Queer as folklore: The hidden queer history of myths and monsters

Sacha Coward is a researcher, historian and public speaker. He has worked in museums and heritage for fifteen years, running tours focused on LGBTQ+ history for museums, cemeteries, archives and cities all around the world. Sacha has featured on a variety of television, radio and podcast shows and written articles on topics as varied as Turing’s Law, the rainbow flag, Caravaggio’s paintings and Viking burials. Queer as Folklore is his first book.

QUEER AS

Folklore

The Hidden Queer History of Myths and Monsters

SACHA COWARD

Copyright © Sacha Coward 2025

Foreword © Frogspawn Limited, 2024

Collage illustrations © Beto Val, 2024

The right of Sacha Coward to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in hardback in 2024 by Unbound.

Paperback edition first published by Manchester University Press

Oxford Road, Manchester, M13 9PL

www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 8070 7039 7 paperback

This edition first published 2025

While every effort has been made to trace the owners of copyright material reproduced herein, the publisher would like to apologise for any omissions and will be pleased to incorporate missing acknowledgements in any further editions. Copyright notices for internal images can be found on pp. 297–300.

The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for any external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate, accessible or appropriate.

EU authorised representative for GPSR:

Easy Access System Europe, Mustamäe tee 50, 10621 Tallinn, Estonia

[email protected]

Design by Mecob. Cover art by Beto Val.

Text design by Jouve (UK), Milton Keynes

This book is dedicated to every person who has ever walked

around a museum and wondered if they belong there.

With thanks to the patrons of this book:

Bert Aerts

Michael Caddy

Shaun Parry

Contents

Foreword

Author Notes: Mind Your She’s and Q’s

Introduction: Monsters in the Closet

PART 1: Queer Be Dragons (Magical creatures)

1A Twist in the Tail

2Horn of Plenty

3Radical Faeries

PART 2: Bad Blood (Cursed beings and shapeshifters)

4Big Bad Wolves

5Children of the Night

PART 3: Black Magick (The occult and supernatural)

6Witch-hunts

7Demon Twinks

8Queerly Departed

PART 4: The Expanded Universe (Contemporary folklore)

9Loving the Alien

10 Rum, Bum and Concertina

11 I’m Sorry, Dave

12 Ex-Men

PART 5: And They All Lived Happily Ever After …

13 Five Magic Beans

Notes

References

Image Sources

Acknowledgements

Index

Supporters

Author Q&A

Foreword

Too often we tend to think of folklore, legend and myth as distinct from religion and history, and less important in historical terms. In actual fact, history and folklore have been almost indistinguishable from each other for millennia, just as myths were once the religions of great and fallen empires.

Nowadays, we tend to make a hard distinction between fact and fantasy, legend and faith. But fantasy is not merely a collection of meaningless dreams and fairy tales. Dreams have all kinds of meaning, for those prepared to look for them. Like fairy stories, they show us the truth through the lens of fantasy. Magic is sacred or profane, depending on the practitioner. The relationship between simple faith and simple suspension of disbelief is in the eye of the believer. The common thread that links them all is story, and its relationship with power.

History is the account of events as recorded by those in power.

Religion is often the tool of that power, used to enforce its authority.

But folklore is the story of the common people, their hopes and dreams, or their desires and fears, passed from mouth to mouth, often in defi ance of those in authority, for generations. And because over the centuries, the common people have not had the same access to education and literacy as those who write the history books, this common lore has always been on the margins of history, fragmented; half-forgotten; eclipsed by the tyranny of the printed word, the history we think we know.

What better place, then, now, to find those marginalised by society? We are living in a time of increasing intolerance for those who defy society’s norms. The word ‘queer’, which entered the English language sometime in the sixteenth century, derives from a number of sources, notably from the Latin torquere, ‘to twist’, and until the nineteenth century, where it began to imply sexual deviancy, meant ‘odd, wrong, peculiar’. Nowadays it has been reclaimed as a term to describe those who are neither heterosexual nor cisgender, both words that entered our language relatively recently, much to the disapproval of those who wish to control its story and prevent its evolution.

Because language, too, is a narrative. Like myth, like religion, it comes from many sources – some official, some unofficial. According to the narrative that most of us are familiar with, queerness is a modern phenomenon, and the modern, alarming queerness of mermaids or unicorns is a recent deviation from the norm, subverting the innocence of our childhood fairy tales and making them into something dangerous.

Nothing could be further than the truth. Much of the folklore, myth and legend we remember from childhood comes to us through the distorting lens of colonialism and Christianity. The Victorians not only reinvented the concept of fairy stories, but also imposed their morality on them, bowdlerising them, erasing any trace of a past that did not conform to their standards. And yet, even a casual glance into the world of folklore shows that it has always been dangerous; always subversive; always sexual; always queer.

Stories tell us who we are. Folklore tries to tell us why. Queerness – and sex – exist as a thread that runs through world mythology. From Africa to China, to India, to South America, to ancient Egypt and all over Europe, gods and folkloric heroes change sex, fall in love with beings of the same sex, become hermaphrodite, transform into beings of a different sex, or sometimes assume an asexual aspect. From The Epic of Gilgamesh to The Iliad, queer relationships abound. Lives, identities and experiences that we would categorise as trans are often historically portrayed as especially sacred.

In folklore and legend throughout the world, queerness is alive and well, and if, as Jung maintains, all these are part of a larger, collective unconscious, then queerness has been part of our collective story since the existence of story itself; sometimes hidden, sometimes repressed, sometimes even forbidden, but always heartfelt, vibrant, alive; speaking truth to power.

Joanne Harris

Author Notes: Mind Your She’s and Q’s

Queerness, or anything that relates to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and asexual people as well as a host of other identities, is a fascinating but thorny concept. The very word ‘queer’, which appears in the title and throughout the book, is still perceived as divisive, even repellent by some, and the LGBTQ+ community don’t necessarily share all the same opinions on its applicability.

When I was at school, in the late nineties and early 2000s, ‘queer’ was a slur, something that might accompany a punch in the face, but it was also on the poster for the very first gay social event I ever went to. For me, the meaning of this word has therefore always had a duality, but it has evolved, from something dirty, to something cold and academic, then slowly into something I now use freely and easily. It is for me an umbrella that can encompass anyone within the lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, asexual and intersex spectrum of identities who wishes to shelter under it. It is a term that acknowledges the complex political history of people like us, and it is a word that spits in the face of that which would shame us. But if you personally don’t like the word, I understand.

THE LIBRARY IS OPEN

What is folklore? I have taken the idea of folklore in its very broadest and least ‘academic’ sense by simply breaking it into its two constituent parts: ‘folk’ and ‘lore’.

In this book folklore is any lore (meaning story) that folk (meaning people) tell. While some argue that ‘true’ folklore must be spread by spoken word, rather than recorded or written down, I do not make this distinction. Therefore, a book, a children’s nursery rhyme, an oral tradition, a legend, a song and a myth are, for the purposes of this book, all receptacles of folklore. More controversially I also count films, video games, gossip, pop music, newspaper cartoons, erotic doodles and fashion trends as kinds of folklore, at least where they are relevant to people and the stories we tell.

A ‘myth’ has certain specific connotations; it is a story that explains something about the world or its origins, for example where the sun comes from, or why people fall in love. A ‘legend’ also has particular meaning; it is normally a story that includes an element of a fabricated or partially fictionalised history, such as the legendary adventures of King Arthur. These semantic distinctions will often be glossed over. In this book, all these ways of telling stories will be treated equally as sources, whether they are fairy tales, ancient texts, or popular culture tropes.

THE LION, THE WITCH AND THE PRONOUN

A pronoun in English is used to denote the gender or sex of a person: he, she, they, etc. Their use has been largely uncontroversial until we come to talk about transgender people, who may wish to use pronouns that strangers may believe to be ‘wrong’ or ‘different’, but which accurately express and reflect their lived identity. Transgender women will on the whole use ‘she’, just like their cisgender* counterparts. Transgender men will largely use ‘he’, and nonbinary people may use a gender-neutral pronoun, ‘they/them’, or what is termed a ‘neopronoun’, such as ‘xe/ze’. When talking about living people I will always use the pronouns that they identify with.

Now, the clever reader may have spotted an issue. This is a book of folklore that blends historical and anthropological accounts, and therefore doesn’t always deal with a living person who might speak for themselves. Additionally, it often explores mythical beings. How does one gender a long-dead person, let alone a legendary spirit? Where possible I will use the pronoun most commonly used by the individual when talking about themselves. Failing that, I will use the pronoun associated with them in their lifetime, as long as this is done in a way that respects their identity. Where there is a person who does not express a particular pronoun for use, and there are clear indicators that this person actively cultivated an identity that blurred lines of the gender binary, I will go for a gender-neutral ‘they’. In cases where a person was living their life as a woman or a man, and there is evidence that they wanted to be perceived as such, I will use the corresponding pronoun irrespective of how regressive historical sources might describe them. When it comes to mythical, literary or supernatural beings, I will treat them as if they were people and use similar rules as above, but with particular emphasis on their authors, source communities and how they were spoken about.*

I will add that history is a living beast. Over time, as more research appears, the way we talk about particular people, their genders and sexualities in particular, might change after further evidence is uncovered. I would hope to update the use of gender markers (and other terminology) in this book when and if this happens.

FAIRY IN A BOTTLE

Among LGBTQ+ people there is a real hunger for representation. Queer history as a specific, organised and continuous area of enquiry, outside individual interest, has only existed for roughly fifty years. Therefore gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, asexual and queer people are all looking for missing representation in the past that speaks to their lives today. I understand this need – it was one of the things that drove me to write this book. But within this need, things can get unpleasantly territorial.

A person who died 600 years ago becomes a person to fight over – were they gay, or bisexual? Did she marry a man out of true desire, or was she a lesbian trapped in a loveless marriage? Is this person simply a cross-dressing feminine man, or a trans woman lacking the vocabulary of contemporary gender expression?

Rarely, if we go back more than a hundred years, do we find people who match contemporary queer identities exactly. There are women who love women, men who love men, and people whose sense of gender did not fit a rigid binary.* But these people were largely not using terms like ‘gay’, ‘bisexual’, ‘lesbian’ or ‘trans’, which only go back a century or so. Therefore what I aim to do is describe a person’s life as openly and respectfully as possible, and to show the similarities with contemporary queer people’s lives, without firmly labelling them. I may use contemporary terms anecdotally, simply for the sake of understanding for a contemporary audience, but in most cases I can acknowledge that these words or concepts would not have been fully understood by the people being discussed.

I hope, in doing this, to do a fair job of reflecting the past for what it was, not just exploiting it as a mirror for today. I also hope to push away from this infighting around ownership of LGBTQ+ historical figures, so we can share our icons, heroes and idols. Because of the sheer complexity, I believe no particular identity should claim sole ownership of any person’s life.

This even goes for mythical beings. Is a mermaid a feminist symbol or is she a queer symbol, or do merfolk say something about race, or disability? Ownership of people and symbols by minority groups, both within and outside the queer umbrella, is obviously a powerful and meaningful thing. I will endeavour to treat this with respect.

FLOWERS IN THE DARK

Historically ideas like age of consent, healthy relationships and equality have also changed enormously. Using homoeroticism in ancient Greece as an example: the kind of relationships these men were having with other men were not always the kind we should be celebrating today as ideal. Sex with underage boys, and abusive, incestuous or unbalanced relationships between men were not uncommon, and in some contexts were even celebrated. History doesn’t care for our modern sensibilities, our desire to have flattering or affirming representations; it is its own beast. What I will assert is that these stories that make us deeply uncomfortable as queer people today are no less bad than the stories of men who loved women, or women who loved men.

As tempting as it might be to sand off the edges and present queer history in its best light (and, understandably, out of fear of how it can be used by those who wish to cause us harm today), I think we need to look at history warts and all. We are no worse than cisgender heterosexual people, but we are definitely no better either.

Another important point to make is that throughout history queer life was often challenging, and to some extent lived in secret. Even in so-called golden eras of same-sex love or gender nonconformity, eras I would argue are often looked at through very rose-tinted spectacles by our community, there was a shadow of prejudice, hatred and danger. People who live hard lives, who love in secret and struggle with their own identities may also make for less than perfect icons. This should come as no surprise. If you grow a flower in a dark cupboard, with only a small shaft of light, the plant may grow strange, or crooked, its leaves pale or shrivelled. Queer history is full of incredible fighters, and individuals persevering against unbelievable odds, but not all of these people come out undamaged. For people living like this, we do not need to condone their behaviour when it is harmful, abusive or unpleasant, but at least we can understand some of its origins.

OF SHAMANS AND SKINWALKERS

Waawaate Fobister in their play Nanabush A Trickster:

Homo, that word cracks me up. There are many words used for two-spirited people in the Indian languages: lhamana from the Zuni, Gatxan from the Tlingit, Nadleeh the Navajo, Mohave the Alyahas, Winkte the Lakota Sioux, Mexoga the Omaha. Oh I can go on and on and on and on, but my favourite, my absolute favourite of them all, is the Anishnaabe word – Agokwe. Agokwe!¹

Pe rhaps the biggest monster under the bed in any study of history is colonialism, and its ongoing impact on people around the world. When talking about witches, fairies and vampires, much of my readership will picture the creatures born out of the folkloric traditions and popular culture of Europe and what we call the global north. As a white boy growing up in London, these were the examples I was exposed to. But they are obviously not the only examples. And here we come to a question: in including folklore from beyond my own culture, should I really draw parallels? Are Native American beliefs of shapeshifting skinwalkers and werewolves in any way aligned, or does that comparison whitewash and homogenise a set of beliefs with their own entirely separate history and symbolism? Worse still, it may entirely conflate living indigenous spirituality with ‘movie monsters’ or ‘fairy tales’; this isn’t just incorrect, it would be deeply offensive.

In this book as a whole I will mostly be focusing on categories of folklore with which I grew up and identified, so the chapters here are largely clustered and themed around the traditions of white and European settlers. I nonetheless want to include examples from other world cultures and indigenous belief systems, but with the full knowledge that these are systems I have never been immersed in, and cannot speak for. When I draw parallels, I do so from a frame of reference that humans the world over have told stories that follow certain beats, and themes, but are not the same.

As an example, in the chapters on ghosts, werewolves and witches I have explored elements of what is often termed ‘shamanism’ from different cultures. The term itself is a messy one, originating from the word ‘samān’ from a Tungusic language in Russia possibly describing Buddhist monks, but used throughout anthropology to describe practices of mostly indigenous people from North America as well as African and Asian countries. The very words used in anthropology and history can be inherently colonial, constructing a false ‘us’ (developed people) versus ‘them’ (indigenous people) hierarchy of culture.

The same also goes for LGBTQ+ identities. While we are a minority in the global north, queer people are not above enacting colonial ideas upon indigenous beliefs. Within Native American people there are concepts such as the third gender or two-spiritedness that it can be tempting to make synonymous with ideas of transgender identity. Similarly in the Pacific, ideas like ‘takatāpui’ of the Maori people might seem to overlap with certain LGBT identities. Many living people from these communities may even resonate with both sets of identities, but that does not mean they are the same. I hope that by their inclusion I am showing a sense of shared humanity, and not claiming ownership, or any deep-lived understanding.

I have asked for input from some indigenous individuals but the responsibility for good representation is not down to them. Therefore if I have misused a term, misrepresented an identity or a culture due to my ignorance, I apologise.

* Cisgender simply means anyone that is not transgender. For example, people who like myself who are assigned a gender at birth and continue to identify with that gender. I was born and assigned male, today I am a man, therefore I am a cisgender man.

* One area where I have made a decision that some readers may not agree with is around the gendering of so-called ‘eunuch’ or ‘gallus’ priests. Modern historians often write about these ancient castes of religious devotees as simply being ‘feminine men’ who have been castrated.

In source texts there are examples of them being described using both male and female pronouns, depending on the writer and the situation. By looking at the cultural role that these people fulfilled, how they were treated and perceived, I have chosen to use a gender-neutral pronoun to describe them or a feminine one. I also occasionally refer to them as priestesses rather than priests. It is true that any number of contemporary interpretations of these people’s gender presentation could be argued to be valid or correct, as we have very few sources from the people themselves as to how they chose to identify.

* Gender nonconformity and gender fluidity are complex ideas when it comes to talking about queer people. Just because a man or woman did not conform to rigid gender archetypes does not necessarily make them queer. There is controversy around mislabelling those who played with gender but still identified as men or women. That being said, throughout history gender nonconformity has also been a way for the LGBTQ+ community to express their identities, and can signify a gender identity outside or beyond the binary.

Introduction: Monsters in the Closet

Transport yourself to a Pride parade in any major city in the world. Consider the costumes you might see. Among the glitter and feathers, tank tops and hoodies, tiaras and Doc Martens, certain themes might recur. Whether in Paris, Rio, Tokyo or Sydney you will see papier-mâché unicorn heads trailing sequins, drag queens wearing mermaid tails, and more fairy wings and cat ears than you can shake a trident at.

To be clear, having a love for magic, mythical creatures and folklore is not something unique or specific to the LGBTQ+ community. Still, I would argue that the extent and depth of this goes beyond the status quo. From the language we use, both fl attering and derogatory – ‘fairy’, ‘bear’, ‘wolf’, ‘unicorn’ – to the iconography used by LGBTQ+ charities and groups, there is something going on here. More than meets the eye.

This book was written to explore this, unpack this, and to make a statement. That statement is that we haven’t just borrowed these symbols or co-opted them: we are woven into them. The bedtime stories of mermaids, vampires and fairies that many of us grew up loving were often created – or contain monsters and characters that were inspired – by people who had similar lives and loves to the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people living today. These are stories that echo back hundreds and even thousands of years. The monsters and heroes we dress up as, the designs we tattoo our bodies with and the niche areas of academia we tend to throw ourselves into are no accident or mere quirk. In fact, to truly understand who queer people are today involves an adventure into the fantastical stories of our past.

As a museum worker, for me this started with artefacts: collections and paintings from museums and galleries around the world. But it soon took me away to some bizarre and surprising places: ancient temples of Syria, the HIV crisis in New York, the origin stories of superheroes, alien abductions, demonology textbooks and the satanic panic of the 1980s, just to name a few. This is going to be a wild ride through the night; monster by monster, myth by myth. There will be tales of bloodthirsty fairies, Victorian melodrama, burned love letters and flamboyant drag queens.

It’s not always a happy place; if you know anything about LGBTQ+ history this will come as no surprise. These are too often stories of unfair and cruel treatment, unspoken love, unseen people, occasionally even death and torture. The histories contained within this book hold a lot of power and often tackle subjects that are sensitive and complex. Rather than adding content warnings for individual chapters, which may detract from the words or serve as unnecessary labels, I would like to ask readers to be conscious that some content may be hard to read and potentially distressing. This includes some references to assault, abuse, underage or non-consensual sex and sexual violence. But despite this, for the most part these are stories of people just getting on with their lives, showing remarkable resilience, wit, creativity and joy in places that might seem otherwise unforgiving. It is a deeply human story, despite focusing largely on inhuman monsters. I hope that non-LGBTQ+ people find a sense of meaning here also. You are welcome here. Queer history is everyone’s history.

Once upon a time …

PART 1

Queer Be Dragons

(Magical creatures)

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild.

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

From ‘The Stolen Child’ by W. B. Yeats

1

A Twist in the Tail

Ican picture myself at seven years old, sitting down in front of the small television in my parents’ cigarette-stained living room on a Saturday morning, remote in hand. I was watching, rewinding and rewatching a particular section of my well-worn VHS tape of Disney’s The Little Mermaid .

Although this was my favourite Disney film, starring Ariel as the titular mermaid, the particular scene that enthralled seven-year-old me featured Ursula, the large and vivacious cecaelia. Years later I would learn that a cecaelia is a half-human, half-octopus hybrid; it is a mermaid spin-off. The sea witch of the original fairy tale was written as a traditional mermaid with a fishtail, but the Disney writers and animators wanted Ursula to be something more sinister and visually different from Ariel. Ursula therefore appears as an enormous spiky-haired woman with six curling black tentacles instead of human legs. Eight legs would be normal for an octopus, but Disney animators baulked at the idea of having to animate so many limbs. Still, the cecaelia is more or less an entirely 2000s take on the classical mermaid. While terrifying seafood-hybrid monstrosities like the ancient Greek Echidna and Phorcys or medieval drawings of sea monks might come close, true octopus people appear mostly in contemporary fantasy writing and art. Urusula is a mermaid with a camp gothic twist; a mermaid in drag.

The scene I watched over and over again depicts Ursula as she gloats about stealing Ariel’s voice in exchange for granting the mermaid legs. Ursula belts out ‘Poor Unfortunate Souls’ with feigned empathy to mock all the lives that she, shrewd businesswoman that she is, has ripped off and destroyed. This one musical sequence had such a strange impact on me, watching it to the extent that the tape began to stretch, so that while playing the tape back in 1994, lines of black and white static would occasionally cut through the footage and the sound would warp and burble.

In my early twenties I would go to my first live drag show at the currently closed Black Cap bar in London’s Camden Town. In this intimate venue, a six-foot-tall drag queen, bedecked in silver sequins and fake pearls, performed on the small beer-soaked stage. To a sweaty room full of drunk gay and bisexual men, she gave an impassioned baritone rendition of ‘Proud Mary’: a song covered by Tina Turner. The sweat flying from her wig sparkled in the stage lights. It was only then that I realised this vision of gender-ambiguous confidence and glamour reminded me of something else. Of someone else, in fact. This drag queen was a powerful figure clutching a feather boa to her heaving rubber bosom, with the very same feel and stage presence as the sea witch in the Disney film.

In the film Ursula uses her two eel sidekicks as boas, thrusting and gyrating as she sings suggestively about ‘the power of body language’. Also, she is far from the frail old crone depicted in many European fairy tales, from the likes of the Brothers Grimm. Hans Christian Andersen, who wrote the original story, gave no specific description of the witch beyond her ugly laugh and hideous dwelling made out of the bones of drowned sailors (although Andersen has his very own place later in this story). Original sketches by Disney show that the concept for Ursula was of a wizened, frail, fishtailed hag, and this was later changed due to the animators deciding on a very different direction for her. Instead, Ursula is a full-bodied, unapologetic and commanding figure. Her lipstick is bold cherry-red and her eyelids a rich and vibrant purple. Earlier in the scene we watch her put her makeup on in a large ornate mirror, not unlike watching a drag performer put on their face. Much of this sequence is more Dorian Corey, 1980s drag queen from the New York ‘Ball Room’ scene featured in the documentary Paris Is Burning, than children’s bedtime story. Although this is a Disney film created primarily for children and based on one of the classic fairy tales of all time, sequences such as Ursula’s can be directly compared to a drag show.

Moving beyond Disney, some of the recent cinematic representations of mermaid-inspired folklore have also developed a strong queer fanbase. Both the Pixar animation Luca, about two sea monsters who transform into boys on land, and The Shape of Water, Guillermo Del Toro’s retelling of ‘The Little Mermaid’ with a romance between a mute human and amphibious monster, have been heralded as deeply empowering by the queer community. Even after Luca’s director explicitly denied any intentional queer coding, saying, ‘We were quite aware that we wanted to talk about that time in life before boyfriends and girlfriends. So there’s an innocence and a focus on the friendship side’, he still confessed, ‘We thought a lot about having to show your sea monster as embracing your own difference, and as a metaphor for anything’.¹

Authorial intent aside, the community continues to claim ownership; for many of us the symbolism of certain fantasy tropes as an LGBTQ+ herald is just too baked in. Queerness is so instilled in the very blood of the mermaid, that however she is presented she will always be deeply connected to us.

Recently, depictions of mermaids have appeared on the worldwide television reality-show sensation RuPaul’s Drag Race. In season ten, an entire runway fashion challenge, ‘The Mermaid Fantasy’, was devoted to mermaids, inspired in part by Bette Midler and her performance as ‘the Divine Miss M’, a mermaid in a wheelchair. In an episode of Holland’s Drag Race, Ivy-Elise arrives dressed as a hybrid of Ariel and Ursula, quoting, ‘You poor unfortunate souls!’ in her entrance. Ivy-Elise and two other contestants, Miss Abby OMG and season-two winner Envy Peru, all belong to the Mermaid Mansion, a ‘house’, or collective of drag queens.

Mermaids are a universal symbol that contemporary queer people use to express themselves in all forms of art and literature. At Tate St Ives, enshrined in a glass cabinet is a burnished red teapot depicting two canoodling mermen entitled The Mermen of Zennon, by gay artist Simon Bayliss. This was created by Bayliss in an effort to ‘relay contemporary queer experience in Cornwall’. The 2021 children’s picture book written by Ian Eagleton and illustrated by James Mayhew, Nen and the Lonely Fisherman, tells the story of a fisherman and a merman falling in love and has been heralded as an example of inclusive children’s storytelling. In Newfoundland, a group of men including trans men and nonbinary people formed the Merby’s group. They celebrate queer body positivity and push back against toxic masculinity by dressing as mermen for a series of immensely popular calendars.

So why is this the case? Why are mermaids a symbol that is so instantly recognisable and remixable by queer people? The obvious answer is the mermaid is a glittery, camp and effeminate creature which is just appealing to gay and bisexual men. While there is a grain of truth in this it doesn’t go nearly deep enough and leaves out the powerful connections with other queer identities such as trans women, lesbian women and nonbinary people. No, the