I usually try to confine my posts here to writing, books, and Captain Janeway, but It’s National Coming Out Day in the U.S., and I’m sure it comes as no surprise to anyone that I’m gay.
Gay gay gay gay gay.
Like, realllly gay. (Seriously, ask me about my Wonder Woman bracelets sometime.)
But anyway. Does something like that still matter? Yes, if you’ll pardon my language, it fucking matters. Continue reading
I think I was nineteen or so when I set foot inside my first gay bar. (Which makes it sound like an alternative playset for Barbie, doesn’t it? Barbie’s First Gay Bar. Hopefully she won’t find Ken in there with GI Joe.) They were complicated places for me at first, gay bars, since I felt like an outsider and like I belonged at the same time. As an insecure twenty-something who still acutely remembered being an awkward, chunky adolescent, I wasn’t great at places where you were probably going to be judged by how you look.
I don’t remember how I got into that first gay bar since I was, obviously, underage. I didn’t have a fake ID. Still, that had never stopped me from getting into Shattered, the nightclub in downtown Columbia, Missouri that was where my friends and I spent Wednesday nights dancing to new wave music. It was a basement bar where the music was always way too loud, the drinks were cheap (in my memory, at least), and the dance floor could be hazardous if one of the cramped toilets backed up.