This is a long way of saying: gay bars are deeply important to me. It probably took 10 minutes for me to down my first vodka and soda, and another 10 before I felt entirely at home. Within three minutes, more people acknowledged my existence than in my previous three years of barhopping combined. So imagine my excitement when I first walked into Club Cafe, drumming up the courage to venture out into the gay world all by myself. I never witnessed any same-sex or same-gender couples cavorting with each other at these places. Besides, these were not comfortable spaces. Sure, I could theoretically pursue other men at these establishments, but something about their seeming universal love of oversized dress shirts and dad jeans told me they played for a different team. Though my social community was more than accepting, trekking out to Boston’s dingy and crowded college bars served as a stark reminder of the power of heteronormativity. A recent postgrad, I spent my legal drinking years in college watching my friends try - and often fail - to flirt with women on beer-stained dance floors while I anxiously sipped my overpriced cocktail in the back of the bar counting down the minutes until last call. There was something extraordinary, if not downright mystical, about my first gay bar experience.
