Gay bars used to be the safest places I knew. They were also the most fun. Since I turned 21 (and got a blowjob from a bartender in the bathroom as a birthday gift), I learned to proudly embrace my sexuality and humanity in these liberated, rainbow-marked establishments that stood for so much more than just drinking.
Every time I stepped into a gay bar, it was one more step away from all my heteronormative insecurities. But of course, there was a dark side to this journey, at least for someone like me. After over a decade of partying *in gay,* it’s difficult to discern at what point ordering another round stopped being an intentional choice.
I knew my drinking was problematic, but I refused to accept my gay social life was destroying my well-being. On a given night out, the first and second drinks were like water. The third cocktail loosened me up enough that my body felt less planted into the ground.
By the fourth, my “thank you” to the bartender sounded like an invitation. As I added the fifth to my tab, strangers became friends, and my friends manifested as beautiful beacons of light. The dance floor was my oyster, and the night was mine for the taking.
Unfortunately, my safe space soon began to become dangerous to me. One Saturday night, after relishing the pure joy of gay tipsiness, I found myself in an alarmingly familiar apartment without any recollection of getting there. The new tenant of my former apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, thankfully a fellow gay man, tol.