Maggie Zo, contributor

The performance of queerness in the recent Lube Wrestling event moves beyond spectacle and into embodiment. Wrestling is not only a means of expending energy but also stages two queer people grappling with themselves as well as each other. The act reflects the tension between the individual’s queer experience and those of the people around them, while also trying to understand where this settles in a global, human experience. The physical exertion mirrors the visceral conflicts often tied to queer identity. 

The concept is simple: queer people wrestling in pink lube. Sometimes two, sometimes four – maybe even five. But while it was the wrestling that many people were there for, there was an overwhelming sense that this was more than that; this was community. This was showing up and showing out in support of trans and queer people. Attendees Callen and Beau Love said queer wrestling spaces are important for practicing radical consent, embracing tension and becoming comfortable with aggression. They described these events as places to “freedom-dream as wildly and openly as you can, supported by your community,” even when that community is literally on top of you in the ring.

Queer spaces, like play parties, which once flourished in the 1970s, are now increasingly harder to find. Rising hate and violence toward the community have forced organizers to keep them more secretive and private. This has created a disconnect for younger queer people who have not been able to express and explore their queerness safely. 

Comparing lube wrestling with play parties and other similar sex positive spaces, Love spoke about how crucial these spaces are for queer people for physical touch and for connection in a way that surpasses physical intimacy. Callen added that these events are also opportunities to get “down and dirty, sexy and sweaty.” 

The group Queer Wrestling (@wrestle.yr.friends) advertises its Lube Wrestling event on their Instagram, inviting attendees to “show up bravely and join us for queer joy and queer conflict” in an outdoor setting. This framing invites the opportunity to consider what it means to create a “brave space” rather than a “safe space.”

Love spoke to the tension between risk-averse versus the risk calculus that organizers weigh when planning events without formal security. There is a vulnerability here, an openness and courageousness, in the face of potential backlash. For me, the decision to attend initially raised safety concerns. However, the camaraderie of the community and sense of collective proved far stronger.

The event was identity-affirming, community-building, and a place to reclaim bodily autonomy in a physical, joyful way. The lube wrestling itself is tough, yet playful, offering an essential way to foster community through vulnerability and physicality, celebrating what it is to be queer; loudly, openly and confidently.