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It's a Drag: Many Gay Bars Are Closing, But We Can Still Save Them * The Walrus
Over the past two decades, gay bars have been disappearing at alarming rates. Writer
@kc_hoard
chronicles the shifting landscape of queer nightlife and what needs to change in order to preserve these spaces. #LGBTQ
@kc_hoard
chronicles the shifting landscape of queer nightlife and what needs to change in order to preserve these spaces. #LGBTQ
Link to tweet
It’s a Drag: Many Gay Bars Are Closing, But We Can Still Save Them | The Walrus
For over a century, these spaces have been hubs for LGBTQ2+ communities. How can they prepare for new realities?
For over a century, these spaces have been hubs for LGBTQ2+ communities. How can they prepare for new realities?
It’s a Drag: Many Gay Bars Are Closing, But We Can Still Save Them
For over a century, these spaces have been hubs for LGBTQ2+ communities. How can they prepare for new realities?
BY KC HOARD
ILLUSTRATION BY TIM SINGLETON
Published 12:55, Feb. 17, 2022
THE FIRST TIME I went to a gay bar, I was eighteen years old. It was in 2017, during a pivotal summer between the first and second years of university, when my friend Sarah and I—still navigating the transition between adolescence and adulthood—decided to take a trip to Quebec City. Both of us are queer, but prior to that weekend, we had spent most of our time awkwardly fumbling around straight-dominated spaces in Ottawa, trying to figure out who we were and whom we liked.
After we arrived in Quebec, we learned that one of the city’s few gay bars, aptly named Le Drague, was located a few minutes’ walk from our Airbnb. We were fascinated by the idea of it, imagining the debauchery we might get into and the fellow queer people we might meet. It felt a little taboo, but we were in a new city, safe from the leering eyes of familiar faces in Ottawa. We could be ourselves here, we thought, and what better place to do it than Le Drague?
That night, as we entered the bar, we saw our first drag queen. She was clad in all black, lip-synching to Rihanna’s “Umbrella” while swinging one through the air. Sarah and I didn’t speak; we were transfixed by her choreography, the swishing of her hips, and the noise spilling out of the audience. As the song swelled to a climax with the triumphant final line of the bridge (“Gonna let the rain pour?/?I’ll be all you need and moooooore”), the queen unfurled her umbrella, releasing a blast of confetti that rained on her as she dropped into splits. The crowd let loose an almost feral sound—an emittance of pure giddy joy.
The next few hours were a whirlwind of thrilling escapism—our very own gay fantasia. One queen pulled me on stage to ask the crowd if anyone wanted to sleep with me (many hoots ensued), then gave me a lap dance to Kesha’s “Woman.” I made out with a strange man for the very first time, and two older gay men invited me to a threesome—a request I respectfully declined.
{snip}
KC HOARD
KC Hoard is a writer based in Toronto. His writing has appeared in Maclean’s, Xtra Magazine, Them, and Toronto Life.
TIM SINGLETON
Tim Singleton is an artist, designer, and illustrator from Toronto. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, HuffPost, Adweek, and more.
For over a century, these spaces have been hubs for LGBTQ2+ communities. How can they prepare for new realities?
BY KC HOARD
ILLUSTRATION BY TIM SINGLETON
Published 12:55, Feb. 17, 2022
THE FIRST TIME I went to a gay bar, I was eighteen years old. It was in 2017, during a pivotal summer between the first and second years of university, when my friend Sarah and I—still navigating the transition between adolescence and adulthood—decided to take a trip to Quebec City. Both of us are queer, but prior to that weekend, we had spent most of our time awkwardly fumbling around straight-dominated spaces in Ottawa, trying to figure out who we were and whom we liked.
After we arrived in Quebec, we learned that one of the city’s few gay bars, aptly named Le Drague, was located a few minutes’ walk from our Airbnb. We were fascinated by the idea of it, imagining the debauchery we might get into and the fellow queer people we might meet. It felt a little taboo, but we were in a new city, safe from the leering eyes of familiar faces in Ottawa. We could be ourselves here, we thought, and what better place to do it than Le Drague?
That night, as we entered the bar, we saw our first drag queen. She was clad in all black, lip-synching to Rihanna’s “Umbrella” while swinging one through the air. Sarah and I didn’t speak; we were transfixed by her choreography, the swishing of her hips, and the noise spilling out of the audience. As the song swelled to a climax with the triumphant final line of the bridge (“Gonna let the rain pour?/?I’ll be all you need and moooooore”), the queen unfurled her umbrella, releasing a blast of confetti that rained on her as she dropped into splits. The crowd let loose an almost feral sound—an emittance of pure giddy joy.
The next few hours were a whirlwind of thrilling escapism—our very own gay fantasia. One queen pulled me on stage to ask the crowd if anyone wanted to sleep with me (many hoots ensued), then gave me a lap dance to Kesha’s “Woman.” I made out with a strange man for the very first time, and two older gay men invited me to a threesome—a request I respectfully declined.
{snip}
KC HOARD
KC Hoard is a writer based in Toronto. His writing has appeared in Maclean’s, Xtra Magazine, Them, and Toronto Life.
TIM SINGLETON
Tim Singleton is an artist, designer, and illustrator from Toronto. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, HuffPost, Adweek, and more.
