Here, Queer, Unlocking
The first woman I fell for, my life opening up, keys sprouting everywhere.
I flew into New Orleans two days after Mardi Gras. The streets still dripped with beads. A sea of whip-its glinted as far as the eye could see, coating every parking lot in silver and blue. People stood groggily on ladders, taking down lights, masks, banners.
The city had spent itself. And here I was, vibrating with desire and desperation. I needed something: love, sex, a sign. This felt like my best and maybe last chance for change. To prove myself right.
The post-carnival city rolled over in bed and found me on my knees.
Queer time: a straight line becomes a twist, a circle, a repetition of an era I thought I’d outgrown. The clock breaks. The path doubles back on itself. A rebirth.
I was couch-surfing near the bayou. On my first full morning, I rolled off a stranger’s futon and stepped into the humid spring air. Arms stretched high, I breathed in—thrill peeking around the corner of fear.
Next door, a woman—dark hair, mid 40s, curvy and inviting in an undone button-up and jean shorts—sat on a porch swing, smoking. Come say hi, darling. Teeth unbrushed, hair wild, T-shirt and underwear—I answered the call.
We shared a spliff and shot the shit. I’m Lorelei, she said. I know everything that happens around here. You staying next door? I nodded. She smiled and offered to sneak me into the Airbnb she managed for someone else, if I wanted to stay longer.
In the New Orleans air, time felt flexible—like Jell-O.
Lorelei told me about her children, her side hustles, her work as a clown, her parties. I found myself nodding, saying maybe I didn’t know how long I’d be down here. Maybe forever.
Everything conspired to give me what I needed. Every person, every place became a spoke in the wheel turning my life forward—making it impossible to go back.
My friend Milo—the one person I knew in New Orleans—was heading to Chicago for a few days. I asked if I could stay in his room while he was gone.
My roommate’s really picky, but I’ll ask, he texted.
I drifted into the night, walking slowly through the city, waiting to see what would happen next.
Another text arrived: She’s cool with it. She’ll meet you in the French Quarter at midnight and give you the key. Here’s her number.
I walked leisurely. It was already happening. Time folds here. Each moment isn’t after anything—it’s inside everything.
It was dark under the overpasses, quiet in the streets, until I emerged into a coffee shop glowing in the middle of the Quarter. I sat at a table, drifting toward sleep. I was late—but, true to New Orleans form, she was later.
Red hair, hips swinging, she moved through the door and slid into the seat across from me.
Lizzy, she said.
Elle, I managed.
Her eyes were ice blue, melting down my face. Her gaze never left mine as we talked. My heart beat fast and hard.
Eventually—had hours passed?—I asked about the keys.
Oh, the keys, she said, like surfacing. We jolted back into time. She patted herself down. No keys. Unconcerned, she stood and left the coffee shop.
Spellbound, I followed. She was a pedicab driver, about to start her shift. The keys were in the cab.
How will you get into the house if I have your keys? I stammered.
She hadn’t thought of that. Oh. Hm. I guess there are a bunch of copies lying around our house. Just take one. Leave mine in the plants or whatever.
Okay. I’ll text you where I leave them.
Cool.
She got on her pedicab and rode away.
When I arrived at the house—delirious with exhaustion—there were truly keys on every surface. I held them up one by one until I found a match for the one Elle had given me. It had a pink pipe cleaner bunched into a little puff at the top.
I buried her key in a plant by the front door.
I lay in Milo’s bed and heard her come home hours later, singing along to music on her phone. I felt her—an energetic swarm. I couldn’t sleep with her body so close, just a thin wall between me and all that fire.
The next day, the key glinted at me, still nestled in the plant. How had she gotten in?
It's like starting from the center of a wheel. Something happened that changed my life, and spokes began to radiate from that moment. There was a before and an after, but mostly, there was an around—everything oriented itself around that center, and the future spiraled out from it.
The next morning, I went to a yoga studio. The instructor, muscular and lithe, was also really into aerial yoga. Who are you staying with? he asked. I stuttered out Elle’s name. The pedicab driver? I nodded. He knew her.
After class, he offered to drive me home. He walked through the front door without knocking, straight into her bedroom. Elle? She wasn’t home. He gave me his number, invited me to an aerial yoga class that evening.
I was flabbergasted. The absolute lack of privacy, propriety, or personal space was shocking to my Midwestern sensibilities. The boundaries were thin, the walls barely there, the ghosts were always close.
I texted Elle. She replied that she and some friends were leaving in thirty minutes to go to some land for the full moon. Did I want to come?
I piled into her car with strangers.
A crowd of white hippies gathered around open green space. They talked about psychedelics and manifesting desires. We started a bonfire, and smoke curled around Elle’s frame. I couldn’t stop looking at her.
In Elle’s house, craft projects were scattered across the floor. An elephant mask from Mardi Gras hung from a white wall. Roses, foil, magazines. Twigs filled her car for a project she couldn’t quite define. Two hula hoops dangled from the ceiling, connected by string.
I suggested she cut one hoop and interlock them.
I like them close, but not touching, she said.
I was a hungry little animal, and she was an open flame. She blew smoke towards me, the fire’s breath warm against my skin.
In the car on the way back to New Orleans, her dog lay between us. Both our hands brushed over him. Close, but not touching.
I went to a healing circle I saw advertised in a coffee shop. I texted Elle— want to hang out after? No response. My body was a cyclone of wanting.
Halfway through, without warning, she breezed in. She knew everyone. She led a song. We left together.
Hours later, by some miracle, we were sitting in a field, facing each other.
Can I kiss you?
She nodded.
She smelled of smoke and essential oils. Her clear blue eyes closed. Her pearl skin glistened. Full mermaid. We kissed under a tree as time stilled.
It felt like I had wished on every star and been heard. Her kiss held a tenderness I was unused to. A strength. Kissing a woman for the first time was the answer to my body’s prayer.
Eventually—had hours passed?—we stood. Walked to her car. She patted herself down. No keys.
Her red hair swayed in the night breeze as her body stood calm.
Let’s just take a minute and manifest them… Eyes closed.
Oh, I’m so glad we found them, she intoned. They were so hard to see, but we did it.
Breathing her in, I succumb.
Wow, they were here the whole time.
They were here the whole time.
The whole damn city was always losing its keys—they slipped out of pockets and swallowed by the land. They turned up unbidden. Keys sprouted in my backpack.
Our cell phone flashlights skimmed the roots of trees where we were just entangled, a humiliating highlight on what had been the site of dark sensuality moments ago.
Nothing but wet leaves.
She patted her clothes again.
Pockets, I said, as I had the first time, in the coffee shop a whole lifetime ago.
Yes, pockets. She glided her mermaid hands into her denim jacket.
Entangled in the roots of the tree, I had taken off her jacket, eager to touch her gleaming skin. Now I wondered: had I caused the keys to fall through? Was this God’s punishment for my gay act?
My host at the bayou house had given me his entire key ring just to lock a borrowed bike.
What do I need them for? he had asked. I’m not going anywhere.
I’ve never, in my life, given anyone my entire key ring.
Your keys are your life—your access, your ability to escape, to seclude, to invite. Without them, the world becomes an open mouth.
Did you check your pockets? Elle asked, a slight smile at the edge of her mouth. Maybe they jumped into them.
I reached into my jacket.
I felt something cold and jagged. Of course.
Oh, I’m so glad we found them. They were hard to see, but we did it.
Wow, they were here the whole time.
They were here the whole time.
love love the interweaving here and the imagery of the lost and found keys! some favorite lines:
“Time folds here. Each moment isn’t after anything—it’s inside everything”
“The whole damn city was always losing its keys—they slipped out of pockets and swallowed by the land. They turned up unbidden”
“I’ve never, in my life, given anyone my entire key ring.”
So well done, Liz!
Love love love this one!