Queer At The Gay Bar

I’ve never taken a non-queer to MY gay bar. When my straight friends want to go out, we go to the other gay bar. Or at least we did, back when there was another gay bar. My gay bar is the most dingy, dive-y, backwoods cabin bar you can imagine. It’s not far outside of town, but it is isolated. The interior is almost maze-like. The more time you spend there, the more weird tricks you learn. You share these with no one. That is now your secret entrance. Your secret bathroom. Your secret parking lot.

The best part of my gay bar was the patio. An enormous cement slab overlooking the parking lot that was often filled with sand and hosting volleyball. Sand volleyball at the bar is huge in Wisconsin, it’s more weird if your bar doesn’t make it’s own summer sand box. A carved out window allows the bartenders to serve the patio and one of the inner bars. There is just enough awning to house the smokers in the rain.

The worst part of my gay bar was the bathrooms, each one had their own hazard. Your best case-scenario was a toilet that was missing a large chunk of inner porcelain, I do not know how it didn’t leak. Your next best option for cleanliness didn’t have a door handle. If you wanted privacy, you had to block the door with a shoe and maneuver on one foot. After that, you’ve got a pair of barely standing stalls in a poorly lit all black room. These are emergency use only.

We were the odd group that took over the couches. Yes, our gay bar had a full living room setup on one side. Weeknights in the fall we’d pile 8–10 of us…