to our future child. We didn’t have sex for pleasure any more. We nearly split up.
Suddenly, a miracle. She was violently sick one morning and looked dreadful, but she was triumphant. “I think this might be it,” she said, embracing me fiercely. I had to dash down to the supermarket for a pregnancy test despite the early hour. When the two lines appeared in the window, she shrieked and danced me down the landing. It was the best day of our lives.
A few months into the pregnancy, something didn’t feel right. She didn’t know if she wanted it any more. She called it “it,” even though we knew by then we were expecting a girl. She couldn’t visualise our daughter, couldn’t feel a connection to her even if she cupped her bump and felt her kick. “Maybe I’m an unnatural mother,” she said, tears leaking from her eyes.
Now we’ve had the government mandated scan, everything makes sense. We can’t in conscience bring this child into the world. What quality of life can she have, what can she contribute to society? The future we’d pictured for her - giving her away at her wedding, looking after our grandchildren - has melted away. To be blunt, she’s better off dead. That’s the policy, and it’s difficult to disagree.
For showing up on her scan - like a poisonous snake in a beautiful garden - is the queer gene.
—
My wife and I have made up our minds. It hasn’t been easy, considering how long we’ve been trying for this baby, but it’s the right decision, fairest for all parties.
My wife’s voice is quiet but strong. “I’d like a termination.” Pride swells inside me. She’s so brave.
The doctor nods, understanding what we’re going through. “It’s hard, but you’re doing the right thing. You won’t regret this.”
Her hand finds mine. I don’t think I’ve ever loved her as much.
We’d been married for five years when we first started trying. We had a big enough house and decent incomes; she didn’t like her job and needed a break. It was time. I’d noticed her staring longingly at her friends’ babies, holding them too tightly and for too long. She’d lock herself in the bathroom and cry, washing her face in an attempt to pretend nothing was the matter.
I wasn’t keen initially, but gradually I came round. I liked the idea of a son I could have a kick around with in the park, a daughter I could spoil rotten. We chose names: Emily if it was a girl, Christopher if it was a boy. I imagined a little life who was a mixture of the two of us, endlessly fascinating.
For whatever reason, nothing happened. We both went for checkups and they couldn’t find anything wrong. It was a mystery. My wife was beside herself; she had dedicated her life to our future child. We didn’t have sex for pleasure any more. We nearly split up.
Suddenly, a miracle. She was violently sick one morning and looked dreadful, but she was triumphant. “I think this might be it,” she said, embracing me fiercely. I had to dash down to the supermarket for a pregnancy test despite the early hour. When the two lines appeared in the window, she shrieked and danced me down the landing. It was the best day of our lives.
A few months into the pregnancy, something didn’t feel right. She didn’t know if she wanted it any more. She called it “it,” even though we knew by then we were expecting a girl. She couldn’t visualise our daughter, couldn’t feel a connection to her even if she cupped her bump and felt her kick. “Maybe I’m an unnatural mother,” she said, tears leaking from her eyes.
Now we’ve had the government mandated scan, everything makes sense. We can’t in conscience bring this child into the world. What quality of life can she have, what can she contribute to society? The future we’d pictured for her - giving her away at her wedding, looking after our grandchildren - has melted away. To be blunt, she’s better off dead. That’s the policy, and it’s difficult to disagree.
For showing up on her scan - like a poisonous snake in a beautiful garden - is the queer gene.
