Introducing Daddy Lessons: Bite-Sized Lessons in Queer History

Introducing Daddy Lessons—a series of bite-sized snackable lessons in queer history, told by those who’ve lived the kind of lives you don’t learn about in textbooks.

We’re launching Daddy Lessons during LGBT History Month—because if we’re going to teach, we might as well make it sexy. Twice a week, we’re dropping fresh episodes to bring you the history you didn’t get in school. 

No stuffy lectures here—just stories from those who’ve lived through queer history’s defining moments, with the insight and experience to back it up. That’s why we’re thrilled to kick things off with Clayton Littlewood. As one of our Daddies, Clayton isn’t just a storyteller; he’s a chronicler of LGBTQ+ life, an acclaimed writer, and someone who has dedicated himself to capturing the grit, humor, and heart of queer culture.

Curious? You should be. 

Here’s Clayton, in his own words:

Imagine living in a town with no gay bars, no clubs, no saunas, no gay magazines, no bookshops, no films, and—worst of all—no Grindr. That was Weston-super-Mare in the 1970s. I felt like a freak. Like I was the only gay person alive.

My first realization of “otherness” came at school. I vividly remember reaching the third year, and overnight, all my friends started talking about girls. I couldn’t understand what they found interesting about them. Sure, I’d fumbled with a breast or two, but it always felt like a messy business. If they were into it and I wasn’t, what did that make me?

Every Saturday afternoon, I’d catch the bus to the library and browse the Young Adult section. But this day, I was there for a different reason—research. Making sure no one was watching, I gravitated toward the Psychology section. That’s when I found a book on sexual abnormalities. I had a name: homosexual. I nearly dropped the book. I quickly put it back and rushed out of the library.

I took the back entrance, my head buzzing, and popped into the adjoining bathroom. There, I made another discovery. Inside a cubicle, the walls were covered with writing: poetry, jokes, statements like “My mother made me a lesbian” and “If I get her the wool, will she make me one too?” And then, “Stuart sucks big cock,” “Meet me on the prom at 9 pm if you wanna get fucked.” Discovering your culture in a urine-drenched bathroom wasn’t life-affirming, but it was a revelation. There were others like me out there.

Fast forward ten years. Living in London and attending Westminster University, I walked into another library. At the back, on the bottom shelf, I found a gay section—an actual gay section. Quickly, I realized we had a history—a history that had been hidden from me. Oscar Wilde, Alan Turing, Radclyffe Hall, Kings and Queens, the Romans, the Ancient Greeks. It was mind-blowing. And it set me on a course of discovery.

Gay history has long been hidden—from shame, fear, or the law. Diaries have been destroyed, families denied their loved ones’ sexuality, and gay men stayed closeted. Same-sex couples were written off as “best friends.” Even in Hollywood, we’ve been coded, closeted, hidden away like a dirty secret.

Ironically, it was negative press—court cases, raids, arrests, executions—that shone a light on our world. The sensationalist coverage revealed an underground community most never knew existed. That publicity gave rise to the community we know today.

We’ve come far since then, but the pendulum swings back. As gay culture hits the mainstream, backlash follows. Living in Florida, it often feels like I’m living at the heart of it. We’re seeing LGBTQ+ book bans and “Don’t Say Gay” laws. The ACLU is currently tracking over 530 anti-LGBTQI+ bills in the U.S., and trans murders are rising at an alarming rate.

So how do we reach LGBTQ+ youth who may not have access to gay books in school so they don’t feel isolated? That’s where Daddy Lessons comes in. We’re here to get gay history across in a way that’s fun, accessible, and true to our experiences. I come from a generation of survivors. AIDS decimated my generation in the ’80s and ’90s. 

For those of us left, it’s time to give back. It’s time to tell our stories. To keep our history alive.

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Class is in session.