Something felt off about the whole experience. There was so much to take in: Muscled go-go boys dancing in jockstraps, muscled bartenders pouring drinks, and, again, muscled patrons standing around and devouring each other with their eyes. I can’t remember the name of the spot, or what Manhattan gaybourhood it was in, but I can remember how dark the space was and how chaotic things felt. “Let’s change that.” So we went to the lamest event you can think of: an 18+ night. “I can’t believe you haven’t gone out to a gay club yet,” he’d been saying to me for months. My roommate, a gay white boy, invited me out on a lacklustre Thursday with an obvious, slightly condescending, gay-fairy-godmother foundation to his actions. I was 19 and a sophomore at New York University. Then they rip their shirts off and dance like no one’s watching. You know, those EDM-soundtracked visions of gay men experiencing a sudden sense of belonging and liberation.
The first time I went to a gay club was nothing like how it is in the popular imagination.
