Read an Exclusive Excerpt From Melissa King’s New Memoir ‘The Girl Who Became King’

We’re not shy about our love for Melissa King around here. The recent cover star of our print magazine has been capturing our hearts with her cooking, her creation of community through queer food, and her undeniable charm. And now she’s sharing more of her story with the world through her upcoming memoir The Girl Who Became King, out on October 6 and available for preorder. It’s a candid and very queer memoir rooted in food, family, and friendship. Chapter 17, which you can read below, takes us back to King’s baby gay days in San Francisco and how she was welcomed into a vibrant and diverse queer community in the Castro.

Baby Gay

by Melissa King

I was in the gayest city in the world, yet I had never set foot in the Castro. I rarely ventured beyond the places my Luce friends hung out at: straight bars, straight clubs, straight neighborhoods. Six months into my time there, I moved in with two cocktail servers from work—two stunningly beautiful, extroverted, very flirty, and very straight hapa girls. We shared a two-bedroom apartment, pressed against the train tracks, the whole place shak­ing every time the Muni rolled by. For the next decade, I lived in our tiny dining room—three doors, no closet— my mattress on the floor, no frame. At night, I’d join them for girls’ nights at the clubs, playing designated driver or wing woman when guys hit on them. They nicknamed me Captain Save-a-Ho. But as much fun as I was having with my friends, I felt lonely. A whole year had passed, and I was desperate for a gay friend.

So I turned to the World Wide Web. This was before online dating and catfishing had names. We hid behind our keyboards with cryptic usernames, poured our emo hearts into our Tumblrs, and bantered in chat rooms with strangers across the country, never really thinking we’d meet in real life. My old roommate Dolly had talked a lot about DowneLink, basically like a gay Myspace. I had this little hole of emptiness in me, but I was terri­fied to find anything to fill it—especially online. But one lonely night, with my heart racing, I made a profile.

I was immediately drawn to a picture of a girl sprawled on a black Harley in tight leather pants, a black bikini top, and a fur vest, smoking a cigarette like she didn’t give two fucks. Ooh. She looks fun. I stalked her profile a little deeper. Her name was Jolene. She was a Taiwanese-Filipino bartender. In one picture, she was casually lighting a bar top on fire. In another, she and her friends were dogpiled on top of each other, cackling in the grass at Dolores Park during Pride. Her body was covered in sea-creature tattoos. Her eye makeup was sharp and dramatic, and she wore her very long, jet-black hair in a sleek ponytail that fell to her lower back. She looked like a total badass, and I wanted to know her. I shot her a message.

Hi =)

Oh dang, you’re a chef! I love food! Do you make people cry like Gor­don Ramsay?

I’m usually the one crying ;.. . . . (

She was witty and our banter clicked. We quickly exchanged numbers.

I was the last one left in the kitchen, head down, scrubbing the grease caked onto the inside of the deep fryer, when my Black­Berry buzzed.

Headed to Q Bar. It’s ladies night. You should come out. ;)

I had just crawled out of a twelve-hour shift, my body broken from searing ribeyes all night. My chef coat was soaked through with sweat, and I smelled like extra-crispy steak fries. The last thing I wanted to do was go out, especially to meet up with someone I didn’t even know. Besides, I was just talking to Jolene for fun. I don’t know her. It’s not safe.

I glanced up at the kitchen clock— it was just past midnight. It’s already so late. They’ll probably be closing up by the time I even get there. Plus I have to be back here early in the morning. I can go home, crawl into bed, and watch The L Word. The Libra in me couldn’t make a goddamn decision, but then my Sag moon kicked in: Fuck it. I can sleep tomorrow.

I sprinted upstairs to the locker rooms and hosed myself down in the shower. I slapped on my lesbian uniform, a buttoned-up flannel— it was 2009, after all—and rolled the sleeves to my el­bows. I pulled my french fry–scented hair into a ponytail. I tried to slip out the employee exit, but Jasmin, the bartender, stopped me.

“Hey, Melly! Ooh! Someone’s looking cute! What are you getting into tonight?”

“Not much. A friend’s in town. Gotta go! Bye!” I said franti­cally, then scurried out the door. I was too embarrassed to admit I was about to meet a stranger from the internet.

In my car, heading toward the Castro for the first time, I rolled the windows down. The cool air hit my skin, and I had a lump in my throat. Just go for a little while. Take the pepper spray Dad gave you. I could hear the thumping bass from a block away as I turned the corner and parked. A group of young women huddled outside, laughing and smoking under a flickering streetlight. Jolene stood there all in black, of course, and gave me a head nod.

“You made it!”

She made her round of intros, pointing with her ciga­rette like a mob boss. I could feel their eyes scanning me up and down. I was fresh meat at a lesbian club—and trust me, that’s terrifying in its own way. One girl had burns across her forearms—obviously she was a line cook too. Another was a general manager at a restaurant nearby, despite her baby face, while the third screamed dad vibes with a sharp, sarcastic mouth and a tech job. As they crushed out their cigarettes and turned to head back inside, Jolene casually asked me, “What are you drinking tonight?”

I paused. At the straight clubs, my roommates were always handing me cosmos, thanks to Sex and the City.

But instead, I blurted, “Jameson or Fernet.” From the corner of my eye, I saw one of them give an impressed head nod, like I had just passed some kind of initiation. Tell me you’re a lesbian with­out telling me you’re a lesbian. 

Jolene strutted past the line of women outside, straight to the bouncer. She gave the giant man a hug and said, “She’s with me,” as we glided through the front door.

Who is this girl? 

We walked down a dimly lit ramp as a remix of Kid Cudi’s “Day ’N’ Nite” pounded through the air. I felt a little tense— I didn’t know what to expect. Jolene stopped to introduce me to the DJ, who pulled a headphone off one ear. They had short hair, wore a vest, and spoke lightning fast in a Hong Kong accent. There’s another Cantonese gay person? 

“A fellow gaysian! Welcome—have fun! Grab a drink!” They threw me a thumbs-up and a smile before popping their head­phones back on.

We passed a set of go-go girls dancing on a pool table in hot-pink bikinis and Converse high-tops. They bent down to greet us, and Jolene slipped a few bucks into their fishnet stockings. As we walked deeper into the club, the dance floor of laser beams and smoke seemed to part for Jolene. She kept introducing me to everyone she knew, which felt like the entire club.

“This is Mel. She’s new here.”

I’d hit the queer jackpot and met the Queen Bee of the Castro. Jolene took me under her wing. She didn’t just know the com­munity, she was the community. The moment I stepped inside, the club doors transported me into another world. One that felt safe. I didn’t have to worry about men grinding up on me or ask­ing me if I had a boyfriend. This space felt so new to me, yet fa­miliar. And it was ours.

I scanned the room, studying the dynamics—who were best friends, who were exes, who were best friends and exes—and where I fit in to all of it. I was shocked to see so many beauti­ful women packed in one space. I knew the lesbian stereotype—the butches with carabiners strapped to their eight-pocket cargo pants. But this room was full of so many different types of people: long hair, short hair, femmes in heels and femmes in snapbacks, masc girls who looked like baby Biebers, bois channeling their inner Shane, and the adorable seventy-year-old lesbian couple tucked away in the corner. Continuing to hone my world-class gaydar, I noticed that most everyone had short nails, except for the drag queen who stumbled in from the boy bar next door.

I couldn’t stop smiling. I didn’t want the night to end. I had found something I didn’t realize I was starving for. I found more than just queer friends— I found the people who would become another chosen family. People who didn’t ask questions or need explanations, who simply saw me and understood. We shared both the unspoken struggle of navigating a world that doesn’t always make space for us and an unconditional love— a love that runs deep through our entire community.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t alone.

When June rolled around and I told my new friends I’d never been to Pride before, they flipped out.

“Oh shit! Baby’s first Pride!” Jolene shouted.

“Bless your heart,” another friend teased.

Pride is a big deal for my people—and Pride in San Francisco is next-level. The whole city shuts down to celebrate. Even straight people take the day off to wear tutus and glitter on their faces and join the parade at eight a.m. on a Sunday to prove their loyalty to their gay friends.

But in restaurants, weekends and holidays don’t exist. Who else is going to cook your Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Eve tasting menus? At that point, two years into Luce, I hadn’t taken a vacation, and God forbid I even thought about taking a sick day. My industry plays off our loyalty and guilt. If you’re sick, they shame the shit out of you. So you power through it, because one man down throws off the whole kitchen. Who’s going to sear the ribeyes and prep the station? And make the sauce for tomorrow? And start the stocks for next week? We’d still show up, snotty with chills, and cook away the fever; it was that, or get fired for missing a shift. But Roberto, Shawn, and Chef Dominique all knew how important this was for me. They agreed to cover my weekend shifts so I could experience my first Pride.

I wasn’t sure what one brings to Pride, so I showed up at Dolores Park with a box of doughnuts. As I walked up the hill, I felt the magnitude of the day. The sun was shining, and every inch of grass disappeared in a sea of gays as the city skyline stretched in front of me. The air was buzzing as people flooded the streets, dancing, kissing, laughing. There were young people, old people, naked people. Leather daddies strutting their muscles and chest harnesses. Drag queens and kings parading their very best outfits. I saw a little kid waving a tiny rainbow flag as they strolled by with their two moms.

I wove my way through the crowd, sure I’d never be able to find my friends, but I didn’t mind. I was happily lost in the people-watching, the energy, the pure joy in the air— it all made my heart feel so full. But then I spotted Jolene and the crew screaming and waving at me like I’d just come back from war. We roamed the park with a handle of Jameson, flirting with girls, daring them to open their mouths for a shot. My glazed dough­nuts came in handy as chasers. As we wandered, I stopped to chat with old friends and met new ones who had come to San Fran­cisco from all over— L.A., Hawaii, New York, Ohio, Texas. We’d pause to talk to people, and as we walked off, Jolene would say, “That was my ex and her new girlfriend. We’re totally cool now.” Another friend would spot someone in the crowd and duck be­hind me, muttering, “Oh no. That’s my ex. We need to go!”

Like lesbian warriors, the famous Dykes on Bikes slowly rolled by, their engines roaring. My friends and I followed them through the Mission District to the beating of drums. This was my first Dyke March. Around a corner, I ran into my roommates, who were also marching. They hugged me and screamed, “Happy Pride, Mel!” like it was my birthday. It certainly felt like my birth­day.

There was something powerful about parading through those streets with friends and strangers—moving together as one, chanting, cheering, and just being proud of who we are. We were a part of something bigger. And it was freeing.

After hours of day drinking and walking all over the city, my friends were ready to keep the festivities going through the night. The music, the crowds, the Jell-O shots, and the pure joy of it all— I was beyond exhausted, and it was only eight p.m. I army crawled straight into my bed to pass out. I missed the clubs that night. I missed the parade the next morning. I missed a potential meet-cute Pride kiss with a hot mysterious stranger. I missed a good chunk of my first Pride, to be honest, but somehow the warmth of it all still stays with me.

As my eyes grew heavy, Jolene texted, Rookie! Good night star­fish! Happy Pride! We love you! 

Drunkenly drifting off to sleep, I couldn’t help but think, That’s it, I’m requesting Pride weekend off forever.

From the book THE GIRL WHO BECAME KING by Melissa King. Copyright © 2026 by Melissa King. Published by The Dial Press, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

Preorder The Girl Who Became King by Melissa King.