Nine Gay Bar No-Nos
1. Messy queens.
You know who you are. Ten bucks says you’re reading this hungover. Messy queens are not specific to any gender. It’s anyone who doesn’t know when to stop drinking, smoking, sniffing, twirling. Avoid acting wild and winding up on a stranger’s Instagram story. Look after your friends and most importantly, yourself. Know your limits. Handle your use, and always test your stash. We’re sick of people dying. That’s why my bar offers test strips.
The coolest folks know when to say, “I’m good for now.” The worst are those who barf on my goddamn floor. If you spray vomit, it’ll take every ounce of strength to resist rubbing your face in it. Look, I get it. Accidents happen. Stomachs turn on a dime in America. But there are so many trash cans stationed around the bar, partly for this purpose. You have my word, none of us will shame you much less kick you out for barfing in a trash can. In fact, your presence of mind will likely earn you a free water bottle and a pat on the back.
I shouldn’t have butt-chugged that seventh AMF.
2. Fancy drinks
Unless you’re at the Glass Coffin, you won’t impress anyone at a gay bar by asking for a gimlet Paper Plane*. These days even a margarita makes bartenders roll their eyes. Prevent that kind of embarrassment at the rail before it happens. Read the room. Do you see anyone with a fancy cocktail? No? Don’t try to be the first. You’ll just annoy people behind the bar and those in line behind you. Most gay bars top out at Manhattans and Long Islands. No pina coladas, and no fucking mojitos.
“Can I have five more of these little blonde bitches?”
3. Bachelorette parties
Having a good shift? We’ll see about that!
The word “bachelorette” sends every veteran bartender into a blank-faced, Vietnam-style PTSD flashback. I think it was the nineties when bachelorette parties at gay bars became a thing. They feel very Sex And The City—dated, annoying, and we never need a sequel. Like comedian Michelle Wolf says, women should’ve befriended lesbians.
A bachelorette party is D-Day for gay bars. However prepared, few can get through one without extra hands. Still the carnage is sobering. Wherever you look an atrocity unfolds. A barback searching for cocktail glasses gets his ass grabbed by half the party, his face shot up with kisses. You promise your heart you’ll send word to his husband. Cause of Death: sexual harassment in the line of duty.
In another corner, bridesmaids chase Jello shots with mezcal, their stomachs turning into timebombs.
“OMG, are these stairs?” [Vomits]
I strongly support the protection of safe spaces for women to gather without a straight male component. Except for certain reasons, most gay bars welcome women. It’s when the gay bar becomes a spectacle for them to gawk at and take pictures that allyship ends and voyeurism begins. The thing is, gay bars exist for queers to gather in spaces without a straight component. You know, the rest of the world. Congrats on your special day. Find a venue willing to celebrate with you.
4. Bad attitudes
Never disrespect bar staff. Every job—door guys, coat check, barbacks, you name it—is essential to running a successful bar. Acting like you’re better than someone with these duties is a great way to get turned away by your bartender. Everybody talks. News of an unpleasant customer reaches the other side of the bar before they do. One nameworthy cardinal sin: demanding to be put on the guestlist (Who the hell do you think you are?). Anyone that should be on the guestlist is already on it. Otherwise, just remember you’re there to have a good time. We won’t put up with much else. Truly unruly drinkers (mostly guys that can’t seem to learn consent) get 86’d.
But I farted into each of these balloons!
5. Trauma dumping
The recent infusion of DSM parlance into everyday conversation, for all its problematic usage, has yielded this universal term. I don’t know that it had a proper name, possibly “TMI” (Too Much Information)? It’s a type of oversharing I’ve been guilty of drunk and sober. Sometimes terrifying bursts of information leave the mouth with such volume and velocity that it feels like a dam burst. Often it’s a bartender facing the deluge.
I think the movies have portrayed all gay people as caring, sympathetic listeners, and we are, no less than anyone. However, many of us are self-described “rotted, gutted c*nt[s].” I doubt anyone at my bar has patience for a monologue from a stranger. I don’t. When I get sad, I behave like any sensible American and go lie face-down on my couch.
Then I do the responsible thing and reach out to a friend, blah blah blah.
Everyone gets down in the dumps sometimes. It’s never a sin to feel blue. Don’t feel like you can’t honestly say, “I’m not doing well.” That said, a gay bar (any bar, really) isn’t the place to expound on why you got fired/your ex is a bitch. “Tell me everything, honey” is a stereotype. We aren’t therapists and we’re not paid enough to cheer you up. We won’t exactly say Hey, fuck off, but please do take your grief to a professional.
6. Shitty tippers
God I hate shitty tippers. Shitty tippers screwed me over at every service job I’ve worked in this great nation. We see how much you tip when the screen flips back around. Even the briniest, most pickled bartenders remember a cheap bastard’s face. You really test your luck when you tip poorly. You might get a lunatic like me who’ll single you out and shake you down before God and everybody. All of us work hard to make sure you have fun. Why be a dick about that? It’s fine if you don’t want to tip, so long as you stay your busted-ass home. Tip your drag queens, your bartenders, your coat check and go-go boys. We’re there because of you.
Helpful hint: Tip well on your first drink. You’ll be remembered fondly when it’s busy and you want another paloma.
7. Open-air sexual activity
This one is probably the most gay bar-specific. Virtually everyone working at a gay bar is sex-positive. I work at a leather bar for Christ’s sake. As much as we endorse gay sex (huge fan, personally), we can’t allow it at the bar. The City and County of San Francisco prohibits any kind of sexual activity from taking place on the premises (boooo). Violating that rule could cost the bar its license, ending dozens of jobs and shutting down a gay-owned business.
That’s the official stance at least, and while the consequences are real and possible, the public invasion of moral imposition on queer spaces isn’t new. After years of police raids, the city’s bathhouses were ordered shut down when the AIDS crisis reared its ugly head. The law was recently repealed but the bathhouses have yet to return. Until then, public sex doesn’t have an official home in San Francisco.
I see it happening nonetheless. Sex finds a way like horny men find darkened corners of the bar. The immediate risk of letting things progress is thanks to social media. Videos of explicit sexual activity can be traced back to the bar and used as evidence in a case to shut it down. It’s another reason bathhouses should come back. All phones are supposed to stay in your locker.
8. Indecisive drinkers
Don’t approach the bar until you know what you want to drink. Simple as that. “Uhhhh” is not a cocktail.
Should I have another? Hmm. How badly do I need my job?
9. Hindering close
Take the hint when you see things winding down. Did the music change to something lowkey? Have more lights come on? Finally, is someone announcing last call over the loudspeaker? It might be time to, respectfully, get the fuck out. “Last call” is like a yellow traffic light. Either your drinking comes to a stop or you hurry through for a nightcap. It’s not an invitation to watch the closing process. I promise, you’re not missing anything. A gay bar is a sacred refuge for making new friends, strengthening relationships, and anal. It deserves your respect. Oh, and please: return your glasses to the bar. If it’s crowded, leaving them on a table is perfectly fine. At the end of the night, we just wanna go home.
* ADDENDUM: As per my partner, “A gimlet isn’t that fancy. You should’ve put a Paper Plane or something.”
Me: “What the hell is a Paper Plane?”
Howdy! My name is Katy Atchison and I'm an Associate Editor for Broke-Ass Stuart.
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