@Dopegirlfresh once tweeted that her first queer sexual encounter was like homecoming. I read that months before I had sex with a woman for the first time, but it stuck with me. Somehow it resonated prematurely, as if the tweet sought me out with the intention of fortifying my mind. I experienced the first hints of same-sex attraction years before that tweet and my first encounter. After timidly scrolling past gifs of women pleasuring each other on tumblr for months, I ventured to the actual forbidden pages. Too ashamed to follow or like individual posts, I meticulously logged and stratified links to my favorite videos from BlackGirlPornBlog, BlackGirlLesbian, X Videos and the “For Women” section of Porn Hub.

In the boxcar configuration of my dorm, I stared at my laptop naively hoping that “You’ve Now Gone Incognito” and the tiny Heisenberg avatar above those words would present new realities. I blocked out the sounds of my horny suitemates and was immediately accosted by automatic plays of Trey Songz tracks, loud moaning loops and kitten noises. In this new reality, the nitty gritty universe of “lesbianism”, I discovered flashy inspirational memes, the occasional television kissing compilation and of course, endless pussy eating. Tedious, perpetual, olympic swimming fatigue-inducing levels of pussy eating. And no matter the genre, no matter my search prowess —“Femmes Make Love”, “Lesbibeauty and the Stud”, “Ebony Chick and CrossFit Trainer” — the pussy eating never catalyzed an intriguing finale. I watched moderately skinny bodies, severely skinny bodies and average sized bodies flip, toil and irritate each other with phallic objects. I dropped the 240p videos and began reading erotic fiction reddit threads and random erotica blogs in search of mildly entertaining plots and realistic sexual aspirations. But those words never came off the page the same way tweets from my black, queer Twitter follows did.

My thoughts were bombarded with cute tweets about cute ideas for foreplay, strap techniques, pussy eating (not the exasperating, uneventful kind), analogies of vulvas and clubs and the respite of finally coming out and letting repression go. Black, queer, adult twitter became my bespoke sex user manual. I curated my timeline meticulously, rummaging through likes and quoted tweets for sophisticated, queer sex-having black people.They discussed the mythology of squirting and studs. Their favorite plastic dick brands and sexual fluidity. Entertaining threads about hotel meetups. Group sex was a recurring a topic of discussion as well as promiscuous people claiming poly as an identity in defense of their reckless behavior. Twitter polls explored the percentage of people who enjoyed butt plugs as well as the serial monogamy and willingness of dykes to take care of other people’s kids.

My first sexual encounter with a woman was homecoming. It was a trip to Disney World after winning the World Series. It was prying the Oscar out of La La Land’s cold white hands and relinquishing it to Moonlight. It was a tweet going viral despite a typo. It was everything.

The evening before homecoming I had the usual jitters. But I was black, queer Twitter certified with training in pleasure. I knew the folds and crevices of myself intimately and was excited to finally know another woman, someone I cared about. When her panties came off, her swollen clitoris wasn’t hard to uncover; but the triangle of sensitivity at her opening, the fleshy ceiling of her vagina, only a few centimeters past its entrance and the consensual thumb in her butt were insider’s secrets. I had been armed with an array of tools. And the divination that my desires were not only acceptable, but beautiful didn’t hurt either. I wasn’t experienced, but Twitter had taught me the impossible, the only requirement for sex with a woman—to love her body. Her idiosyncratic responses—the way her thighs shook violently, how she pushed away aggressively at orgasm—were not things I could’ve learned in X Videos or erotic stories. They were simply pleasant ebbs and flows for which black queer twitter had prepared me; the body’s potential to respond erratically to orgasm had been discussed thoroughly albeit with memes of Wolverine’s transition.

I guess black, queer Twitter crystallized my queerness in a way. My black, queer Twitter heros legitimized feelings I had repressed and reignited a fire in me society, mainstream lesbian porn and Redditt erotica almost squelched.

For posterity I should warn parents, but it’s already too late.They’re like Batman—their tweets may unsettle you at first, but they’re exactly what you need. I hope all black, queer youth, in their moments of insecurity and experimentation find black, queer, adult Twitter, or maybe it’ll find them the way it found me.

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NATALIE FRAZIER is a black Chicagoan, filmmaker, writer and incidental comedian. She spends her days writing, associate producing the forthcoming documentary ‘Unapologetic’ and her nights bartending. Her work can be found at