Subjectively (but correctly) viewed as one of the world’s queerest cities, Paris is a scene for the girls—but only in terms of the people, and less so in terms of spaces. It’s another case of gay male venues vastly outnumbering that of lesbians, so we must go where we can and, at best, turn non-specified events into sapphic-adjacent ones.
The most well-known lesbian and trans-friendly bar is La Mutinerie. I first went back in April, when I thought I should probably visit Paris for the first time before moving there for a year, and so quickly searched up ‘lesbian bar’. From June, I found myself there weekly to meet with friends, drink, and become bathed in cigarette smoke—only bathed, as I stand by my rule of only accepting a cigarette if a pretty girl offers me one—and I kept going back to the place solely because of the temporary comfort it offered me. It was a home-base for this lesbian who was yet to discover other venues and events, and it spat out pockets of entertainment with which I could regale my friends: being propositioned by the leader of the dominatrixes—‘I won’t whip you if you don’t want to’—; a charming Lyonnaise I’d met one night who told a man she couldn’t go with him because we were married and she’d bought me a massive diamond ring, and I obviously gave my performance—we held hands along the Seine, which he couldn’t see, to keep up the act, of course—; and two lovely girls who I did not recognise for an embarrassing amount of time—due to it being Halloween night and being in a slight drunken stupor—but with whom I’d actually made friends with the night of the aforementioned story.
As you can see, La Mut was entertaining, but I’ve not gone in a while, due to a preference for other events and venues which play music more to my taste, and which feel more my vibe—it also helps that the following places don’t have a minimum card limit. It’ll remain in my heart, though. Now, where else did my body go?
There’s a boat, Rosa Bonheur sur Seine, in the seventh arrondissement. Every Sunday, it is dedicated to queer women, and so I began to affectionately call it: Lesboat. Lesboat is free—in this economy?—and thrives from 8pm to 1am, which is ideal for not showing up to my internship wankered the next day. This place has a divine energy; full of sapphics young and old, we’re encouraged to dance on the bar which spans across the boat, and the staff come along with their trays of shots to reward our behaviour. Sometimes crowds overlap, from La Mut and La Bringue, with a few people from Tinder and Hinge sprinkled in, all aboard the Lesboat. Sometimes, this creates a stunning havoc of L-Word-esque drama, which sometimes spins a bit too rapidly and out of kilter, and you may suddenly be in the orbit of a five-way lesbian drama. Sick ambience, though; I’d pick this place to be my scene of downfall anytime.
And what’s La Bringue? It’s a girls-only event, with the best music to dance to: think hip-moving, bass-pounding pop and RnB. I’d been told beforehand that the night was ‘quite straight’, and I was quickly proven wrong. Not that I’d have minded if it were straight—a club with no men sounded like an amazing safe space—but there was definitely no lack of queer behaviour. Disappointingly, this spawned an unfortunate character one night: a cat-ears girl with sunglasses who would dance against me, and once I expressed disinterest, would move on to my friend—we were both Chinese and briefly wondered if she had an Asian fetish, which was later refuted when she got very close to another white girl. We found out later on, from my friend’s friend who had overheard the cat-ear girl, that she was enjoying her queerbaiting challenge of trying to kiss as many lesbians as possible. She’d also pushed two girls’ heads together to force them to kiss. She became the cover girl for the event’s Instagram promo post that week, and her smiling face plastered on the pink graphic struck a nerve, in that only a small number of attendees knew about her egotistical, straight-girl toying around with queer women.
Apart from that, though, the vibes were off the charts in the summer. When the nights got colder, I slowed down my attendance, and eventually stopped going. By that point, I’d needed a respite from the dance circles which would form every half an hour, consisting of a raucous chant of ‘OUAIS! OUAIS! OUAIS!’ around someone with crazy twerking skills, and respite from being dead at work the next day. (Side thought: why do queer women only get Thursday and Sunday nights to live and love? Shit allocation.)
This was a brief glimpse into my side of the Paris sapphic scene. I get physically tired of it, but my affection never relents; it’s a gorgeous, hectic entanglement, and one that I’m glad I’m entrenched in for a little while yet.