That's what I tell people.
But it's not true. I go out for the room. Before I even take my coat off, I scan: who's here, who's watching, who's pretending not to, who already feels claimed. The DJ could be playing the set of their life — if the energy's wrong, it doesn't matter.
There's a specific tension in gay nightlife nobody talks about. We say we're there to dance, but we're also there to measure. Am I hot enough tonight? Is this crowd above me? Did I underdress? Overdress? Did he look twice, or was that accidental? You can feel your nervous system calibrating in real time. It's primal.
Sometimes the room is electric — not because everyone is beautiful, but because everyone feels open. Eye contact lingers. People smile without armor. Strangers dance without negotiating status first. That's the kind of night you remember. Not the lineup. Not the flyer. The room.
Other nights it's a silent competition. Too curated, too aware, everyone performing effortless. You can feel when people are dancing to be seen, and you can feel when they're dancing because they forgot to care. Those are different frequencies. The truth is I don't need the biggest crowd. I need the right temperature: warm enough to flirt, loose enough to laugh, sharp enough to surprise me.
So, confession: I don't chase DJs. I chase rooms. And if you've ever left a party early because the vibe was off but couldn't explain why, you already know exactly what I mean — you've been reading rooms your whole life, whether you called it that or not.