“Let’s change that.” So we went to the lamest event you can think of: an 18+ night. “I can’t believe you haven’t gone out to a gay club yet,” he’d been saying to me for months.
My roommate, a gay white boy, invited me out on a lacklustre Thursday with an obvious, slightly condescending, gay-fairy-godmother foundation to his actions.
I was 19 and a sophomore at New York University. Then they rip their shirts off and dance like no one’s watching.
You know, those EDM-soundtracked visions of gay men experiencing a sudden sense of belonging and liberation. The first time I went to a gay club was nothing like how it is in the popular imagination.
