“The gay clubs are it”: An analysis of straight women’s motivations for frequenting gay bars

Safety

When describing their reasons for frequenting gay bars, all but one participant situated them as safer spaces than straight bars. In many cases, not only did they describe safety as a reason for their own patronage, but they also speculated that safety was a motivator for other straight women as well. As Tortellini stated, “I imagine a lot [of other straight women] feel the same way I do in that it [the gay bar] just feels like a safer space.” Similarly, when I asked Barbara why she thought other straight women go to gay bars, she replied, “I think probably a lot of the same reasons [as me]. It’s safer.” Jaida extended the idea of safety to encapsulate the perceptions of her friends and family. “I guess in terms of being a safe space it’s also safer for my partner to know that I’m at a gay bar. I feel like my family and friends would be less concerned knowing I’m at a gay bar.”

The majority of the women I spoke to understood gay bars to be safer, but what is it about these spaces that creates this perception? In my interview with Barbara, she connects the idea of safety with the presence of heterosexual men: “I think as a straight woman when you’re in a bar sometimes you’re concerned for your safety, or if not concerned for your safety, you’re always just like, navigating the space of straight men and whether that’s threatening or not you’re just always aware that it’s there and for me, anyway, being in a queer space feels safer.”

Barbara was not the only one who connected safety in straight bars with the presence of heterosexual men. Tortellini reported that she thought many straight women go to gay bars “trying to avoid weird, gross, hetero interactions.” Melissa told me that, “in fact, a lot of guys are pretty gross,” and Mirabel said that at straight bars, “the guys there, they feel sleazy, and like, it feels like it’s only fun if you’re very drunk, but it’s probably not a good idea to be very drunk at them.” In this last passage, Mirabel is getting at the idea that women must police their own behaviour in order to feel safe in male dominated environments. Drinking is, of course, a regular occurrence at establishments like bars and clubs, but women often feel the need to restrict their consumption specifically to avoid the violence of straight men (Brooks, 2008). Thus, the words used by my interviewees to describe the men at straight bars indicate their awareness of this violence, and their discomfort with sharing a space where the possibility of violence is looming. Other participants also brought up the need to be on guard in straight bars. As Maddy described, “the feel [at the straight bar] was very different… you’re there with your group of friends, but your guards are always up.”

Being on guard all the time prevented interviewees from doing things they enjoyed on a night out. Jaida explained:

I love to dance, but it’s always too packed and crowded and sweaty that I don’t actually enjoy dancing that much. So, it’s like the dancing aspect to me brings back a bit of the aggressor, the creep aspect of it all. And like, having to think up excuses in advance about like, guys trying to talk to you or dance near you or, um, trying not to act, you know, like bitchy but also not acting single.

Although she loves to dance, Jaida doesn’t feel able to engage comfortably at straight bars without being harassed by men she perceives as aggressive. When I asked Barbara about safety, she also made it very clear that heterosexual men were an important factor: “I feel like that safety kind of can like, escalate in a male-dominated environment… I think it’s mostly a straight male presence.” Previous research has illuminated the various safety strategies in which women engage on nights out to mitigate heterosexualized violence (Fileborn, 2016; Graham et al., 2017; Nicholls, 2017). My findings expand our understanding of nightlife safety tactics by implying that women are not only engaging in particular strategies in venues that they perceive as risky to ensure their safety but are, at times, removing themselves from such venues in favour of the safer environment offered by gay bars.

Although the presence of heterosexual men was often described as a threat to safety, in other instances, men were presented as more of an annoyance than a threat. As Sheridan reported in her description of straight bars: “The men? Just lame, girl.” She further elaborated that she was often irritated in straight bars by “weird straight white boys” who “dance with other people as a joke.” Participants often used words such as “bothered,” or described occasions where they had to “deal with men.” In this way, men were positioned as an annoyance on a night out that was better avoided. When Maddy told me that she preferred gay bars and I asked why, she emphasized men as “clingy” in those spaces:

I think that when we go to straight bars, it’s all these men. They get drunk, and then they get [short pause]. You know, they’re just too um, I guess the word is clingy. Like, you know, they’re always harassing us, like, ‘oh, can we get your number?’ ‘Can I buy you drinks?’ And when we go to gay bars nobody bothers us. It’s like, you know, we could just have a good time and there’s nobody there saying, ‘can I buy you a drink?’ ‘Can I get your number?’ ‘Can we go and dance?’ You know, the atmosphere is so different.

The repetition that Maddy uses here illuminates the amount of time spent navigating interactions with “clingy” men. Tortellini similarly points out that navigating the heterosexualized environment of straight bars is quite time consuming: “I just feel like you spend more of the night, like, trying to get men to leave you alone than you do in a gay bar.”

Despite much of this language presenting men as mere annoyances, the cooccurrence of the language of “annoyance” with stories of aggressive and predatory men imply that this behaviour is something to be taken seriously by public drinking establishments and policymakers. Additionally, although participants may perceive these actions as annoyances, much of the behaviour described fits the definition of sexual harassment. The normalization of harassment in straight bars obscures the legitimate risk of sexualized violence in these venues. This study extends previous research on heterosexualized violence in nightlife by demonstrating a unique response to the disproportionate victimization of women in these settings.

Regardless of the level of threat, the women I spoke to regularly reported feeling pressure to change or police their behaviour in response to heterosexual men. Nightlife spaces, particularly heterosexual nightlife, fulfill a male fantasy in which women must police their own bodies to fit in (Nicholls, 2017). Many of the women I interviewed identified the male gaze (Mulvey, 1975) as an explanation for their discomfort in straight nightlife.

In their interviews, Jaida, Maddy, and Alaska each described how the male gaze prevented them from feeling like themselves in straight bars:

Maddy: It’s like, I feel like, I could be me. Not me in the sense like- you know when you’re at a gay bar you’re open. You can just talk, chitchat with different people and they don’t look at it like ‘oh, she’s interested let me, you know, start talking to her, ask for phone numbers.’

These narratives suggest that in heterosexualized spaces, women feel the need to change their own behaviour to prevent giving ‘clingy’ men the wrong impression. They resist the male fantasy that was automatically projected onto their bodies in straight nightlife venues. Mirabel told me that she preferred going to gay bars because it avoided “even just feeling like judged or like I had to, you know, impress men or whatever. Like that was just kind of off the table.” Thus, the perceived inclusivity and judgement-free environment of gay bars enhanced feelings of safety. Beyond feeling a lack of judgement, some participants reported feeling entirely unperceived at gay bars and loving it. After Tortellini told me that at the gay bar, “literally no one is paying attention to me,” I asked her how she felt about it:

Kailey: So, how do you feel about the idea of not being perceived at all?

The joy Tortellini experiences from feeling invisible in gay bars positions these spaces as an antithesis to straight bars where the male gaze permeates and is thus unavoidable. When the political environment is influenced by which groups are visible, the identity and manner of what and whom is visible becomes very important (Moran and Beverley, 2004). For example, the ability for queer people to be safely visible in public reflects the political context of the space in which this takes place. This idea that gay bars offer invisibility transcended age and race. Shaun, a Black woman from Michigan, joyfully told me about how she doesn’t get any attention at gay bars. Although Shaun’s experience is not representative of all Black women, the joy she found in invisibility, despite her race, sexuality, and gender, is notable. Puwar (2004) suggests that there is a certain power and privilege which stem from invisibility; a privilege which typically accompanies Whiteness as the normative body. Shaun’s experience, as well as that of other Black women I interviewed whose experiences are described later in this article, imply that gay bars provide invisibility to individuals who often experience “super-visibility” based on their race (Puwar, 2004).

Alaska, who is in her late thirties, expressed that she felt out of place in straight bars based on her age, but did not feel that her age mattered in gay venues. Previous research has found that older women often experience feelings of shame and embarrassment associated with their participation in mainstream nightlife (Vaadal, 2021). This shame is related to cultural scripts about appropriate sexuality for women as they age. Alaska’s experience implies that the cultural scripts common to straight bars are disrupted in gay bars, allowing for her participation despite being above what she perceives to be the average age of those who attend nightlife venues. Although the women I interviewed experienced invisibility regardless of factors such as race and age, this is not sufficient to claim that gay bars are free from racism and ageism. Previous research has pointed to the fact that being a part of a sexual minority does not make one immune to discriminating against others based on race (Ghaziani, 2024).

However, based on the narratives of the women I interviewed, gay bars simultaneously present a space where queer people can (safely) become visible, and straight people can become invisible, creating a dual appeal. However, sexuality does not have consistent visual markers, complicating issues of visibility and belonging. It is unclear whether these women’s invisibility in queer spaces is a result of being perceived as straight. What is clear, is their joy at being outside of the male gaze. The male gaze is a barrier to the enjoyment of straight nightlife spaces, the theme to which I turn next.

Joy

Narratives about safety were a critical part of many interviewees’ nightlife experiences. However, when I asked them to pick just one word to describe the main reason they choose to go to gay bars, only one participant decided that the word ‘safe’ was the best fit. Instead, most used words describing the joy they felt in these settings, and the way they felt welcome and included.

The most common reason women reported for going to gay bars was simple and direct—in Nairobi’s words: “It’s so fun.” Researchers must not overlook expressions of joy in their findings. Shuster and Westbrook (2022) argue that there is a “joy deficit” in sociological research; work deemed worthwhile often focuses on suffering and marginality. All the women I interviewed used the word “fun” to describe their experiences at gay bars. Nairobi talked almost exclusively about joy and reflected on the freedom of the gay men she saw at gay bars:

I didn’t imagine in a gay club like I can find boys who are so free like that. They were like so deep into the music they were letting out. Like they danced, like it was so fun. Let me say, like it was so fun it like, I was so- I was kind of shocked, I didn’t expect that.

What Nairobi was witnessing at this gay bar was queer joy, something that has only recently been represented in media portrayals of homosexuality (Craig et al., 2015; Detloff, 2006; Paceley and Flynn, 2012). Nairobi told me that she felt shocked by the freedom she witnessed gay men expressing when she was at the gay bar, which implies her awareness of cultural narratives of queer suffering. Alternatively, she may not have considered the possibility of gay men behaving so freely before attending a gay bar since such expressions are often only possible in gay spaces due to widespread stigma and homophobia (Hubbard, 2013). However, Nairobi’s shock was not a negative emotion, rather it was coupled with her ability to enjoy the night and also let loose herself. Blythe and Hassenzahl (2003: 99) argue that an important aspect of fun is the activation of the senses through an event or spectacle. What Nairobi describes experiencing at the gay bar fits this description. Her senses are engaged by something that shocks her and distracts her from herself. In its broadest sense, pleasure is contingent on the situation in which it occurs and gay bars provide a context in which fun is naturalized (Blythe and Hassenzahl, 2003). In other words, fun is an expected outcome of being physically present in the social context of a gay bar.

Interviewees identified key elements of fun. For example, participants often remarked on the music. Sheridan told me that at straight bars, “they play like, stupid music, girl.” In fact, although I did not ask about the music at gay bars compared to straight bars, over half of my interviewees specifically reported that the music at gay bars was superior, suggesting that this was an important feature of gay bars that drew them to these venues. Although she described the music in straight bars as awful, Sheridan added that she was still able to have a good time there by making fun of the music with her friends. She told me that at “[straight] bars it’s like pulling teeth to have fun. Like I said, this is what it is like, when you’re out at the [straight] bar its more of like, you doing, like, the creating of the experience, opposed to where the gay bar, it’s like, the fun is already there you just join in.” The fun that is “already there” was specifically characteristic of gay bars, and the energy of queer joy in these spaces was appealing to the straight women I interviewed.

The repetition by interviewees that straight bars are boring and generally uneventful imply that this is more than just an idiographic preference. Rather, there is something inherent about straight bars that makes them less fun for participants in this study. The idea that fun must be “created” at straight bars resembles ideas surrounding the need to “produce” safety in these spaces (Fileborn, 2016). There is an assumption that these spaces are boring or unsafe, and thus the responsibility falls on patrons to produce what they need. Women often described the various entertainment options at gay bars as a type of fun that is “already there.” For example, Barbara told me that at gay bars, “there are always events happening, like there are DJs, there’s entertainment, there’s drag, there’s like drag kings, there’s so much going on. It’s more fun than sitting in a bar and having a beer.” Alaska shared a similar sentiment, stating that “I love when there’s lots of live shows that tend to happen like, I love going to drag shows or they’ll have like, a comedy night at some places, things like that. So, um, that’s definitely an allure as well that you wouldn’t necessarily see at conventional straight bars all the time.” Mirabel told me that although she is not a big drag fan, she likes the idea of going to a venue where there is something interesting going on: “Like, I’m actually, it’s funny, I’m hearing myself talk. I’m not some huge fan of drag even necessarily, it’s more just that like, it’s more interesting than just going to a straight bar.” These participants not only describe gay bars as fun, but directly contrast them with straight bars which they describe as having less to offer.

The idea that gay bars are, in Mirabel’s words, “more interesting” than straight bars is related to ideas about who has the right to make use of gay space and for what purpose gay space should be used. Although going to gay bars because they are ‘more fun’ is not typically viewed as problematic, going ‘on safari’ to gay bars is. Orne asserts that a person on safari deprioritizes the purpose of the space and, instead, pursues an authentic or trendy experience (Orne, 2017c: 24). In other words, the difference between going to gay bars to have fun and going to gay bars on safari comes down to intentionality and knowledge of the space’s purpose. It is necessary to possess the appropriate “queer cultural knowledge” (ibid: 26). Some of the women I spoke to expressed awareness of this dynamic and framed themselves as ethical consumers of gay space. Tortellini for example, told me: “I do worry about like, people thinking that gay people are like an attraction.” With this statement, Tortellini is drawing attention to a moralistic argument for avoiding gay bars when patron’s motivations are not respectful of queer culture. Others expressed motivations that were in line with Orne’s definition of ‘on safari,’ such as when Mirabel told me that “if I’m really honest with examining my motivations from like, when I first turned nineteen like, there was probably some quality of kind of voyeurism or being a bit of a ‘lookie-loo.’” In other cases, the line between appropriate use of queer space was blurred. For example, Barbara, who typically went to gay bars when invited by her queer friends, said that “there’s something interesting or kind of like, edgy about being in a queer space when you’re used to being in very heteronormative spaces and it can bring you outside of yourself or your own expectations and I think that on its own can be fun.” She undoubtedly positions going to a gay bar as a “new authentic experience” in this passage, but not necessarily in a way that undermines her appreciation of the space’s purpose. In fact, she highlights the possibility of queer spaces to subvert (hetero)norms. Just as the debate about whether or not straight women should attend gay bars is complex, so too are the boundaries around what constitutes ethical consumption.

Hollywood’s narrative also blurs boundaries surrounding appropriate use of queer space. Although she identifies as straight, she told me that she sometimes goes to gay bars to explore her sexuality and speculated that this was likely the case for other straight women as well. Similarly, Barbara told me that the first time she ever went to a gay bar, she was questioning her sexuality and that these spaces allowed her to find an answer. I asked her what about these spaces allowed for this exploration:

I think it just enabled questioning in a way that we’re not permitted sometimes. Like, it’s a space in which you can actually, like, explore that thought by yourself safely. Um. So, yeah, I think that’s what it did. And maybe that helped in thinking through like, am I straight? Am I not straight? Like, ultimately, I decided I was, so.

Thus, the gay bar environment is not only more fun, but also a space where heteronormativity is disrupted such that bar patrons can explore themselves. This finding illuminates the importance of physical space in facilitating majority-minority interactions which may not occur without the freedom of expression and exploration that is characteristic of gay bars. Gay bars provide a safe environment for individuals to learn from one another in a space where diversity is celebrated. Without the pressure to conform to the male gaze, which enforces heteronormativity, possibilities of self-presentation are broadened.

Descriptions of fun and descriptions of the inclusivity of the gay bar often cooccurred, thus implying that a judgement-free environment contributes to joyous experiences. Sheridan said, “I think it’s more fun like, I don’t have to think or about anybody else, like they’re very, very chill, um. They’re very inviting, like anybody who comes in gonna have a good time.” In this passage, she directly links the idea of the space as ‘inviting’ and ‘chill’ to her ability to have a good time there. Mirroring Sheridan’s narrative, the majority of interviewees described feeling included and welcome in gay space. The idea that gay bars are a judgement-free zone was shared by many of the women I interviewed. As Melissa stated, “I’ve seen crazy stuff go down there [at the gay bar] and I feel like if they can look at that and not judge that then why should they judge me?” Jaida similarly stated, “I like the lack of judgement for sure, like just to dance and have fun and not be so obsessed with appearances.” These comments tie into the idea of the male gaze as an enforcing agent in straight bars that, from Jaida and Melissa’s perspective, are not present in gay bars. This provides an explanation for why majority group members are frequenting a minority group space: unlike straight bars, gay bars are fun, inclusive, and an escape from the male gaze. Lack of judgement is also interwoven with queer joy, as acceptance and celebration of identity directly combat discrimination and marginalization.

Sheridan also shared that she didn’t feel the need to alter her appearance when enjoying gay nightlife spaces. “[At straight bars] I have to kind of like, dress to impress kind of? Where I could literally go to a [gay] bar if I wanted to in jeans and like, you know, a college t-shirt. Like, it’s more inviting, it’s more welcoming.” Sheridan also described gay bars as more racially inclusive:

I feel- cause I live in Louisiana, it’s a red state, and all these other bars that are not the gay club I go to… they do not like Black people, period. They don’t want, they’re not really as inviting and welcoming. Especially because as a Black woman, like, they’re lookin’ at me like ‘why are you here?’ and I’m like ‘I’ma be here.’ [laughs].

In her narrative, Sheridan made it clear that gay bars are welcoming spaces based on many aspects of identity, not just sexuality. She also reflected on her experience as a “plus size woman,” as she said, and feeling like she did not belong in male dominated spaces, restating that she is “not what people expect to be there.” Jaida similarly described her experience at straight bars related to her weight: “depending on what weight I’ve been in my life and what my appearance has been at that time I feel like I’ve been treated very differently when I’ve been [at straight bars].” The fact that gay bars are branded as safe spaces has implications for all patrons who frequent them, regardless of their sexuality.

The interactions that occur between people of different genders and sexualities in these venues often further contribute to the perceived safety of the environment. For example, Jaida told me that gay men often complimented her dyed hair at gay bars, which made her feel confident, directly contrasting the anxiety and feelings of judgement that characterized her experiences at straight bars. Shaun similarly told me how at gay bars, people “compliment you and just make you feel good… it just makes me happy.” Previous research finds that communication across group boundaries is necessary for creating foundations of trust that relationships can be built upon (Gorman-Murray and Waitt, 2009: 2870). The narratives of these women indicate that gay bars facilitate these interactions and ultimately result in joyful experiences in a space that is safe for minority and majority group members alike.

Multiple women also told me that they preferred going to gay bars because, although they can always have a good time in the inclusive environment of the gay bar, their gay friends might not feel safe if they were to take them to the straight bar:

Culver Lee: I want to support my friends too. I don’t want them to feel uncomfortable and come to, you know, [the local straight bar] and get beat up outside because they’re gay, or they look gay, or they touched somebody the wrong way.

These narratives indicate the need for more inclusive nightlife spaces that facilitate majority-minority group interactions in ways that reflect mutual goals of upholding diversity across multiple axes of identity (ibid). Further, the fact that many of the straight women I spoke to frequented gay bars with queer friends speaks to processes of community formation in public space in the post-gay era.

While some participants described attending gay bars with queer friends, others described the ease of making new friends and acquaintances once they arrived, highlighting the way gay bars facilitate positive inter-group interactions in the post-gay era. Decreased importance of sexual identity may allow for friendships to form based on other shared interests and values within gay space, such as maintaining the safe, inclusive environment. Such inter-group interactions have the potential to challenge social inequalities and facilitate social change (Muraco, 2012). Melissa told me that “I feel like if you want to meet people you should go to a gay bar because people are very friendly,” and Jaida said that gay bars are “a good place to meet likeminded people.” In particular, she described that people at gay bars were more likely to be non-judgemental and maintain similar politics to her own than those at straight bars. As aforementioned, cross-sexuality friendships have the potential to increase acceptance of homosexuality (McMillan et al., 2023). The fact that some women in my study found gay bars to be a space where people were likeminded politically indicates a high potential for these friendships to be politically mobilizing. The friendships these women described, whether they resulted in deeper connections or not, created positive feelings towards queer culture and queer people more generally. As Jaida elaborates, “it’s not like ‘oh, I met people that became my friends for life’ necessarily but it's like, you make these good memories.” Nairobi found that “the few friends that [she met at the gay bar made her] so comfortable to be there,” suggesting mutually positive intergroup interactions facilitated by gay space. In Nairobi’s case, her exposure to queer culture was primarily within gay bars, and as aforementioned, she found herself in awe of the freedom and joy expressed there. Due to limitations on the expression of queer joy in some public space, gay bars became an important venue for these women to witness queer joy and facilitate friendships with queer people based on mutual goals, such as fostering an inclusive and judgement free zone to dance the night away in.

Tensions around boundaries and belonging

Although most participants spoke about ideas of inclusivity, openness, and lack of judgement in gay bars, several shared that they did not feel like they belonged in gay bars, but they were okay with it. Both Nairobi and Barbara explicitly stated that they don’t feel like they belong in gay bars, but this did not prevent them from going. Nairobi explained, “I never felt like I belonged [in gay bars]. But I always just go there because I have friends there and I feel more safe there.” Barbara told me that “when I’m at a gay bar I don’t really feel like I belong. Um, but it’s not like, an exclusionary thing, I think it’s the same questioning, like ‘should I be here?’ Like ‘Is it okay to be here?’ But I’m still having fun here.” This reflection indicates that feelings of belonging are not necessary for the enjoyment of queer space. For these women, the downfalls of straight bars such as harassment and lack of entertainment outweigh the discomfort that comes with feeling out of place or as if they do not belong.

One participant, rather than questioning her own belonging, rationalized it by placing herself as an insider to queer culture as opposed to others who “aren’t actually that immersed in the drag culture, or gay culture.” Jaida told me that she was a huge fan of drag and distanced herself from others who “fetishize or objectify the performers and the art form.” When I asked her how she thought other people in the gay bar perceived her, she said that “because I don’t like, behave in that way, um, I don’t think I’m perceived negatively whatsoever.”

This idea that those without the appropriate queer cultural knowledge do not belong in gay space is similar to that reported in previous studies exploring gay men’s symbolic boundary creation in gay space. Baldor finds that women who engaged in “non-gay rituals” were more often disapproved of by gay men and understood to be invaders of gay space, whereas those who behaved appropriately were typically welcomed in the space (Baldor, 2019: 430). Jaida’s idea that as long as she behaves appropriately, she will not be perceived negatively, shows that some women patronizing gay bars are keenly aware of the boundaries in these spaces and the fact that they are not made for them. Camille also acknowledged this boundary: “I’m a visitor in this community. This isn’t mine.”

Alaska, when describing an experience where she was almost not allowed into a gay bar because she was wearing high heels, reflected on issues of belonging and safety in gay bars. High heels, positioned as a symbol of straightness, were banned from the venue, likely to discourage entry from groups of straight women such as bachelorette parties. This demonstrates how belonging is a function of assumptions about sexuality based on symbolic markers or optics such as high heels. Alaska reflected: “people who frequent that bar probably don’t have very many places where they can go and feel safe, whereas I have the privilege of going to many places and feeling safe. So, I get why they wouldn’t, why they’d want to keep that door a bit closed,” she told me. This idea that she can find safety in many nightlife spaces was contradicted within her own interview and the interviews of other participants, who described going to gay bars in search of safety. Jaida similarly told me, “I could technically feel safe most places but, um, that doesn’t mean it’s a safe place,” yet explicitly described feeling safer at gay bars at other points in her interview. When Alaska and Jaida brought up this idea that they could go to many places and feel safe, they were referring to the privilege they held as heterosexual people, positioning themselves as more privileged than the queer people who go to gay bars for security from homophobia (Hartless, 2019: 1037). However, many of the straight women I spoke to also discussed going to gay bars as a “shelter from heterosexual hostility” (Ghaziani, 2014: 271). Specifically, the hostility of straight heterosexual men. In Alaska’s words, “I think the safety thing is huge. You know, feeling like you can let loose on a night out and not have to worry about a predatory man coming after you.”

When discussing privilege, Alaska and Jaida were relying on popular notions of queer people as marginalized and suffering (Ward, 2020). There is a possibility that they were telling me what they thought I wanted to hear, or what they thought made them seem like ethical consumers of gay space.

Ultimately, the lived experiences of patronizing bars that these women described were inconsistent with the idea that they could feel safe in far more nightlife spaces than, for example, a gay man. This does not discredit or discount the very real instances of homophobia and violence experienced by queer people in nightlife, but only calls into question the idea that straight women are safer in straight nightlife spaces. As previous research has found, female “LGBT participants [were] frequently more concerned about the threat of (hetero)sexualised abuse above homophobic abuse” (Nicholls, 2017: 271). Although it is not productive to compare the severity of the threat of homophobic abuse compared to heterosexualized abuse, it is important not to overlook the fact that straight women may have a similar need for safe nightlife spaces as queer people. As Tortellini told me, “I wish there was the same energy and less men; women’s spaces.” The communities that exist in gay bars are being used by those outside of the queer community for safety and joy, necessitating a reconsideration of the boundaries of these spaces.