Portland Queer: Stories of LGBTQ+ Life in Portland, Oregon

Keep Portland Queer!

Portland, Oregon, is a queer city in the queerest state in the US. It’s also a place where, like anywhere in this country, you can experience bigotry, violence, and discrimination. Out of these contradictions bursts this sparkling collection of first-person stories—a heady mix of fiction and fact—written by contributors from across the queer spectrum and beyond, serving vulnerability, humor, and realness.  

Immerse yourself in familiar scenes and landmarks like Washington Park, Caffe Mingo, the Silverado, Powell’s City of Books, Umbra Penumbra, St. Mary’s Academy, the Lloyd Center Mall, Hawthorne Boulevard, Food Front Co-op, Darcelle XV, a ghost bike installation, a backyard barbecue, a call center during third shift, and the many bridges over the Willamette River. Read Gabby Rivera’s original story that became the hit novel Juliet Takes a Breath. Revel in David Ciminello’s tale of a waiter who falls in love with a straight guy from the café next door. Learn Marc Acito’s answer to the question “Where do you find hot men in Portland?” Elevate your vocabulary with Stevie Anntonym’s “Lesbian Lexicon.” Whatever your orientation, these accounts of queer and trans life in the Rose City will make you see the world and your place in it from a different angle.

This new edition of the Lambda Literary Award-winning anthology includes a poem by Nastashia Minto and stories by Christa Orth and Kalimah Abioto, along with a new introduction from editor extraordinaire Ariel Gore.

Read on for an excerpt of Portland Queer: Stories of LGBTQ+ Life in Portland, Oregon edited by Ariel Gore, available for preorder from our site (shipping starts now!) or your local bookseller (officially hitting shelves 5/6/25)!

Introduction to the Second Edition

Maybe I’m the ultimate Portland queer in that I don’t live there anymore.
It wasn’t Portland; it was me.
Wayward femme seeks homing instinct.
This book is an excavation of the past, an urgent nostalgia, a portal to the future.

We queer cities by coming out in them, by congregating in them—having run away from or been run out of the other places we came from. Maybe we’re marginalized, and then we become tools and accomplices of settler capitalism. Maybe we’re something else, and we’re writing a different story.

Old hag seeks post-colonial dreamscape.

Consider: Potential space is any space that doesn’t exist until you make it. Consider: Every space is potential queer space. And consider: Queer spaces vanish to exist, and exist to vanish. Meet me in a liminal Egyptian Club of the mind. It’s raining outside. Conjure it!

Mira says, It’s always dark.
Heidi says, Long wooden bar against the west wall.
Meg says, It has dart boards.
Carrie says, Smell of smoke, leather jackets, and PBR.
Fjord says, There’s a black light in the hallway leading to the dance floor, so if you try to come in all lint-covered, you’re busted.
Marie says, It was like three bars in one—the front bar, karaoke bar, and back room. The parking lot was its own scene, and the back room had two separate areas, so it felt like going to a small queer town with five neighborhoods.
Stacy says, Karaoke nights. Sticky black folders full of song choices. Piling in at the bar to get a drink. Smoking way too many cigarettes. Pool table in the front bar. Loud breakups in the parking lot. Regrettable kisses. Dark corners full of groping in the back bar/dance floor. Can’t remember the bathrooms. Just drunk flashes of reapplying lipstick.
Daria says, Making out in the bathroom in horrible, airport-like stalls. Catherine says, There’s this stone, dapper af butch elder with a crew cut who’s probably in her 80s and comes in dressed in a stunning suit that she’s probably owned for 50 years. She sits at the bar, smoking. In her presence I felt an intensity of queer pride that I didn’t feel in any other circumstance.
Fjord says, Black plastic cauldrons hanging from the ceiling in the dance room with fake fluttering cellophane flames.
Xavier says, Hardened, stained, red carpet. Dingy and stale. A pool table, tightly intermingling with the low vibe bar and tender. A long faded sneer from a regular because I came in smiling and bought a round.

When I put the first iteration of this book together in the late aughts, I’d just birthed my second kid and was trying to save my non-marriage with my baby’s other mother. A local reviewer complained that there weren’t any sympathetic straight characters in these pages. If that was true then, I haven’t remedied it. Portlanders mocked the reviewer right away, saying that’s like complaining there aren’t any meat options at the vegan restaurant, but I didn’t blame the guy for wanting an impossible burger.
Don’t we all want the impossible?
Damaged lesbian seeks anything that might fix me.

Portland will break your heart. But you already knew that, coming in. Portland will mend your heart too. Now a friend messages me from Powell Blvd: “Stopping at Burgerville before my date with the GF vegetarian.”
Baby Mama and I fled Portland, broke up.
Bitter hag seeks new life.
I settled in Santa Fe, went back to Portland, went back to Oakland, fled again, fell asleep on a train, woke up in New York. I gay-married. Became widowed. Cocooned myself from the world. When I felt my new wings pressing against the silky walls of my grieving place, I emerged into a different future.

Portland’s Egyptian Club had long-since closed. But our Lesbian and queer bars hadn’t just vanished in Portland. Santa Fe’s Rouge Cat was long gone. Even the Lexington Club in San Francisco had been shuttered for nearly a decade. My friends had all scattered, too. In a cultural economy that cleaves us from place, our queer community fractures, recongregates.

It’s not just capitalism. It’s middle age. It’s the way I’m running out of room for new tattoos.

It’s the way I can’t find my way home, the way there never has been any there there, and the way that, still, technology keeps me exchanging one-liners with everyone I’ve ever loved who hasn’t blocked me yet.

The first edition of this book came out in 2009, and it was all about finding some goddamn solidarity amid our beautiful and wild differences. It still is. You’ll find the vintage stories in here, alongside new tales from Nastashia Minto, Christa Orth, and Kalimah Abioto. Maybe you’ll even find new ways of thinking about home.

Want to keep reading? Check out Portland Queer: Stories of LGBTQ+ Life in Portland, Oregon edited and with a new introduction by Ariel Gore, available for preorder from our site or through an independent bookstore near you.