It looked like a lot of gay bars I’d seen in movies, but smaller, and with fewer glow sticks. A dusty disco ball hung in the center of the room, bathing everything in little white specks. Beer signs made the walls glow, and a few clusters of people were scattered around the bar. This was a Sunday night and I’d venture to guess the place was less than half full. Some old disco song was playing, way too loudly, as I followed Seth and Heather inside to meet our new friends at the bar.
This isn’t one of those stories about a heartwarming journey toward accepting my cursed homosexual identity. No.
First of all, being gay is far from a curse. It’s more like an extra order of fries at Wendy’s because the lady in the window isn’t paying attentions while she fills your bag.