Pride didn’t start with rainbows and glittered bodies. It began as a fierce response to repression, exhaustion, and imposed shame. In 1969, at the Stonewall Inn in New York, men like us —feminine, muscular, discreet or openly provocative— said enough. And when the police came swinging, we answered with rage, with desire for freedom, with pride.
Since then, every march is a celebration of our physical, sexual, and emotional existence. We don’t parade to please — we do it to show ourselves: with beards, with leather, with glitter or with nothing at all. Pride is our space to say that our sex between men is not dirty, it’s worthy, it’s pleasure, it’s power.
Over the years, Pride has evolved, grown, been commercialized — yes — but it’s also been a space to see each other, to spark desire in masculine gazes that meet in the noise.
Celebrating Pride is not just a party: it’s a political, erotic, and vital act. Because we’re still here, still fucking with pride, loving without shame, building new ways to connect. And every time a masculine body shows itself without fear, we win another battle.
Today, Pride is sweat, friction, memory — and also future. We celebrate it with the same intensity we kiss, we touch, we moan: we are alive, we are here, and this body is our territory of freedom.