Abstract
The question of whether straight individuals belong in gay bars has long been a topic of debate. But why do straight cisgender women go to gay bars in the first place? Through qualitative semi-structured interviews, I analyze women’s motivations for frequenting gay bars in Canada and the United States. My findings show that straight cisgender women go to gay bars to pursue safety and joy—and that these motivations are complicated by reflections on belonging in a space that was not made for them. Decisions to frequent gay bars were positioned as a better alternative to straight bars which were described as dangerous or boring. More generally, this study offers new insights about group boundaries and safety in nightlife spaces.
Introduction
Historically, gay bars have served as a “shelter from heterosexual hostility” for queer individuals (Ghaziani, 2014: 271). Scholars have shown that queer people need these spaces for reasons related to safety; to create “sexy communities,” where sexuality can be expressed freely without the limitations imposed by heteronormativity and homophobia; and to have joyful nightlife experiences (Orne, 2017a: 54). The presence of heterosexual women in queer nightlife spaces has been problematized as they can thwart these goals (Hartless, 2019; Jones, 2018; Orne, 2017c).
The question of who belongs in gay bars is about a competing need for space, and straight women who enter venues that were not designed for them. The need for safe space for queer people arose from a context of public discrimination, criminalization, and violence (Mattson, 2023). In Canada, same sex marriage was not legalized until 2005, with the United States following around a decade later in 2015 (DeSilver and Masci, 2019). Public attitudes about homosexuality have generally been on the rise in both countries with 85% of Canadians and 72% of Americans agreeing that homosexuality should be accepted (Poushter and Kent, 2020), yet public opinion about LGBT people continues to lag behind in the United States where legal protections are still lesser than in Canada.
Gay nightlife, unlike straight nightlife, is often conceptualized as a space where feelings of belonging can be reached (Hunter et al., 2016). These feelings of belonging are explicitly linked to safety; specifically, feeling a sense of belonging or having some level of social influence in a particular environment can provide emotional and psychological security (Myslik, 1996: 167). Although belonging as it relates to the experience of minority groups has been comprehensively analyzed (Celeste et al., 2019; Kende et al., 2021; Morgenroth et al., 2021; Skakoon-Sparling et al., 2022), belonging as experienced by majority group members is remarked upon less. Critical heterosexuality studies provides one exception (Beasley, 2010). In The Tragedy of Heterosexuality, Ward (2020:16) asks, “Are straight women okay?” With this question, she flips the expected script, which focuses on queer suffering, and instead inquires about the suffering of a particular majority group: straight women. Following this work, I also explore why members of a majority group seek reprieve in minority spaces. Specifically, minority nightlife spaces.
Although previous research has explored the way queer patrons feel about straight presence in gay spaces (Baldor, 2019; Brodyn and Ghaziani, 2018; Ghaziani, 2018; Hartless, 2019), to my knowledge, straight women’s motivations for frequenting gay bars have yet to be accessed by speaking with them directly. Thus, I conducted qualitative interviews with straight cisgender women and asked about their experiences in gay bars. To my knowledge, this paper is the first to empirically examine this topic. In the past decade, news outlets in Canada and the United States have taken up the question of whether straight people belong in gay bars (Box, 2020; Jones, 2018; Veljanovski, 2021; Woo and Globe, S. to T., Mail, 2017). This continuous news coverage demonstrates that this topic is perceived as relevant and important to the public. The contemporary context of queer nightlife in these countries, combined with their histories of queer place-making and protest, make them essential locations for an inquiry into the motivations of straight women who enjoy attending such spaces.
Queer nightlife
Physical and symbolic spaces such as gay bars provide support, comfort, and a place for rebellion against homophobic and patriarchal structures (Clonan-Roy et al., 2021). The Roestone Collective, a group made up of geography scholars Heather Rosenfeld and Elsa Noterman, presents a reconceptualization of safe space, suggesting that safe spaces are “inclusive precisely as they are exclusive” (The Roestone Collective, 2014: 1355). Gay bars are inclusive of queer individuals just as they are exclusive of homophobic patrons (ibid). However, these boundaries of exclusion and inclusion can blur as the criteria become unclear. Should straightness exclude a person from gay space? Or is behaviour more important than sexual identity when making decisions of inclusion? The Roestone Collective further clarifies that safe spaces are not stable, but are constantly readjusting in response to social change, thus calling attention to the impact of social structure and circumstance on safe spaces such as gay bars (The Roestone Collective, 2014: 1362). This reconceptualization of safe space encourages a focus on both interactional and social factors that impact the creation of safety and opens up questions of for whom safety is from and for (ibid: 1361).
Research on gay bars often positions gay nightlife as a reprieve from homophobia, contextualized in a long history of bars as a site for protest (Bettani, 2015; Casey, 2004; Chauncey, 1994; D’Emilio, 2013; Hartless, 2019; Mattson, 2015). Gay bars are a place where the usual discourse that promotes heterosexuality as the norm is suppressed. Instead, non-traditional conversations and perspectives about queerness, identity, and politics are encouraged and supported (Johnson and Samdahl, 2005: 336). Such dialogues can solidify queer identities and spaces as unchanging and constant, and empower queer individuals with authority and social influence (Branton and Compton, 2021: 72). This reclaiming of power and control through space has been critical to LGBTQ + movements throughout history. From the historic events at Stonewall to modern Pride parades and pop-ups (Stillwagon and Ghaziani, 2019), queer folks have claimed power through space. The importance of traditional gay bars has transformed in the post-gay era, but nightlife spaces and the power that accompany them are still important to many (Ghaziani, 2014). Although gay bars are quickly closing across America (Ghaziani, 2024; Mattson, 2019), this does not mean that space itself is any less important. It does, however, call for a reconceptualization of space as the importance of the brick and mortar gay bar transforms and alternative spaces, both physical and otherwise, emerge (Ghaziani, 2019a).
As public acceptance increases, some scholars argue that we have entered a post-gay era, characterized by the changing significance of sexuality to identity (Ghaziani, 2014; Hartless, 2019). It has been argued that in the post-gay era, non-hetero sexualities have become so normalized in certain contexts that for some people sexuality is no longer a salient factor of identity (Ghaziani, 2011). For some, this increased acceptance has resulted in the displacement of sexuality as a key part of their identity (Forbes and Ueno, 2020). Ultimately, community participation is not inherently linked to sexual identity (Ghaziani, 2014). Other scholars argue that for many queer people, sexuality is still a significant component of sense of self (Kaufman and Powell, 2014).
According to many post-gay theorist, the shifting salience of sexuality to identity has direct impacts on boundary enforcement in nightlife as more straight patrons enter gay space (Bettani, 2015). Cultural and sexual variances are now more frequently turned into marketable products for wider public consumption (Matejskova, 2007: 137), which has resulted in an influx of straight people in gay spaces. Popular media has drawn attention to this issue, with headlines such as “Why Straight People Shouldn’t Come To The Gay Bar Uninvited” (Baker-Jordan, 2017), “An Etiquette Guide for Straight People in Gay Bars” (Moylan, 2012), and “Straight Folks, There Are Some Spaces You Don’t Belong In” (Cheves, 2017). Orne (2017c: 24) refers to straight people, especially women, who ignore the cultural or sexual purpose of gay bars and instead visit them in order to find “a new authentic experience” as “on safari.” As previous research has noted, straight women are more often found in gay bars than straight men (Casey, 2004; Matejskova, 2007; Skeggs, 1999), and therefore, queer bar patrons are more likely to be frustrated or uncomfortable with their presence.
Although the influx of straight women in gay bars has resulted in discomfort for some, if sexuality truly is not an important aspect of identity in the post-gay era, then straight patrons in gay bars are less likely to be problematized on the grounds of their straightness. Instead, social behaviour, rather than sexual identity, is more closely linked to the idea that straight women do not belong. Straight cisgender women who frequent gay bars and participate in “non-gay rituals… such as bachelorette parties or heterosexual displays of affection” are often scorned by gay male patrons (Baldor, 2019: 430), while straight women who contribute positively to the existing energy of the bar are more likely to be welcomed (pp. 434–435). Thus, the sexual identity of women in gay bars is not the most important factor in whether or not they are included in gay space, rather the behaviour they engage in determines whether or not they belong. However, perceived-straight women’s behaviour is more heavily policed than that of gay men in gay spaces. For example, women’s drunkenness is “uniquely framed” as inappropriate, while gay men can be equally as drunk and not be criticized in the same way (p. 432), which implies that gender and sexuality, or at least perceived gender and sexuality, are to some extent still related to boundary enforcement.
Despite tensions that exist around belonging in gay space, bars are ultimately a social environment where people often go to socialize with their friends or to meet new people (Brooks, 2008; Kovac and Trussell, 2015). Nightlife is characterized by ritual interactions such as dancing and courting, explorations of the self, and the pursuit of joy (Chatterton, 2016; Grazian, 2007; Kovac and Trussell, 2015; Northcote, 2006; Rivera, 2010). As such, gay bars have the potential to facilitate cross-sexuality friendships. These types of friendships have been found to increase support of queer rights in the general population (Rosenfeld, 2017). Witnessing expressions of queer joy in gay bars may also play a role in increased acceptance. Queer joy is yet under-theorized but refers to the joy people experience situated within their queer identity (Shuster and Westbrook, 2022); moments of joy that are rooted in happy queer relationships and expressions of self (Ward, 2020). In her book The Tragedy of Heterosexuality, Ward highlights that despite the challenges that come along with navigating homophobic hate, many queer people find great joy in their queer identity and relationships. Gay bars are a site where these relationships can play out without the same limitations that exist in other spaces. They are a site of sexy community, where sexuality is not limited by heteronormativity and sexualized contact can be a means of community connection (Orne, 2017b). Straight women are sometimes framed as a barrier to achieving this.
Straight women and nightlife
A common argument against straight women in gay bars is that they have many other spaces available to them because of their straight privilege (Fogg, 2022). However, the widespread prevalence of violence against women complicates this assumption. Globally, 26% of ever-married/partnered women over the age of 15 have been victims of physical and/or sexual violence (World Health Organization, 2018). In Canada, 36 women were killed by a person with whom they were in a spousal relationship in 2020 alone (Armstrong and Jaffray, 2021) and are almost twice as likely as men to be violently victimized (Cotter, 2021). In the United States, women are five times as likely to be murdered by an intimate partner than men (Smith, 2022). This wider context of violence against women is replicated in nightlife spaces.
Research demonstrates the normalization of gendered violence in nightlife settings and the disproportionate victimization of women (Becker and Tinkler, 2015; Brooks, 2008; Fileborn, 2016; Forsyth and Lennox, 2010; Graham et al., 2014; Kovac and Trussell, 2015; Nicholls, 2017; Schnitzer et al., 2010). Research on women’s victimization in public space reveals a high prevalence of sexual harassment, with 24.4% of women in one study reporting experiences of sexual harassment in the past 12 months (Mellgren et al., 2018: 269). Women in another study described how dressing in more masculine attire helped protect them from harassment, indicating that the potential dangers associated with merely existing in the nighttime economy as a woman might outweigh the potential dangers of openly identifying as non-heterosexual (Nicholls, 2017: 271). In other words, heterosexual privilege does not protect women from violence in straight nightlife spaces.
Studies about women in nightlife settings highlight oppression and resistance, framing women’s bodies as “risky” within the nighttime economy (Brooks, 2008: 347). Laura Mulvey, in her analysis of the “male gaze” in film, asserts that female bodies are presented within the lens of the male fantasy (Mulvey, 1975: 364). In this article, I apply Mulvey’s term to spatial analysis. Mainstream nightlife spaces have often been described as masculine (Anderson et al., 2009). From atmosphere to entrance policies, bars tend to cater to the male phantasy (Rivera, 2010). Men are encouraged to engage in normalized and sexualized social scripts to pick up women (Grazian, 2007). In contemporary nightlife venues, women are often aware of the male gaze that causes discomfort and unwelcome feelings, which has an impact on their self-presentation and navigation of such spaces (Nicholls, 2017).
By bringing together existing research on gay and straight nightlife, women’s belonging in these spaces can be further explored. Heteronormative nightlife spaces are overtly masculinized, with the role of femininity relegated to serving the male gaze (Anderson et al., 2009). Gay nightlife spaces are sometimes conceptualized as more feminine yet are often still dominated by white men who hold the power to evoke boundaries against women (Johnson and Samdahl, 2005). Thus, there is an issue of belonging for straight women in nightlife. If women do not belong in gay nightlife or straight nightlife, then what space exists for them? Orne (2017a) raises this question in his book Boystown, suggesting that heterosexual women don’t have the privilege and power to alter these spaces and eliminate misogynistic behaviour. This is not to suggest that straight women are passive subjects in nightlife spaces. On the contrary, they actively resist the male gaze by pushing back against the idea that they are there simply for male consumption, for example, through decisions about who to dance with (Nicholls, 2017). However, the majority of straight nightlife spaces, like gay bars, were not made for them. Although bars often advertise to women with tactics such as reduced or free cover charges, drink specials, and biased entry policies, women’s presence in bars is intimately linked to the production of these spaces as masculine utopias. Women to observe, seduce, and defend are necessary components of this idealized space, where sexism and misogyny are normalized and performances of masculinity are expected, encouraged, and rewarded (Kavanaugh, 2015). Understanding straight women’s motivations for patronizing gay bars may thus contribute to a greater understanding of resistance in oppressive nightlife environments.
Methods
This study uses semi-structured one-on-one interviews to investigate straight women’s motivations for frequenting gay bars in the United States and Canada. These countries were selected in order to understand experiences across North America. National differences were not the primary focus and despite differences in the sociopolitical histories of these countries in relation to queer rights, minimal differences were found. I conducted 14 interviews. All participants had gone to a gay bar at least five times in the past 5 years, which allowed for recollections of pre-pandemic experiences. Interviews were held between May 2022 and November 2022 over the teleconferencing software Zoom and were recorded and later transcribed verbatim. Using Zoom for interviews made participation in this study more accessible by reducing the need for travel and the time commitment required, as well as allowing participants to join the interview from a space where they felt most comfortable (Gray et al., 2020). All interviews were conducted in English.
Sample demographics.
Interviews ranged from fifteen to forty-eight minutes, with an average of twenty-eight minutes. I asked participants a variety of questions about their experiences at gay bars, including recollecting their most recent experience, defining what a gay bar is in their own words, and describing what they like about these spaces. I also asked participants to reflect on why other straight women might choose to frequent gay bars. This allowed participants to distance themselves from any potential feelings of personal shame, as they may have felt more comfortable sharing information that they did not want to attribute to themselves, specifically. In addition to encouraging participants to compare their gay bar patronage to that of other straight women, I also asked about their most recent experience at a straight bar (see also Ghaziani, 2019b). These questions uncovered specific information about the motives for patronizing gay bars and the meanings of those places. By asking participants the same set of core questions, potential bias resulting from inconsistent interviews was minimized, while the semi-structured format still allowed for me to follow up on interesting ideas and clarify key points (Bergelson et al., 2022: 2).
Codes & reliability checks.
One of the most common criticisms levelled against qualitative research is that it is subjective, and therefore unreliable (McAleese and Kilty, 2019). As a way of minimizing this issue, I engaged in inter-coder checks to ensure the replicability of my coding scheme (Campbell et al., 2013). This involved training an independent evaluator on my analytic procedures, and then testing against an interview transcript. The assessment produced agreement scores of over 90% (see Table 2). These scores were calculated by creating an additional user on NVIVO for an independent evaluator and comparing the coded segments between myself and the evaluator for percentage agreement. Before inviting an independent evaluator to code the text, I identified the “meaningful units of analysis” by highlighting all coded segments in the advance (Campbell et al., 2013: 304). I then trained the independent evaluator on my codebook. They then used these tools to re-code the identified units, with the option to code units that were not already identified if they believed that a code fit elsewhere.
Results
Why do straight cisgender women frequent gay bars? My findings show the importance of two motivating themes: safety and joy. These motivating themes are complicated by a third theme: questions of belonging in queer space. Below, I address each in turn.
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.’ Jaida: There’s just more thinking involved of what people are thinking of my behaviour in these straight spaces. Alaska: [Y]ou just kind of have to be on guard and I just feel, not quite myself there, if that makes sense.
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? Tortellini: It’s amazing [laughs].
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. Jaida: Knowing that [the gay bar] would be inclusive and safe for my friends who have less privilege than me.
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.
Discussion
Previous research has explored queer perspectives on straight patrons in gay spaces (Baldor, 2019; Brodyn and Ghaziani, 2018; Ghaziani, 2018; Hartless, 2019; Orne, 2017a), women’s safety in nightlife (Becker and Tinkler, 2015; Brooks, 2008; Fileborn, 2016; Forsyth and Lennox, 2010; Graham et al., 2014; Kovac and Trussell, 2015; Nicholls, 2017; Schnitzer et al., 2010), and the significance and circumstances of belonging in gay space (Hunter et al., 2016; Myslik, 1996). The findings I present here bring together and expand upon existing literature by illuminating the complexity surrounding straight women’s patronage of gay bars. I have demonstrated how the male gaze is a limiting factor for women seeking out joy and belonging in nightlife spaces. Gay bars provide them with an opportunity to evade the male gaze so that they can focus on their pleasure. The reprieve from heteronormativity provided in gay bars had a dual effect, whereby straight women can escape heterosexism, and queer patrons can escape homophobic violence.
Previous research finds that for gay men in gay bars, belonging is a result of social influence over space which results in emotional and psychological security (Myslik, 1996). It is unlikely that women in my study had any more social influence over gay bars than they had over straight bars. However, they were still able to achieve a sense of emotional and psychological security by their evasion of the male gaze. Rather than gaining social control of the space in gay bars, they retained control of their own bodies in ways that allowed them to be more fully themselves, and to pursue joy without limitation. These findings contribute to understandings about belonging for majority group members. Given that majority group members retain control of significant social and physical space in society, controlling gay space may not be a priority or necessity of belonging. Ultimately, for many of the straight women I interviewed, the male gaze was intimately linked to perceptions of safety, which directly limited capacity to experience feelings of belonging. Expanding on previous research on the male gaze (Nicholls, 2017), this study demonstrates an additional safety strategy used by women in the nighttime economy. Rather than engaging in techniques to increase their safety in places that they feel are unsafe, they seek out new venues altogether where they do not have to remain constantly vigilant.
The way that straight women situate their patronage of gay bars in relation to their own queer cultural knowledge also has implications on post-gay theory. Many of the straight women I interviewed understood their similarities to gay patrons as situated outside of sexual identity. Instead, similar goals, values, and a mutual appreciation of Beyoncé’s music, are what enabled successful use of shared space and facilitated positive intra-group interactions. This suggests that cross-sexuality friendships in the post-gay era are facilitated by gay bars, which provide a space for interactions that prioritize commonalities rather than differences. My research also expands on previous research by suggesting a relationship between cross-sexuality friendships and queer joy. My participants discussed pursuing the joy of queer spaces themselves, but also prioritizing queer spaces for the benefit of their queer friends, who they knew would be safer and more comfortable in gay space.
Previous research has speculated about women’s motivations for patronizing gay bars in the pursuit of other research questions (Baldor, 2019, Orne, 2017a). This study reveals the complexity of women’s motivations within the post-gay landscape and, like other research on post-gay politics, finds that sexuality is not the most important factor in developing cross-sexuality friendships and pursuing joy in the nighttime economy (Ghaziani, 2014). Ultimately, my results suggest a need for nightlife spaces that allow for cross-sexuality interactions, insulation from the male gaze, and which can fully evade the limitations of heteronormativity to instead focus on queer joy.
Limitations
One limitation of this study is possible sampling bias. Since all of the women I interviewed had been to a gay bar at least five times in the past five years, women with more infrequent patronage, such as those who went to a gay bar for a one-time bachelorette party or on a vacation were not included in this study. It is conceivable that the motivations of women who go to gay bars less often are different than those who go regularly. However, my sample allows for an analysis of the motivations of women who have gone to gay bars frequently enough to understand the venues more thoroughly.
Although my sample size is modest, interviews reached a point of saturation. By the final interview, scarcely any novel or unexpected information was revealed about straight women’s motivations for frequenting gay bars (Small, 2009). As interviews progressed, less and less new information was uncovered, while themes identified in earlier interviews were reiterated. Future research will be able to build on this exploratory study on straight women in gay nightlife spaces, elaborating on Baldor’s call to conduct additional research on the experiences and motivations of heterosexual women who participate in gay nightlife (Baldor, 2019).
Conclusion
Researchers and journalists alike have historically presented queerness as marginal and characterized by suffering, with positive portrayals entering into the mainstream only recently (Dhaenens, 2013; Hackford-Peer, 2010; Harwood, 2004; Rasmussen, 2005). This account reinforces heteronormativity by simultaneously concealing the significant forms of queer joy that coexist with, and often make up for, queer pain, but also by falsely suggesting that heterosexual people are not also victims of gender-based violence (Ward, 2020). My research reveals that joy is not only present in gay bars but is also envied by members of a majority group. Straight women are seeking out queer spaces as a way to escape violence, suffering, and the male gaze, and instead pursue the joy that they understand to be an inherent characteristic of queer space. In seeking out these things, they often find themselves navigating tensions surrounding belonging as they take shelter in a minority group’s safe space. Although not all women are aware of the tension surrounding their presence in gay bars, my results suggest that some are actively engaged in queer culture and history and that this engagement has an impact on the particular ways that they interact with gay space. The Roestone Collective (2014: 1361), acknowledging the paradoxical nature of safe space, suggests that “[i]n order to cultivate safe space that does not replicate the prejudices and exclusions it is supposed to challenge, we should therefore recognize safe space as simultaneously safety from and safety for.”
My analysis suggests the need to broaden conceptions of who gay bars provide safety for and who they provide joy for. In addition, considerations of who gay bars provide safety from are raised. Do gay bars provide safety from straightness? From gender-based violence and harassment? Or from larger structures of homophobia and heteronormativity that individual straight women may or may not uphold? As Baldor (2019: 437) suggests, some straight women may have a vested interest in maintaining the queerness of gay bars, since this is what makes them safe spaces from gendered violence. Thus, there is an overlap between what straight women and queer people are seeking safety from: dominant structures of homophobia and heteronormativity and the gender-based violence and harassment that accompany them.
Although this study reveals an overwhelming consensus around safety and joy as motivators for frequenting gay space, future research would benefit from exploring alternative motivations that arose as outliers in this study. For example, two participants described experiences where they were able to explore their own sexuality by attending gay bars. Although this finding was not shared by the majority of my participants, it is worth following up in future studies. Additionally, one participant described going to gay bars so she would not have to worry about the jealousy of her (heterosexual male) partner. It is likely that this participant’s partner also understood heterosexual men to be a safety risk, thus preferring them to patronize bars where they are less likely to be hit on or harassed. Further exploring the role of heterosexual women’s partners in their motivations for going to gay bars would be an interesting avenue for further research.
Future research should also explore the impact that efforts to prevent the straightening of gay space has on queer women, given that sexuality is invisible and therefore, women may be targeted based on potentially misogynistic assumptions about what queerness looks like. Future research would also benefit from exploring the issue of straight women in gay bars from the perspective of bar owners, whose profit margins are directly related to filling venues with as many paying patrons as possible. Ultimately, this research uncovers a provocative tension between group boundaries, safety, and the pursuit of joy.
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Dr Amin Ghaziani, Dr Tony Silva, Matja-Leena Corbett, and Caitlin Chong for their support and advice at various stages of this research.
Declaration of conflicting interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: This article draws on research supported by The Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council [award number 6566].
