48 Hours at Camp Gaylore: The Queer Swiftie Gathering More Powerful Than the Eras Tour
- Oops!Something went wrong.Please try again later.
"Hearst Magazines and Yahoo may earn commission or revenue on some items through these links."
Taylor Swift slept here. Okay, not exactly—10 years ago, she owned a seven-bedroom estate in Hyannisport a couple of miles down the road from where we are now (and where, it is worth noting, she gallivanted through town with Glee star Dianna Agron, generating lore that lives on today). This site, a quaint historic Cape Cod compound overlooking Nantucket Sound, is known for hosting church groups. Today, it hosts believers of a different sort.
Welcome to Camp Gaylore, the first-ever IRL summit of pop theorists known as Gaylors. As you may already know, Gaylors hold some very strong convictions: (1) that Taylor Swift is queer, regardless of whatever problematic cis men she may date, and (2) that Taylor has been signaling her queerness for years through a series of calculated clues. Suffice it to say, this is a passionate subfandom, populated mostly by stans who are LGBTQ+ themselves. The shared belief is that, for whatever reason, Taylor is semi-closeted—a protective business move, perhaps, or maybe a simple desire for privacy. And if you haven’t picked up on the gay frequencies in her lyrics, her wig choices, and her possible lesbian salutes? Maybe that’s because they weren’t meant for you. IYKYK.
Over the next two days, we’ll be getting into all that and more with hours of presentations and deep-dive analyses. This is set to be a smallish, grassroots-y gathering—only 25 in-person campers are enrolled plus a dozen or so volunteers running the show. Meanwhile, about 300 remote Gaylors have signed up for streaming access to the learning sessions, building on the success of a virtual Gaylor summit that happened last year.
As a Gaylor myself, I’d be here even if Cosmo hadn’t sent me. I introduce myself to campers as we craft cute name tags for ourselves in the lobby of the Craigville Retreat Center. I meet Morgan, 30, who came here from conservative small-town Wisconsin, where she’s been living with her parents due to some unspecified tumult in her life. “I am desperate to be around gay people,” she tells me. When she heard about Camp Gaylore, “I jumped at the opportunity to come here and feel a sense of community.”
Paris, 25, a Boston-based attendee who grew up in Arizona, agrees. “With everything that’s happening legislatively right now, it’s really important to be able to find spaces where you’re able to be with like-minded individuals and feel safe and comfortable expressing yourself.”
Nevada, 25, a newcomer to the Gaylor realm, tells me they were able to attend only thanks to a scholarship the camp offered to defray the $350 tuition cost. “I really thought this was a dreamland that was completely out of reach for me,” they say. Just being here, in congress with others, feels like some kind of miracle.
So maybe I should revise: This weekend is about decoding Taylor Swift songs...but only sort of.
I didn’t travel far to get here, but I’ve come a long way. Four summers ago, I left my marriage to a straight man, right around the time Taylor released Lover. I had a passing familiarity with her oeuvre but didn’t consider myself much of a fan. I was crashing with friends—a lesbian couple—while searching for a new home and striving to create a more openly queer life for myself. With its pastel cover and pro-LGBTQ+ anthem “You Need to Calm Down,” Lover got a ton of airplay in that two-bedroom apartment. And the breakup songs—“Death by a Thousand Cuts,” “I Forgot That You Existed”—certainly spoke to me. But given everything I was going through, Taylor’s music felt like little more than a fluffy distraction.
Jump cut to the following July, when Taylor surprise-released folklore. Every lesbian I knew seemed weirdly excited for this album. With my divorce freshly finalized, I now had the bandwidth to dig in. I discovered Gaylor theories on TikTok and plunged into Taylor’s discography with an eye toward gay themes. For the first time, I listened—really listened—to 2017’s Reputation, an album marketed as Taylor not caring about her press coverage but could just as easily be about a secret queer romance powerful enough to blow up her life. This notion, of hiding in plain sight while inhabiting a straight-presenting persona, resonates deeply for me in queer readings of Taylor’s work.
Here at Camp Gaylore (alternately known as GayloreFest), the analysis is served up with mock-academic gravitas. “We all love to cosplay that we’re professors in this field of Gaylor education,” explains Madyson, 23, a camp co-organizer who hails from New York. To wit, the workshop lineup includes sessions like: “Darling, Everything’s on Fire”: An Exploration of The Hunger Games Through Taylor Swift’s Discography; Unpacking Parasocial Relationships: A Conversation in Favor of Imagination & Community; Friends of Fletcher: Themes in the Music and Visuals of Sapphic Singers & Songwriters; and “Now I’m Your Daisy”: Reimagining The Great Gatsby as Gilded Sapphic Fantasy.
What’s happening here is really nothing new—Gaylors are performing the kind of close reading that happens in pretty much every English lit seminar. For campers like Amanda, 30, a longtime Swiftie who discovered Gaylor theories during the pandemic while awakening to her own queerness, this interpretative exercise is more meaningful than the objective facts of Taylor’s sexuality. “I’m not over here trying to convert people like, ‘Hey, Taylor is gay, and it’s really important to me that you believe that,’” Amanda says. “It’s more about Taylor being this incredible writer who intertwines all these incredible things into her lyrics.”
“We are not the first gaggle of gays to go book a conference center and hang out with each other for a weekend just to talk and gab,” Madyson says. “It just so happens that we all met because Taylor Swift put out some bangin’-ass albums.”
“I don’t even care if she comes out,” Madyson adds. “I actually would prefer she didn’t because I think it’s more fun this way.”
After I check into my single room—a rustic BYO-bed-sheets situation—I return to the common area and settle in for the afternoon’s presentations. Remote presenters will be streaming from all over. A few campers here will be presenting too—streaming from a dedicated quiet room elsewhere on the property. In the common space, all sessions will be projected onto a wall.
And here I have to admit that I end up…not paying much attention to the material. In the best possible way, neither do many of the other campers. I watch as they focus on making friendship bracelets, add artistic flourishes to Gaylor-themed coloring pages, and paint each other’s nails. Chatty groups check in on solo folks: “Are you good by yourself? Would you like to come over here with us?” Sometimes a comfy silence envelops the room. A few campers even nap on couches, the presentation audio forming a sort of pleasant background drone.
This dynamic is striking in its chillness—different from most camps and retreats, where schedules are packed with structured group activities. Kae, a 26-year-old from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, much prefers the format here. Although Gaylor TikTok was helpful in “expediting” her awareness of her own bisexuality, she finds the noise of social media kind of bad for her mental health. Camp Gaylore feels like the 3D version of a friendly Gaylor group chat she joined on WhatsApp a few months ago, she says. “It’s nice, having a much smaller source of information and also a place where you can just be yourself and be accepted.”
Presentation topics aside, Taylor’s aura at camp is surprisingly scarce. The aesthetic is one of nostalgic/analog summer whimsy. Think: String lights and wildflowers. Salt air and disco balls. Strawberries and rainbow balloons. An activity table set up by camp staffers includes a deck of botanical oracle cards, the social-bonding game We’re Not Really Strangers, and a handful of book selections ranging from Emily Dickinson poems to contemporary works by queer authors like adrienne maree brown.
It’s almost as though the organizers plucked a handful of nice humans off the internet and closed tab on literally everything else, a welcome break. Gaylorism in general is Very Online—born on Tumblr, increasingly huge on TikTok. Along with Madyson, camp co-organizer Katie, 30, recently wrapped a popular Gaylor podcast called The Archers, the duo’s contribution to a booming cottage industry of queer-minded Swiftie content. (Madyson has already launched another pod.) Tess, 30, a London-based camp co-organizer, is a prolific Gaylor creator too. This camp is the group’s way of passing the mic to others to invite their perspectives, to “recognize the brilliance and beauty of our community,” as Tess puts it. There’s even been talk of starting a literary-style magazine that goes beyond Taylor and into the open waters of, well, gay lore. That’s why the camp name has an “e” at the end—an indicator of deeper possibilities.
Gaylor subculture has now gotten big enough to attract coverage from major media outlets, some of it less than favorable—a Salon article last fall compared Gaylors to QAnon. Many face harassment from a hostile cohort of Swifties known as Hetlors, notorious for a queerphobic insistence that Taylor is straight. Bullying from Hetlors has driven some Gaylors to go dark and wipe their social accounts, which explains why most here at Camp Gaylore have asked that Cosmo publish their first names only.
Taylor herself is outspoken in her LGBTQ+ advocacy—granted, as more of an ally. “I didn’t realize until recently that I could advocate for a community that I’m not a part of,” she told Vogue in 2019. But as many Gaylors like to point out, that’s not quite the same as Taylor declaring she’s 100 percent straight and cisgender either. For now, the details of her identity remain anyone’s guess.
“In a cisheteronormative world, we are more likely to assume people to be cis and straight until told otherwise than to assume they’re trans or queer,” says Melissa A. Fabello, PhD, a sex and relationships educator. Her group coaching session this weekend, titled “The Bisexuality Crisis,” will address this very subject.
Camp Gaylore’s idyllic seaside haven is blessedly Hetlor-free. Madyson, who sometimes struggles to socialize in groups, tells me they feel “soothed” mingling on our private stretch of beach. This weekend has always been more about reinforcing the Gaylorverse than dissecting Taylor’s suspected queerness. “It is very much for people to meet and see each other physically and be like, This community is just as real offline as it is online,” Madyson says. In the sand, they spell out GAYLORE in dozens of tiny seashells.
We head to dinner in the large dining hall for a taco buffet—a communal setup that amuses Nevada. “This is so sweet, like the positive parts of going inpatient at the psych ward,” they joke. Then an earnest elaboration: “It’s just nice that other people understand what I’m thinking. I don’t have to explain a million things. I don’t have to be like, Okay, I guess I’ll let you ignore my pronouns. It’s a very good space.”
Afterward, we gather around an outdoor firepit for s’mores and impromptu performances. One camper breaks out an acoustic guitar and shares songs she wrote during a period of homelessness. Her voice is husky and powerful—a howl of survival. A few campers pass around a bong. Inside jokes are hatched. “As cliché as it sounds, I do feel like I’ve known these people forever,” says Lee, 33, a camper from California who credits Gaylor theories with fueling her lesbian awakening seven years ago. For her, this night is “cathartic.”
In the 10 o’clock hour, everyone heads back inside to watch the livestream of the Eras Tour. This has been a ritual for many of us since Taylor hit the road in March. Lots of campers have been tracking the surprise acoustic songs she performs each night—one or two per show, with no repeats from the pre-Midnights archive unless she messes up.
Tonight, Taylor is in Pittsburgh. One member of the Gaylor community—not at camp with us but someone who’s friends with a few campers—has been publicly campaigning for Taylor to play “ME!” at this stop, a track many Gaylors love (see: the big gay energy of its music video). Taylor playing “ME!” would be everything, a definitive acknowledgement of us.
As the livestream plays, campers string together bead bracelets with Gaylor references—the letters “SITBTTEBM” (“She is the best thing that’s ever been mine”), the phrase “WIDE EYED GAYS” (an intentional misspelling of the “All Too Well” lyric). Then the first surprise song begins: It’s “Mr. Perfectly Fine,” off Fearless. Everyone groans. The second song is a miss too: “The Last Time,” from Red. So much for “ME!”
Everyone is super bummed. A few campers even cry a little bit. But there’s beauty in the heartbreak too—something profound and unifying in our shared disappointment. “Even if Taylor were to go away and never do another thing, I feel like we still have this,” Amanda tells me later. “And that’s really cool.”
The big social event of the weekend, on the second and final night, is prom. Given that it’s being held in the retreat’s tabernacle building, camp staffers have printed out a color picture of Jesus, along with big letters that spell out “LYRICS TOO?”—a cheeky nod to the fact that we’re in a house of worship but mostly a deep-cut Gaylor reference (to something once uttered by Taylor’s pal and collaborator Jack Antonoff). A tattooed camp staffer DJs from a heavily stickered laptop, next to a whirling party light that scatters rainbow beams throughout the space.
Many of our prom looks are encoded with Taylor allusions. One camper wears a tiered, ruffled frock in pastel hues, à la Taylor’s Lover era. Another, channeling the Reputation album art, dons a matching corset and skirt in newsprint-pattern fabric. Still another is turned out in the crochet crop tank Taylor wore while promoting Midnights, its colors a near-perfect match for the lesbian pride flag tacked to one wall.
“Cruel Summer”—a Gaylor fave, theoretically chronicling Taylor’s rumored relationship with supermodel Karlie Kloss—blasts from the speakers. The dance floor fills up. We scream-sing the lines about sneaking in through the garden gate, about the shape of a lover’s body being new. As the song reaches its bridge, our collective joy turns incandescent.
“It felt like 70,000 of us in the room,” Lee marvels the next day as campers pack up to leave. “This was the most magical weekend of my summer—and I’ve been to the Eras Tour twice.”
You Might Also Like
