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I push past you with my ice buckets. I take your glass away, sometimes before you’re finished. I bump into the bartenders, tell patrons to step aside, and cut the bathroom line, all while covered in sweat, stains, and sometimes a little vomit.
In contrast, the bartenders get all the glory. They charm your socks off with pleasant conversation and — oh, would you look at that? They made you a fancy drink, too. How lovely.
While I might sound bitter, I enjoy observing how the bartenders approach customer interaction. Some rely on wit, others on speed, a few on good ole fashioned kindness and, on occasion, a master who can employ all three. Yet there’s one bartender so charming, so magnetic, so comical, he leaves patrons (and some staff) swooning in his glow.
His name is Fred. Here’s the thing about Fred: He’s a six-foot-three-and-a-half-inch hunk of a man oozing what kids today call the rizz, or charisma to us older folk, and in the wake of this rizz comes scores of adoring fans. Here’s the other thing about Fred: he’s straight.
Gay gasp — a straight bartender in a gay bar? The mere notion may cause some waves. And here, in a queer publication, just before Pride no less, I dare to ask whether straights can belong in the queer community. Time to roll out the cancellation carpet, folks.
Admittedly, that reaction is understandable, for we gays are protective of our spaces. Fighting for nightlife is a cornerstone of our history; Stonewall was pivotal for a reason, after all. But the world is different now, isn’t it? There are more queers, more queer identities, and more allies all around us. As a result, we’ve made some significant strides.
Yet the tone toward our straight allies isn’t always the most positive. We detest the straight bachelorette parties, those gay-baiting straight dudes, that shrieking straight girl piercing our ears, and the overly affectionate straight couple taking up space. For many, the straights remain our adversaries, so much so that we degrade them with terms such as the title of this piece.
Take, for example, a few months ago at the Pub. It was an early Sunday afternoon just before the post-brunch rush when a sizable group of straight-looking college dudes overtook three tables on our covered patio. As they strolled in, every queer glared them down like a scene from a spaghetti Western. A few patrons even complained.
That was before we learned the group wasn’t there for a heist but rather their friend’s 21st birthday — the same friend who came out to them the night prior. Out of support, they all joined him in his first legal foray into a gay bar. If you’re not already thinking it, I’ll spell it out for you: That is fucking cute.
So, why were we so hostile? Are we projecting our own trauma? Are we always like this? To help me understand, and in what can only be described as the most sound scientific study the world has ever seen, I messaged 10 D.C.-area straight friends with a simple question: Have you ever felt judged inside a gay bar? After half replied yes, I grew more curious and asked 10 D.C. gays the same question. Of those, seven said the same.
Queers: me thinks we have a judgment problem.
Perhaps I should be surprised, but I’m not. I, too, have felt judged in gay bars. Certainly I’ve been the butt of jokes, and if it’s not me, it’s someone else. Yet according to the history we’re oh so proud of, gay bars should be safe spaces for queers. Now I’m left wondering: What does it mean to feel safe, and who qualifies as queer?
For the first question, consider my anecdote from earlier. To me, the birthday boy’s straight friends were as critical in facilitating a safe space for him as the bar they entered, for they encouraged him to be himself, which is what safety is all about. In fact, many of us have straights who support us — when we come out, when we discuss our lifestyles, when they join our gay escapades — all while defending us to others. In my own life the straights sometimes feel like a reprieve, particularly from the hard knocks the gay community can deliver, and there’s no better example than my good friend Alec.
Alec and I attended college together, and every so often he and I meet up at his house, order food, and smoke a ton of weed in his basement. We’ll catch up on life before diving into a show; right now, we’re watching the “Chucky” TV series (Yes, Chucky the scary redheaded doll, but the show is remarkably camp and queer. Turns out Don Mancini, the creator of Chucky, is gay).
During these hangouts, it often strikes me how connected Alec is to queer culture: he loves watching Bravo, his place is impeccably decorated, and he’s often showing me what’s popular on gay Twitter. Last time, having just read an article about actor Darren Criss identifying as culturally gay, I asked him, “Do you ever feel confined by straight culture?”
Alec repacked his bong as answered, “absolutely.”
When I inquired further, he explained, “My thoughts on straight culture can basically be summed up as ‘it’s boring’ and gay culture is a lot more fun. I’m not super into sports. I don’t golf. I don’t date. I’m not MAGA. I watched “The Sopranos” but once was enough. There’s not a lot for me in straight culture. I do, however, follow pop culture and entertainment news, I listen to good music, I take pride in my house and how it’s decorated, I love the “Real Housewives.” There’s just more for me in gay culture.”
Now back to the second question: who qualifies as queer? Must we look a certain way? Dress a certain way? Some might say enjoying sex with the same sex, but what if you’re not sexual? What if someone happens to be straight but rejects the same traditional norms and values we do? And what if that straight makes us feel safer than some gays for simply being who we are?
I usually prefer nuance, but when it comes to the question of whether straights can be queer, my opinion is absolutely. Definitely not all, but certainly some. Why? Because being queer isn’t solely about your sex partners. Rather, it’s about embracing non-normative sexual and gender lifestyles to allow queerness to flourish, and a heterosexual is just as capable of that mindset as a homosexual is of rejecting it (unfortunately those exist, but I’ll save that for another piece). Better put: when a straight person feels like a fish out of water in the pond of their own kind, well — what’s more queer than that?
Speaking of fish out of water, the other day I asked my favorite straight bartender how his time at a gay bar has been.
“It’s been very gay,” Fred so aptly replied, “and I mean that in the best way. It’s been a blast. Really couldn’t ask for a more accepting and open team than the one at LGP. I’ve learned more about the gay community in six months here than I would’ve learned in 10,000 years outside of it. It was a front flip cannonball into the deep end in the best way.”
That warmed my heart to hear. And if there was any doubt in my mind about Fred’s true orientation, his cannonball metaphor all but erased it.
Breeders: Can straights be queer
As a barback, I’m pretty damn annoying.I push past you with my ice buckets. I take your glass away, sometimes before you’re finished. I bump into the bartenders, tell patrons to step aside, and cut the bathroom line, all while covered in sweat, stains, and sometimes a little vomit.
In contrast, the bartenders get all the glory. They charm your socks off with pleasant conversation and — oh, would you look at that? They made you a fancy drink, too. How lovely.
While I might sound bitter, I enjoy observing how the bartenders approach customer interaction. Some rely on wit, others on speed, a few on good ole fashioned kindness and, on occasion, a master who can employ all three. Yet there’s one bartender so charming, so magnetic, so comical, he leaves patrons (and some staff) swooning in his glow.
His name is Fred. Here’s the thing about Fred: He’s a six-foot-three-and-a-half-inch hunk of a man oozing what kids today call the rizz, or charisma to us older folk, and in the wake of this rizz comes scores of adoring fans. Here’s the other thing about Fred: he’s straight.
Gay gasp — a straight bartender in a gay bar? The mere notion may cause some waves. And here, in a queer publication, just before Pride no less, I dare to ask whether straights can belong in the queer community. Time to roll out the cancellation carpet, folks.
Admittedly, that reaction is understandable, for we gays are protective of our spaces. Fighting for nightlife is a cornerstone of our history; Stonewall was pivotal for a reason, after all. But the world is different now, isn’t it? There are more queers, more queer identities, and more allies all around us. As a result, we’ve made some significant strides.
Yet the tone toward our straight allies isn’t always the most positive. We detest the straight bachelorette parties, those gay-baiting straight dudes, that shrieking straight girl piercing our ears, and the overly affectionate straight couple taking up space. For many, the straights remain our adversaries, so much so that we degrade them with terms such as the title of this piece.
Take, for example, a few months ago at the Pub. It was an early Sunday afternoon just before the post-brunch rush when a sizable group of straight-looking college dudes overtook three tables on our covered patio. As they strolled in, every queer glared them down like a scene from a spaghetti Western. A few patrons even complained.
That was before we learned the group wasn’t there for a heist but rather their friend’s 21st birthday — the same friend who came out to them the night prior. Out of support, they all joined him in his first legal foray into a gay bar. If you’re not already thinking it, I’ll spell it out for you: That is fucking cute.
So, why were we so hostile? Are we projecting our own trauma? Are we always like this? To help me understand, and in what can only be described as the most sound scientific study the world has ever seen, I messaged 10 D.C.-area straight friends with a simple question: Have you ever felt judged inside a gay bar? After half replied yes, I grew more curious and asked 10 D.C. gays the same question. Of those, seven said the same.
Queers: me thinks we have a judgment problem.
Perhaps I should be surprised, but I’m not. I, too, have felt judged in gay bars. Certainly I’ve been the butt of jokes, and if it’s not me, it’s someone else. Yet according to the history we’re oh so proud of, gay bars should be safe spaces for queers. Now I’m left wondering: What does it mean to feel safe, and who qualifies as queer?
For the first question, consider my anecdote from earlier. To me, the birthday boy’s straight friends were as critical in facilitating a safe space for him as the bar they entered, for they encouraged him to be himself, which is what safety is all about. In fact, many of us have straights who support us — when we come out, when we discuss our lifestyles, when they join our gay escapades — all while defending us to others. In my own life the straights sometimes feel like a reprieve, particularly from the hard knocks the gay community can deliver, and there’s no better example than my good friend Alec.
Alec and I attended college together, and every so often he and I meet up at his house, order food, and smoke a ton of weed in his basement. We’ll catch up on life before diving into a show; right now, we’re watching the “Chucky” TV series (Yes, Chucky the scary redheaded doll, but the show is remarkably camp and queer. Turns out Don Mancini, the creator of Chucky, is gay).
During these hangouts, it often strikes me how connected Alec is to queer culture: he loves watching Bravo, his place is impeccably decorated, and he’s often showing me what’s popular on gay Twitter. Last time, having just read an article about actor Darren Criss identifying as culturally gay, I asked him, “Do you ever feel confined by straight culture?”
Alec repacked his bong as answered, “absolutely.”
When I inquired further, he explained, “My thoughts on straight culture can basically be summed up as ‘it’s boring’ and gay culture is a lot more fun. I’m not super into sports. I don’t golf. I don’t date. I’m not MAGA. I watched “The Sopranos” but once was enough. There’s not a lot for me in straight culture. I do, however, follow pop culture and entertainment news, I listen to good music, I take pride in my house and how it’s decorated, I love the “Real Housewives.” There’s just more for me in gay culture.”
Now back to the second question: who qualifies as queer? Must we look a certain way? Dress a certain way? Some might say enjoying sex with the same sex, but what if you’re not sexual? What if someone happens to be straight but rejects the same traditional norms and values we do? And what if that straight makes us feel safer than some gays for simply being who we are?
I usually prefer nuance, but when it comes to the question of whether straights can be queer, my opinion is absolutely. Definitely not all, but certainly some. Why? Because being queer isn’t solely about your sex partners. Rather, it’s about embracing non-normative sexual and gender lifestyles to allow queerness to flourish, and a heterosexual is just as capable of that mindset as a homosexual is of rejecting it (unfortunately those exist, but I’ll save that for another piece). Better put: when a straight person feels like a fish out of water in the pond of their own kind, well — what’s more queer than that?
Speaking of fish out of water, the other day I asked my favorite straight bartender how his time at a gay bar has been.
“It’s been very gay,” Fred so aptly replied, “and I mean that in the best way. It’s been a blast. Really couldn’t ask for a more accepting and open team than the one at LGP. I’ve learned more about the gay community in six months here than I would’ve learned in 10,000 years outside of it. It was a front flip cannonball into the deep end in the best way.”
That warmed my heart to hear. And if there was any doubt in my mind about Fred’s true orientation, his cannonball metaphor all but erased it.
