A bunch of us lesbian queers pile into the “Lesbrorodo,” as I call my very large truck. I feel like a bus driver checking seat belts and yelling, “All aboard!” Watching the shorter lesbians attempt to climb in like the Dukes of Hazzard never gets old. Sometimes, the simple things are what make me laugh the hardest.
As we park and head toward the Delmar Loop, I take in the crowds of people walking the strip. After COVID, St. Louis nightlife still felt like a ghost town. Seeing our city alive again reminds me why I love living here.
We park where the little Korean diner once stood, and my heart aches for U City Grill. These local businesses were the heart of the Loop. I can still picture the grumpy owner, hand resting on his gun, stirring up delicious bulgogi while glaring at everyone from behind the counter. Somehow, even his attitude was part of the charm. I miss that little place.
Around the corner, I can almost hear Kim Meecey calling out, “Hey, Mama!”
Kim Meecey. Instagram
Kim’s Salon K was more than a hair salon. It was a lesbian gathering place where women drank wine, sang karaoke, and shared stories while sitting in Kim’s chair. Only in a lesbian salon could you get a haircut, a therapy session, and the latest community gossip all in one appointment.
Kim was a longtime lesbian hairstylist with a huge personality. I can still hear her heels clicking across the wood floor and practically smell the CHI hairspray. She understood our gender struggles while making sure we looked fabulous. She was chaotic, hilarious, and larger than life. To my brown eyes, she was one of the most beautiful lesbians ever to walk the Loop.
Kim had a gift for making you feel like you belonged. I hope she’s somewhere among the stars, looking down at all of us walking past her salon, knowing how deeply she was loved and how many lives she touched.
As we round the corner, I point out the giant sushi prop outside a new conveyor-belt sushi restaurant and suggest we take a lesbian group photo around it. A straight county woman feeding a parking meter nearby hears me and belly-laughs.
I think, Kim would have loved that joke.
I also wonder what the hell this soccer mom is doing feeding a meter at night. Apparently, the Loop still has mysteries to solve.
We continue our walk, and I slip into my best tour-guide voice. Cicero’s, once an iconic, dingy basement venue next to Blueberry Hill, holds some of my favorite memories.
In 1994, my best lesbian friend, Lori, called to tell me she had tickets to see an upcoming musician named Ani DiFranco. Lori was a drummer who worked at Vintage Vinyl, so she always had the inside scoop on the music scene. I miss her terribly, and walking past that legendary record store still gets me.
Cicero’s was dark and smelled like your grandparents’ damp basement. But when Ani, barely five feet tall, took the stage with her guitar and a voice full of anger, passion, and the message that women could be anything they wanted, none of that mattered.
The plumbing was leaking onto the stage. Every time someone flushed a toilet upstairs, things got a little more interesting downstairs. But the show went on.
That was the magic of those nights. We sang our hearts out, surrounded by women who understood what it meant to find yourself in a song.
The Loop will always belong to Kim and Lori in my heart. Both were talented storytellers who carried their own struggles and demons, yet somehow kept laughing through the pain. Sometimes the people who make us laugh the hardest are carrying more than we will ever know.
Looking down at Tina Turner’s star on the sidewalk, I remember having backstage passes to see Tina Turner and Lindsey Buckingham at Riverport. If you know, you know: that was about as close as I was ever going to get to Stevie Nicks.
Then there was the infamous Guns N’ Roses riot at Riverport Amphitheater, when fans destroyed the place and took home the seats. I wasn’t at that show, but shortly afterward, I was at PT’s strip club when Axl Rose walked in.
We didn’t have smartphones or social media to tell us what was happening. We just started singing “Welcome to the Jungle” and “Sweet Child O’ Mine” as we headed for the door. We had no idea it was actually him. We were politely asked to leave and somehow ended up stopping for a PT’s burger on the way out. Nothing says St. Louis rock history quite like being escorted out of a strip club and grabbing a burger afterward. Those were some of the best stripper burgers I’ve ever had.
These are the stories that stay with us. The people, the music, the ridiculous moments, and the places that become part of who we are.
We finally navigate the Loop crowd and head toward dinner, stopping along the way to take adorable family photos for a couple and their son. I joke that they must have no idea what kind of photography skills they’re trusting me with.
Our destination? A restaurant advertising belly dancing and dinner. What more could a bunch of lesbian queers want? Women, food, and dancing. Honestly, add a bookstore and a hardware store, and we might never leave.
We missed out on Belly Dancing Jane, but we get a belly-dancing lesson instead. Our entertainer spins plates, candles, and even swords on her head while we eat delicious hummus, tender chicken shawarma, and sip fresh mint iced tea. Before long, everyone is learning to move their hips.
I look around and realize something: nobody is criticizing me, correcting my personality, or putting me in an adult time-out. I’m just allowed to be myself. What a concept.
As I sit there surrounded by old and new friends, I realize how much these connections have carried me through the last few months. People often ask how I meet so many people. The answer is simple: I keep showing up for my community, even when showing up for myself feels harder.
I create events because people need places to connect, laugh, and feel welcome. I don’t do it for popularity. Lord knows that ship isn’t docking anytime soon. All my events bring no financial gain. I do it because loneliness is real, life is short, and sometimes a night out with strangers becomes the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Life has a way of knocking us flat on the floor. I call those tower moments: the times when everything forces us to look inward, own our part, and decide what comes next.
The last couple of years have taught me that compassion needs boundaries. I can care about people without carrying their problems, take accountability for my mistakes without accepting responsibility for everyone else’s, and love someone without disappearing inside the relationship.
I’ve also learned that “Captain Save-a-Hoe” needs to put down the cape once in a while and save herself.
Apparently, boundaries are magical. You say what you will no longer accept, and suddenly some people disappear faster than lesbians when someone announces a U-Haul is available.
It hurts. Growth isn’t always pretty. But choosing peace doesn’t mean I love people less. It means I’m finally learning to love myself, too. Sometimes healing looks like therapy. Sometimes it looks like going to work, packing your gym bag, and showing up for your own life even when your heart is having a complete meltdown. Sometimes it means stepping away from social media, asking for help, or letting new people remind you that your story isn’t over. And sometimes it looks like eating hummus with your friends while someone spins a sword on her head. I’ll take that kind of medicine any day.
My queer therapist has also helped me think about the future I want, not just for myself, but for our community. What do I want to leave behind? What do I want people to remember?
I want to create spaces where people can show up exactly as they are. Where you can walk into a room knowing nobody and leave knowing five people. Where we share stories, listen to music, eat good food, and build friendships without having to perform for an audience.
Because social media is one giant highlight reel. We see the smiling pictures, not the heartbreak, the lonely dinners, the financial stress, or the person trying to hold it all together behind the scenes.
We need real human connection. The kind where someone drops off soup when you’re sick, helps you pack up apartments, sends you a song that makes you cry on the way to work, or shows up with coffee because they know you’ve had a rough week.
I’ve lost too many people to depression, mental health struggles, and heartbreak. I want our community to be a place where people feel seen rather than judged, included rather than isolated, and reminded that they matter.
Kim and Lori didn’t get all the time in the world. None of us do. Their stories remind me to make the most of mine.
So, what does my future look like?
A Nike gym bag in the truck. Old friends and new friends in the passenger seats. A calendar full of supper nights, storytelling, book clubs where I might actually finish a book, thrift-store adventures, coffee dates, walks, and questionable Facebook Marketplace purchases.
It looks like friends dancing to “Stand Back,” helping each other move, working on each other’s houses, and spending entirely too much time at hardware stores.
It looks like women showing up for one another without keeping score. People laughing until they cry, crying until they laugh, and learning how to build healthier relationships along the way.
It looks like a community where you can be a little weird, a little wounded, a little hopeful, and still belong.
That is community to me.
There is no perfection. There is no drama. A room full of people not pretending to have their lives together.
Just friendship, accountability, laughter, good food, and people who genuinely want to see one another thrive.
If that sounds like your kind of people, join us for a once-a-month Lesbian Queer Supper Night Out or our storytelling night in February. I’m also working on singles meetups focused on friendship, hobbies, and connection rather than the pressure to find a relationship.
Find our events on the St. Louis Lesbian Facebook page or email me at [email protected].
Come alone. Leave with friends.
I’m looking through the big front windshield now, not the rearview mirror. The storms behind me are part of the story, but they don’t get to drive the truck.
There’s too much life left to live, too much laughter left to share, and too many lesbians who haven’t seen my horrible dancing or heard my terrible stories yet.
The future is looking brighter, and this lesbian is heading out. All aboard!
Rena Noonan
Butch in the Streets
