One year ago, I made plans with a guy in my sociology class to go to a gay club together. We spent a good amount of our time finding one to go to. It would be his first time and I hadn’t been to a club since my first experience months ago. I offered we go after finals week to unwind after a really stressful semester.
That Sunday, I opened my phone to notification after notification about what, at the time, would be the worst mass shooting that had happened in America. It was that day a gunman walked into a gay nightclub and killed more than 40 people in what was considered both a hate crime and a terrorist attack.
The LGBTQ+ community was shaken. My friends, some of whom worked at gay clubs, swore not to let the event change their lives and courageously went to work the next day. I was inspired and convinced myself to be more like them and not let what had happened affect me.
But I also have anxiety. When I go out that I need constant reassurance I will not die, and when I’m in new places or around people it feels like my heart is beating hard against my chest, and my hands start shaking. As a person who wasn’t fully out, just going to a gay club got me anxious. But the idea of coming out because of the news of my death kept me up at night.
But as time went by, I learned to face my fears. I went to an LGBT-based anime convention with my best friend days after the Las Vegas shooting. The night before our bus left, I texted my friend if they thought we would be safe. I needed reassurance that my fears were just fears. The night before we left, I fell asleep looking up safety tips and ways to use my pepper spray in light of an active shooter.
But I still went, and because everything went well, my confidence grew. I was on a high because I slayed the monster that was my anxiety and basically gave it a big fuck you.
The following week, a group of editors and I would be going to Dallas, Texas for a convention. While groaning about things to do, the impulsive side of me decided to face one of my biggest fears and go to a lesbian club… alone.
From my limited knowledge of Texas, I imagined Dallas would be two things: huge and conservative. But the sadistic part of myself told me to resist the urge of letting this scare me. The day we arrived, I went through Yelp to find a lesbian club that would allow me inside since I’m still underage.
Yelp directed me to two clubs, The Rose and Sue Ellen’s (appropriately named after a character from the show “Dallas”). The former seemed a lot more flashy, and they had really great drag shows based on the reviews. I was tempted to pick The Rose. The last time I went to a gay club, I loved watching the drag show and it would give me something to do. But as a broke college student, the three-dollar signs didn’t get me excited. Plus, for my first club and my first club going in alone, I wasn’t looking for something big.
From the reviews, Sue Ellen’s seemed like a smaller bar with not too bad prices. Not to mention, it was geared toward gay women, which was sort of what I was looking for. I checked out a promotional poster that said 18+ nights were on Fridays, and since I hadn’t really planned anything to do that night, I decided why not.
I had only three rules for the night:
- Stay inside the club for at least two hours. Starting from 11 p.m. to 1 a.m., I was not allowed to leave.
- Sit at the bar, at least for a little bit. Get something to drink or eat.
- Don’t go on your phone and look like you don’t want to talk to anyone.
- Again, don’t leave early.
It’s harder than it sounds.
My anxiety kept me up all night over the possibilities. What if no one talked to me? What if everyone could tell I was new? What if I got lost? What if the worst happened?
The best way I prepare is by research. I’m an overthinker. I like to plan out my interactions with people, and if I don’t, I do everything blind, dumb, and stupidly. I opened up my phone and looked through tips to do when going to a lesbian bar for the first time, and what to do just going to a bar solo.
One of the suggestions was to bring a book, pretend you only came to unwind, and read your book after a long day at work. The only book I had in my luggage was a science-fiction children’s chapter book I was reading for my PR class. Probably not the best way to make an impression.
Another tip was to go up to a group of people and talk to them. That seemed doable. I added it to the list of rules.
5. Try to talk to at least one person.
The rest of the advice just involved being yourself and that kind of bullshit. But I didn’t want to be myself that night. I wanted to be someone who survives two hours in a club without having a breakdown.
By 10:30 p.m. I was ready to embark on my journey into the vast unknown world of lesbian bars.
I called my Uber as soon as I left my hotel room, and my hands started shaking. While everyone we’d met in Texas were kind, I was hoping my Uber driver wouldn’t be some creep that would see he was dropping me off at a lesbian bar and ask too many questions that I wouldn’t be able to dodge.
Thankfully my driver was a kind woman who made me feel safe. We made small talk all the way there, and my nerves eased. The trip lasted ten minutes, but every moment my heart beat a bit faster. When we reached the spot, I felt like I just went down a huge drop on a roller coaster.
“Here we are, you have a great night!” She told me in the nicest Southern accent I’ve heard. “Have fun!”
Her words echoed in my head. I was just here to have fun. If I managed to survive the night — I would consider it a success. If I managed to follow all my rules — I would consider it a successful night. If made out with someone — then I would consider it a really successful night. Either way, it wasn’t rocket science. I’d walk in, and when I had enough, I’d walk out.
I need constant reassurance that I won’t die.
I took a deep breath and reminded myself it would be okay.
The moment I walked into Sue Ellen’s, a man at the booth greeted me with the friendliest smile. He asked me for my ID and for 15 dollars which was how much it was to get inside. The instant he saw my age, he asked me to hold my hands out, grabbed the biggest black marker I’d ever seen, and drew one very large X on both hands.
“No alcohol, no drinking, no going near alcohol. If we catch you drinking, you will be kicked out. “ He reminded me. I nodded my head. I doubt anyone would be willing to give me a drink with two giant X’s on my hands.
Last time I’d gone out to the club, I had some alcohol inside me that my friends let me sneak from their drinks. Liquid courage made me a lot braver, and now I was an anxious train wreck filled with too much energy and not sure how to release it.
I walked into the club. Flashy lights illuminated the room, and remixes of tracks I heard back in middle school played on the screen. It was unusually quiet for a Friday night, but I assumed it was because it was barely 11 p.m. I had no idea about club culture and assumed most clubs didn’t get busy until around 12.
One of the tips said dancing with people is the best way to make friends. Dancing grabs attention, and since I was looking to make friends putting some attention on myself wasn’t too bad. But no one was on the dance floor, so I decided to explore the place by going upstairs to the “Lipstick Lounge,” which was also empty. Finally, I walked back down to a game area where a skeeball machine and dart and arrows board were.
As I explored the area, a few girls smiled at me. I felt my chest get tight. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad of a night.
By 11:30, more people had come in, including three small parties. I’d spent most of the time up in the empty Lipstick Lounge texting friends how I actually “did the thing” before deciding to go downstairs and try to make friends. Everyone seemed to be in their own cliques, and suddenly I felt like I was in high school again. How do I approach these people? I didn’t know.
Feeling awkward, I pulled my phone out, thus breaking one of my rules. It’s really easy to tell if I’m bored because the instant I open BuzzFeed quizzes, it’s a downward spiral. In twenty minutes, I ended up figuring out Guy Fieri wasn’t the Food Network man of my dreams, and BuzzFeed still couldn’t figure out my height based on the fast foods I like to eat. While I sat in my own world, the three parties got drinks and took turns dancing. I avoided their eyes.
Angry at myself, I decided to try something else. It was a night of firsts, might as well experiment, right? The skeeball machine was calling my name, and while I usually avoided arcade games, I was hoping playing would grab someone’s attention and be a silent invitation for someone to talk to me. I’d look like a cool person rather than someone who didn’t know what the fuck she was doing.
I played about two rounds of the game when I realized no one was really paying attention to me. Two guys stopped to watch me play for a split second, but I knew my plan had failed. I decided it was time for phase 2. Time to get a drink.
I moved my way to the bar after my failed attempt to hit up someone with skeeball and decided to sit at the corner where the television was. If anything, I could use that as an excuse for why I was sitting there and use the little knowledge of baseball I had to impress someone.
One of the bartenders smiled at me and offered to get me a drink before I placed my hands on top of the counter. Immediately, her eyes looked down at the two glaring X’s.
“Coke or Sprite?” No other options. I chose Coke. By then I’d noticed I was the only person who had the X’s. Everyone around me was drinking some beer or mixed drink, and I didn’t even know if I had to pay for my drink or even how to pay for my drink (do I give it to the bartender? Do I pay at the register? I only had twenties, do they only accept cards?) I felt embarrassed being an underage newbie with no one to ask about this, and my anxiety rose.
I ran to the bathroom and hid inside the stall farthest from the door. I pushed myself into a corner and tried to take a deep breath, my mind racing. I’d read an article where someone talked about being in the bathroom when the shooting happened, and the shooter walked into the bathroom and thankfully just walked out because they were standing on top of the toilet. The thoughts just made my heart race more.
I took another breath. I need constant reassurance that I won’t die. I would not die tonight. I would survive the night.
Walking out of the bathroom, I saw my glass had disappeared and decided to avoid the bar since the television stopped working. No more excuses; I had to talk to people. I had to dance. The clock was ticking.
It was busier since it was later at night, and the three parties somehow merged to make one giant party. I sat near the dance floor and watched, waiting and calculating when to walk in. I didn’t want to be the only person dancing. I was alone and a bad dancer. It wouldn’t end pretty. But everyone seemed to have a lot of fun. Everyone just wanted to have a good time. Why couldn’t I be one of those people?
The calculations kept coming. I told myself I’d go up if one of my favorite songs came up, but each time one did, I still just watched. One of the girls across the bar kept smiling and looking at me, and all I could do was weakly smile back before avoiding her eyes. I was overthinking things and trying to find the right moment to make my move until I decided: Fuck it.
I stood up and walked to the dance floor. I felt like a gladiator walking the Colosseum, ready to face my darkest fears. I nestled into an empty space where the two parties danced when someone pointed at me. I froze.
“Your turn,” the person told me, and I realized I’d walked in the middle of a dance circle. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I had just watched them dance like they walked out of a “Step Up” movie, and the best thing I could do was flail my arms around.
But they looked inviting and happy that I’d finally gotten out of my seat and joined the party. I closed my eyes and attempted a dance, preparing for the worst. Instead, I was welcomed by applause, and the dancer who’d invited me to the circle offered me a high five.
The rest of the night was easier. I danced most of my night alone, sometimes with others, sometimes in dance circles. I was loudly sang to songs I wasn’t too sure what the lyrics were and my moves hadn’t improved since my middle school dance. I had checked my phone to see if any of my roommates texted me when I realized I’d gone past the two hours. A rush of relief went through me, and I ran out instantly.
The rules were:
- Stay inside the club for at least two hours. Starting from 11 p.m. to 1 a.m., I was not allowed to leave. I left at around 1:30 in the morning.
- Sit at the bar, at least for a little bit. Get something to drink or eat. I had a soda, which I’m still not sure how I would’ve paid for or if I had to pay for it (I’ll gladly send a check to Sue Ellen’s if needed).
- Don’t go on your phone and look like you don’t want to talk to anyone. I broke this rule, but it could’ve been much worse.
- Try to talk to at least one person. Sort of? I danced, which is like talking to people with your body.
I decided the night was a success. I’d faced demons and took them on even if it was for a moment. Like the friends who inspired me, I learned to be brave. It would be a process, but I’d become braver each time.
I need constant reassurance I’m not going to die, but now I remind myself I need to learn to live a little too.
