It’s a Thursday night or a Sunday afternoon, and you’re sitting on your couch with your phone in your hand.

What are you going to do?

That’s the question at the heart of a loneliness crisis that’s overwhelmed the LGBTQ+ community.

The rise of social media and “the apps,” a wave of bar closings during the COVID pandemic, and a hostile political environment have conspired to produce a sense of dread for gay Americans that still has a lot of us sheltering in place — alone together.

But the obstacles keeping us apart in real life are giving way to a connection revival.

Three years after the pandemic, more bars are opening. Movie theater attendance is up. Restaurants are bustling, and people are reassessing the value of living their lives online.

And politics are galvanizing the LGBTQ+ community.

“Look, just being gay, or lesbian, or trans, or in drag is in and of itself a political act, because they have made it that way,” says Daniel Narcicio, owner of Red Eye bar in New York and a longtime promoter. “Being yourself is inherently political when people in power are telling you that what you are is wrong. Being out, literally in a club or figuratively out of the closet, is a political act.”

Buffeted by an onslaught of anti-LGBTQ+ legislation, Grindr, gentrification, and pandemic lockdowns, the gay bar is reemerging as a center of LGBTQ+ community, reimagined as a more inclusive space and primed for protest.

“They are and have always been our homes away from home,” says Mario Diaz, a club king in Los Angeles who hosts Hot Dog Sundays at El Cid in Silver Lake. “And to those of us that have been disowned by our blood families, simply our home. So they are essential. Community is crucial. And spaces for celebration are indispensable. This is what life is all about: connection and love.”

And Diaz adds, “If history has taught us anything, it’s that no one parties like the oppressed.”

Part of hooking up is the eye contact and that excruciating second between when you look down and look away and then look back to see if he’s looking back at you. But if you’re looking at your phone, you miss out on that.Sociology Professor Greggor Mattson

Gay bars took a hit

History can also teach us something about the gay bar business, and the political context they operate in.

“It is certainly the case that in 2017, gay bar owners said they saw a surge of patrons who had become complacent during the Obama years and rediscovered their need to find a place to gather together,” says Greggor Mattson, professor and chair of Sociology at Oberlin College in Ohio, who chronicled the state of gay bars across the United States in his 2023 book, Who Needs Gay Bars?

“I would never say that Trump is good for gay bar business because he’s so bad for members of our community,” Mattson adds, but history looks like it’s repeating itself.

By Mattson’s count, there are just over 800 gay bars operating across the United States (he visited several hundred in his cross-country research), and 2023 was the first year there had been an increase since 1997.

Many closed during the pandemic lockdowns and never recovered. Others fell victim to gentrification and redevelopment — the scrappy dive bars in low-rent neighborhoods that appealed to low-income regulars, slumming tourists, and real estate speculators alike.

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One example of pandemic resilience is Troop 429 in Norwalk, Connecticut, which managed to weather the COVID lockdowns by gaming the system.

“They were quite creative,” Mattson says. “Bars were closed, but retail was an essential business that was allowed to stay open. So they partnered with a record store and turned the bar into a record store where you could buy cocktails. That kept them open and allowed them to survive through COVID.”

Other bars partnered with food trucks, and some jurisdictions loosened rules around outdoor drinking, turning parking lots into open-air beer gardens.

At The Raven in Anchorage, Alaska, staff took it upon themselves to keep a voluntary log of everyone who came to the bar.

“When one of their patrons reported that they had tested positive for COVID, they called everyone to let them know. They were using skills they had honed during the AIDS crisis for community care. And in that way, I think gay bars may have had an advantage over other communities’ bars because this was not our first pandemic.”

The problem with phones

While lockdowns disappeared with the pandemic, Grindr still haunts the gay bar.

“Everything is different in bars because of phones,” says Mattson.

“One of the questions I was always asking owners who had been in the business for a while was, ‘What’s changed?’ And they all said people are worse conversationalists, and they don’t know how to be fun at the bar because we are all so used to when we feel borderline-uncomfortable whipping out our phone and looking down. And as you know, part of hooking up is the eye contact and that excruciating second between when you look down and look away and then look back to see if he’s looking back at you. But if you’re looking at your phone, you miss out on that.”

To be queer in my lifetime has consistently been a life on the fringe in a society full of judgment and shame. This is why our spaces are so important. LA promoter Mario Diaz

Worse than that, phones wielded in community spaces like gay bars are a sign of the addictive quality of the apps that users are glued to.

“To the extent that social media apps are driven by algorithms that are meant to get people to spend more time on them, I don’t think that we can trust they would be good for mental health,” says John Pachankis, the David R Kessler professor of Public Health and Psychiatry at Yale University.

“They keep people, straight or gay, out of the real world and into a world that’s built to be addictive, and addictive in ways that rely on self/other comparisons, self-evaluation, and ultimately feeling inferior,” Pachankis says.

Those symptoms can plague anyone who spends time on social media, but it might be particularly damaging to the mental health of LGBTQ+ people — because they’re set up for it.  

“Probably the two biggest drivers of the mental health disparity affecting LGBT people happen at an early age,” Pachankis says.

“LGBTQ people are disproportionately exposed to parental non-acceptance and to peer rejection or bullying, and we know that those two types of stressors are targeted to an important aspect of who one is. They are evaluative and shame-inducing and are about the most stressful events and experiences that people can have. That sets people up for later mental health risk.”

Ironically enough, there’s a good chance that the guy at the bar who’s looking away during a “borderline-uncomfortable” moment is on Grindr, simultaneously widening his selection of potential dates, shutting down the ones in front of him, and sparking a stressor unique to queer men.

“Research does show that to the extent that gay and bisexual men, for example, experience stressors from within the gay community, their mental health is particularly likely to suffer with outcomes like depressed mood, body image disturbance, and even sexual risk-taking,” Pachankis says.

“All is not lost,” though, says Mattson.

“As a teacher of young people, young people are vaguely aware of what they’re missing. And I think it’s incumbent on queer elders, particularly people older than 32, who now count as queer elders, to keep the art of witty bar side banter alive and to help people put their phones away,” he says.

“Some of the bar owners and some of the bartenders are really skilled at this like they are at the front lines of holding on to our humor,” Mattson explains. “There was one bar owner who said he instructed his bartenders to take people’s phones and that they could only have them back after they had introduced themselves to a stranger, and that sometimes they would get so involved that they would forget to get their phones back.”

Club impresario Nardicio has a different strategy for keeping his customers offline.

“Just last week, I threw my infamous Nardi Gras party and had a 15-person marching band come through at midnight,” he says. “And I can tell you, no one at the club was on Grindr. They were living for it.”

I will say that with everything that has happened since Trump’s come into office, I have seen even more support for what we are doing and more excitement for what we are doing.Rikki’s Women’s Sports Bar co-creator Sara Yergovich

Broadening gay bars’ appeal

Smaller gay bars, though, have had to come up with other strategies to bring customers in, despite the lure of the apps — by broadening their appeal.

“Owners of bear bars or leather bars would ask me, you know, ‘What should we be doing?’” says Mattson. “I directed them to lesbian bars because lesbian bars have been doing this now for almost 30 years. Every lesbian bar that I interviewed was open to everybody.”

Lesbian bars experienced decades of decline before a bounce back following the pandemic. There were over 200 women’s bars in the 1980s, and fewer than 20 by the start of the pandemic. Since then, the Lesbian Bar Project counts 34 lesbian bars up and running across the U.S.

That number will bump up to 35 with the May opening of Rikki’s Women’s Sports Bar in San Francisco’s Castro District.

“Our definition of women’s sports is broad and all-encompassing,” says Danielle Thoe, one of Rikki’s co-owners. “It’s hard to fit that in just a couple sentences when you’re describing the space and what we’re building, but I think that welcoming aspect is really important,” she says.

To live a free and joyful life as a queer person is the ultimate act of resistance.LA promoter Mario Diaz

“Sports have a different connection,” says Sara Yergovich, Thoe’s business partner. “They’re a different way to connect with people. We’re very community-based, and as long as they want to support women’s sports, everyone is welcome.”

The pair say politics have worked their way into Rikki’s even before the bar’s opening.

“I will say that with everything that has happened since Trump’s come into office, I have seen even more support for what we are doing and more excitement for what we are doing,” Yergovich says. “It feels like people have kind of latched onto this as, you know, maybe bad things are happening, but there are some good things that are happening, too, and trying to really hold on to that.”

“Trans athletes belong in sports,” says Thoe. “They are some of our investors, our backers, our community members, and so that’s something that we’ll really look to highlight and make clear as we continue to get up and running.”

The resistance is alive and well at the gay bar

Nardicio’s New York bar is highlighting its resistance, as well, in gestures subtler than a marching band.

“Take for instance, at Red Eye, we recently got an ‘A’ from the health department ’cause we keep it clean behind the bar. We took that ‘A,’ put it in the window and proudly put a ‘G’ and a ‘Y’ next to it, so it says ‘GAY’ boldly in our window. We aren’t backing down. It’s in your face. We’re here, we’re queer, and we keep a spotless bar!”

“I think many of us learned a few lessons in lockdown,” says LA promoter Diaz. “Lessons about what’s really important in life. About the importance of human connection. Lessons on how short and unpredictable life can be.”

“To be queer in my lifetime has consistently been a life on the fringe in a society full of judgment and shame,” Diaz says. “This is why our spaces are so important. We need these places to survive and hold onto our joy. To live a free and joyful life as a queer person is the ultimate act of resistance. The moment we lose that, we lose the fight.”

“When people tell me, ‘We don’t need gay bars anymore,’ I ask them how they felt when they first went back to a restaurant after the COVID lockdowns, and they rhapsodize about how amazing it was to be out in public and to see people,” says Mattson.

“And I said, for queer people, we still need that. Even if we lived in a perfect world that was perfectly accepting, we are still a minority. We are still often raised by very lovely straight people, but who can’t be there for us in all the ways that we need. So we’re always going to need places where we can gather together. And there’s something deeply human about our need to be around other humans.”