The bartender looked at my real ID, then offered me a drink on the house. I ordered a gin and soda, and he glanced me up and down. 'What are we having?' a bald, muscular bartender asked. But I suppose it didn't traumatize me enough to have the patience to wait another night. Still in the closet, I had perceived the bouncer's rejection as a sign I didn't belong inside. The one time I tried entering a gay bar in the past was the only time my fake ID had ever failed. My heart started pounding faster as I entered the venue, though I felt relieved by the lack of a doorman. When I searched for the nearest LGBTQ+-friendly spaces in his Lower East Side neighborhood, a bar called Boiler Room popped up. I was in between apartments in New York and temporarily staying at my brother's.
I entered my first gay bar on the eve of my 21st birthday.
