Gay Bar: Why We Went Out

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The closing of Atherton Lin’s favourite gay venues in London seems to make the city come alive for him. He gets the right to feel nostalgic, which grants him a sort of honorary citizenship. When the last of his Triangle, the George and Dragon, is to close in 2015, he gets to attend the final night, like a rite of passage, or a way to know that he was growing older: “Everyone had come out of the woodwork. I mean look at us, I said to Famous, two termites. We were far removed from the boys we used to be.” Before I realized the importance of having a strong LGBTQ community around me, gay bars were an ominous mystery. Much like gender reveal parties today, they seemed both obnoxious and dangerous to a closeted me, ignorant of the mere idea of a gay community. The first time I reluctantly stepped inside a gay bar was at that effervescent spot around the corner from where I lived, because a friend had made it his mission to bring me. I mentally prepared myself ahead of time (a.k.a. got hammered), trying to muster courage as if I were about to storm the beaches of Normandy. Inside, I was intimidated. I had never seen so many gay people in one room before. After a half hour, I begged to leave. This was a facet of my gay evolution that I was only reminded of after reading Gay Bar.

Strobing lights and dark rooms; throbbing house and drag queens on counters; first kisses, last call: the gay bar has long been a place of solidarity and sexual expression—whatever your scene, whoever you’re seeking. But in urban centers around the world, they are closing, a cultural demolition that has Jeremy Atherton Lin wondering: What was the gay bar? How have they shaped him? And could this spell the end of gay identity as we know it? At Metropolitan, McEnrue has held a front row seat to that evolution for over a decade, long before same-sex marriage was legalized in 2015. “I remember what it was like pre-dating apps,” he says with a laugh. “It’s funny how things have changed [with gay rights]. Some for the better and some, I don’t know. When it comes to acceptance and exposure, we’re being represented across the board. I think there’s a general sigh of relief.”

by Jeremy Atherton Lin

I can't remember the last time I've been so happily surprised and enchanted by a book. Gay Bar is an absolute tour de force'

He writes passionately about smells. One venue “smelled of all the places where a man’s body folds”. From a guy they took home, “we learned the distinctive scent of blonde males”. When they stop shaving, their beards “were perverted, their bristles perfumed with the sudor of scrotum”. An indispensable, intimate and stylish celebration of the institution of the gay bar, from 1990s post-AIDS crisis to today s fluid queer spaces An epigraph from filmmaker and writer Derek Jarman, a major figure in gay rights activism at the height of the AIDS crisis, opens one chapter: “When I was young the absence of the past was a terror. That’s why I wrote autobiography.” The real histories of marginalized communities have often been made difficult to access, and Jarman sought to leave behind a record of his own life as a way of self-consciously contributing to the archive. Similarly, the act of remembering the way things once were becomes in Gay Bar a radical necessity—and a reminder that history, after all, is a privilege. The subtitle of Atherton Lin's book is Why We Went Out, and the London-based author offers plenty of reasons in this remarkable debut. Gay Bar combines memoir, history and criticism; it's a difficult book to pin down, but that's what makes it so readable and so endlessly fascinating.Still, he knows that the complicated history of gay bars, and the issues that still exist today, aren't so easy to grapple with. “A lot of the banal and generic places that have these incredible histories are also problematic too, especially involving racism, sexism, ableism, and ageism," he notes. "But at the same time, they’re rich spots where political progress was made.” But the ghosts in his book are also those who created gay San Francisco itself, where there were 18 gay bars in 1964 and “an estimated hundred and eighteen within a decade”. Atherton Lin registers the nostalgia that came with all this change, quoting Foucault: “I actually liked the scene before gay liberation, when everything was more covert. It was like an underground fraternity, exciting and a bit dangerous.” One group in San Francisco 'could be detected from a distance by the stink … Each seemed to have a magnificent ass and be writing a book' Atherton Lin has a five-octave, Mariah Carey-esque range for discussing gay sex.” – New York Times Book Review