Queer history goes back centuries – even the Georgians questioned their gender and sexuality

Some would have you believe that queer histories can only really be written about from the late 19th century onwards, when words like ‘homosexual’ first appear. But spend a little time in dusty old archives and a very different reality soon emerges. Regardless of the words used to describe same-sex attraction or gender non-conformity, you’ll find a plethora of histories that detail queer tragedy and persecution, yes, but you’ll also discover stories of joy and love, of hope and of belonging – long before Oscar Wilde arrives on the scene.  

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With this in mind, I spent the past several years looking at the Georgian era (1714 to 1837). It’s a period sandwiched between the indecisive Stuarts and the often-moralistic Victorians, both of whom tend to hog the historical spotlight. Yet the Georgians were asking many of the same questions regarding gender and sexuality we ask today: What makes a man? What is a woman? And what about those who didn’t fit neatly into either? Their lives, form a vibrant queer world that feels both familiar and surprising.

That world is the subject of my new book, Queer Georgians. Within its pages you’ll meet a milkman, a pair of pistol-toting Irish runaways, a Black trans sex worker in New York, and many others who loved, lived and struggled in ways that still resonate with us today. 

Take Gabriel Lawrence, for instance, a London milkman who spent time at Mother Clap’s molly house. This was a secret club where working-class men gathered to drink and meet one another. The Georgians called them the ‘mollies’, and these men created a community together when the outside world refused them one. Of course, transgressive joy attracted attention. Authorities raided, arrests followed and some of the men ended up at the gallows. Yet what shines through is not just the tragedy of their final days but the defiance of their lives beforehand. These men sought out each other’s company despite enormous risk. They carved out safety, security and pleasure in the cracks of a hostile society, proving that even in the most difficult circumstances people will find ways to connect.

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Then there was Eleanor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby, two Irish women better known as the Ladies of Llangollen. They ran away from their families in Kilkenny, Ireland, scandalising polite society. Eventually they made a life together in Wales, in a cottage that became a pilgrimage site for poets, aristocrats and other queer women, like Anne Lister. Their history is often rendered as a gentle rural idyll, but what struck me was their radical determination to be together. Their lives remind us that queer history is not just about secrecy or scandal, but also about love, creativity and the making of homes.

And then there’s Mary Jones, a Black trans sex worker living in New York in the 1830s. She lived openly in ways that both horrified and fascinated the press at the time. Arrested and vilified, contemporaries even called her a ‘monster’ for daring to live outside their expectations. Nonetheless, Mary kept returning to the streets, forging a life where none was supposed to exist. As such, what I found in Mary’s history was courage. Her history is messy, full of bravery and is utterly human. She has stayed with me long after I first encountered her.

These histories, among others, come together in Queer Georgians to push back against the idea that queer lives are modern inventions. They remind us that our roots are deep, varied, and resilient. And this matters today because rights and recognitions are never guaranteed. Across the world, queer people – particularly our trans brothers and sisters – face fresh waves of legal and social hostility. That, I think, is why recovering these stories feels urgent. To trace the twists and turns of their individual lives is to feel less alone, less hopeless. Or that is my hope, at least.

Ultimately, though, writing Queer Georgians was less about proving that queer history exists and more about showing how powerful it can be once we reclaim it. These are not abstract case studies; they are people whose loves, losses and small triumphs echo into our own lives. When I think of Gabriel Lawrence and his friends daring to dance, or Eleanor and Sarah making a home, or Mary Jones refusing to disappear, I feel a connection that bridges centuries. They remind me that resilience isn’t just about survival, it’s about belonging, about insisting that we get to tell our histories too.

And that’s what I hope readers take away from the book. That queer people have always been here. That we have always built communities, loved deeply and fought for our place in the world. Our history is not some flighty afterthought; it is a foundation carved from courage and resilience, one that empowers us to imagine and create a future that is more inclusive, more joyful, yet unmistakably queer.

Queer Georgians: A hidden history of lovers, lawbreakers and homemakers by Anthony Delaney is out now (Doubleday, £22). You can buy it from the Big Issue shop on bookshop.org, which helps to support Big Issue and independent bookshops.

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