The husbands turned a blind eye, happy to have a little more time without the wife around.
Local moms treated them well, as friends, only occasionally taking advantage of them as ‘shopping buddies’ and therapists. They moved to the suburbs, no longer scared to live outside of the urban gay district. White, cisgender men married other white, cisgender men. We saw change roll out legally, we fought for the right to marry, to adopt, to live happily – and then we stopped. The community became something talked about by every day, cisgender, heterosexual people. At the same time, LGBTQ+ suicide rates began to drop, as people found themselves connecting with their online communities and learning that their existence is not something to be ashamed of. I watched the Supreme Court rule on gay marriage while on the couch with my family, hearing my grandmother complain in disgust while I sat beside her and messaged my queer friends about how proud we were. I made friends, learned about pronouns, and the issues of the gender binary before I turned fourteen. As a queer kid growing up with an active Tumblr, I found my place easily. The internet made it ten times easier to find safe spaces. So when the internet, and, in turn, digital queer communities came around, people were pretty excited. Not to mention, alcoholism and drug abuse ran rampant and unchecked, which isn’t too surprising when the sole safe space from a world who despises your existence also happens to sell liquor. Queer kids had a difficult time finding a community of their own, considering they usually weren’t even allowed entry. The ‘bar’ aspect of the ‘gay bar’ perhaps played a role. Of course, these spaces had their problems. They brought gay men, lesbians, bisexuals, trans and nonbinary people, sex workers, and queer people of color into one space, where problems and solutions, local and global, could be discussed. They became a safe space to hear ideas, to meet friends and allies, and, eventually, to come together and fight.
During this time, gay bars transitioned into headquarters for community organizing. This was especially seen during the AIDs epidemic of the ’80s, when casual sex became scary, and ‘the gays’ became even scarier. Gay bars, and other queer spaces, were so much more than a place to hook up or find opportunities for sexual relationships. While this provides a relatively easy way to explain the decline of gay bars, I don’t think it’s fully accurate. One no longer needs to flag a colored handkerchief around to signify their preferences now, you can just list ‘top’ or ‘bottom’ in your bio. Cruising was a huge part of the culture for gay men, and it no longer seems necessary. Many have argued that hookup apps, such as Grindr and Her, are to blame. But with the digital age offering safe spaces to anyone with a working WiFi connection, that may be changing.ĭamron, a resource known for tracking Gay and Lesbian bars since the 1960s, reported a twelve percent drop in their count from 2005 to 2011. It’s hard to imagine something as central to the LGBTQ+ rights movement being the gay bar. While straight, cis-gender people tend to view bars and clubs as places to get a bit rowdy on the weekends and maybe pick up someone before going back to their desk job Monday morning, the queer community has a long history of gay bars being their sole beacons of safety and acceptance in an otherwise harsh world.