There were lads in their best "going out shirts" miming along to Ariana Grande, feigning camp dance moves to suit. Their female counterparts, wildly underdressed for the 12C temperature in micro-minis, screaming, falling off chairs, and grabbing gay men's arms and pecs.
Over the street at Family, it's the same story only magnified. Ask any local LBGT+ person from Auckland if they're keen for a boogie on a weekend night, and there will be a simple reply: "Family is full of angry straights".
Let me re-address my opening point. Straight people are welcome in gay bars, but they have to behave themselves. They literally have ALL THE OTHER BARS to choose from. When they come to ours, we deserve a little respect. Actually, we deserve a lot of respect.
The gay bar has a long history as a safe space for queer people. For more than 50 years, it has often been the single place we are able to be ourselves. Away from non-accepting family members, colleagues and co-workers that could judge us, and the fear of being heckled or abused and beaten on the street. Even today in 2020, the gay bar is the one single place where an LGBT+ person is going to be part of the majority.
This is a precious feeling, because societal acceptance of sexual and gender minorities doesn't mean you feel "normal". As I wrote last week, feeling like an average Joe isn't the goal (and that's why we need queer labels), yet it is really welcome, on occasion, to feel like you're not the "different" one in the crowd. Even just for two hours over vodka sodas and a light-up dancefloor, there's a feeling of being home when you're at a gay bar.
But that's not how K'Road feels now. The drag queens and rainbow pavements are still there, but so are the hen dos and rugby club break-ups; the office socials and the boys' nights out.
As recent as five years ago, it wasn't this way. Family was grungy and less crowded. The kind of place a gay guy could chat to another guy without wondering, "are you straight?" and "are you going to punch me if I hit on you?"
Urge, now closed, was the pre-eminent space for bears – an older, more hirsute group of guys in need of a fun and masculine vibe. But that's gone now and Urge only runs annual events. There are no lesbian bars on K'Road at all, and trans and non-binary folks have – not surprisingly – never had their own unique spaces.
At the risk of sounding like an angry old queen, K'Road back in the day was a better place. I lament going to bars that felt easy and non-threatening. I miss chatting to the trans sex workers who felt they could be their authentic selves. I bemoan not feeling 100 per cent comfortable walking down the boulevard in a crop top and booty shorts.
I'm torn as to what the omnipresence of straight patrons on K'Road actually means. On one hand, thanks to RuPaul's Drag Race and the like, it means our culture and people have moved on from being "tolerated" to being accepted (and even celebrated) by the straight world. It is genuinely heart-warming to know that a heterosexual male doesn't feel like masculinity is compromised by being in a gay bar, and that he's positioning himself as an ally.
On the other hand, while the existence of straight people on K'Road isn't the issue, their behaviour is. Drunk Kiwi male aggression is triggering for queer people. The sight and sound of straight men having fun in groups is scary for us: it reminds us all of being bullied horrifically at school.
When LGBT+ people venture on a night out on the town, I would never claim that we're perfectly behaved but we are not the hot messes you now see on K'Road with the straight punters. The breaking of glasses, the yelling and screaming at us to perform like zoo animals, the dominating the dancefloor, the vomiting in the street… it all has to stop.
Straight people, we as queers are stoked that you're on board with our culture now, but you've taken it too far on K'Road. When you're on that street, you are our guests. It's time to start acting like it.
