Here is how to make a gay bar, according to work.—lowercase, with a period, why not—Raleigh’s new Fayetteville Street nightclub:

Step 1: Take a straight bar.

Step 2: Add neon lights and generic dance music.

Step 3: Leather couches. Everywhere.

Step 4: Profit.

In an interview with WRAL, manager Joey Eshleman—he couldn’t be reached for comment—said he likes to think of work. as a “straight-friendly” gay bar, a concept that seems to presume that other gay bars are turning away breeders at the door. (Proof this is wrong: Flex on karaoke nights. Also, The Bar, anytime.) In reality, work. is more like a facelift for the former Capital City Tavern—it’s owned by the same people—with black leather chaise lounges replacing the tables and gender-neutral signs on the bathrooms.

Across the country, gay (and lesbian) bars have become something of an endangered species over the last decade. As society became more accepting of LGBTQ people, the need for discreet spaces of their own diminished. Hookup apps like Grindr made it easy for LGBTQ people to meet people for sex outside of a gay bar. And since gay bars were historically located in marginalized neighborhoods, rising rents due to gentrification have sometimes made business unsustainable.

And there’s also the fact that gay bars have become less gay, while queer and drag events have moved to nontraditional venues. The lines have blurred. Gay bars have become havens for straight people, particularly straight women seeking a good time without the hassle of straight men. But where straight women go, straight men inevitably follow. Eventually, a gay bar is just a bar.

So what, then, is the point of the straight-friendly work.? Perhaps Eshleman’s comment was just a throwaway line, but on Saturday night, I set out to explore the question anyway.

Other than the furniture and a new logo, not much has actually changed at work. since the Capital City Tavern days. The patrons I ran into didn’t seem to mind. Some of them didn’t seem to know the difference—or if they did, they didn’t care.

I rolled in just before 11:30 p.m., the dawn of club o’clock, and work. was packed with a diverse crowd almost impossible to define: 21 to 80, frat boys to elder gays, nonbinary folks to middle-age lesbians to a woman in a rhinestone tiara wearing a sash that proclaimed her the “bride.” No one was particularly cool or uncool. It was like if everyone you never wondered about from middle school washed up on a dance floor.

“I think a lot of people still don’t know it’s not Capital City anymore,” said Caitlyn Daron, whose wavy blond hair cascaded out from a knit beanie. “They’ll figure it out eventually.”

I approached the bar, discovered a surprisingly decent beer selection, and ordered a Crush Cucumber Sour. I asked the bartender if it was always this crowded.

“More,” he said, smiling. “This is a light night.”

Of course it is.

There was nothing risque or challenging here, no discernable sense of culture, nothing to identify it or make it stand out. work. is the Applebee’s of gay bars, a corporate entity that could be picked up and dropped off in any city in America and no one would know the difference. It manages to be neither pretty nor gritty; it simply exists and makes money. It is a shell of brick walls to house sweaty bodies and serve pricey drinks to people trying to have a good time and/or get laid.

It is not fighting the system. It is the system.

There was a goddamn Fast & Furious movie playing on the television.

“This is metropolitan,” a black-polo-clad Jonathan Maynard told me. “This feels like DC. It is the most eclectic crowd I’ve seen. It really is a little bit of everyone.”

“It’s upscale,” said another John, whose last name I didn’t catch. He had a gray mustache and a black leather trenchcoat. “It’s the martinis bar for the in-crowd, and everyone I saw walk in here has a big penis.”

Um, OK.

I curled up on a barstool and nursed my beer as couples gyrated under a disco ball. The bass was too loud (or maybe I’m too old?). The beat seemed to be continuously ascending like I was trapped in the climax of a retro video game. An employee in a black “work.” shirt nearly grabbed the stool out from under me, mumbling an apology. A remix of “The Macarena” started playing, drawing the Boomers in the crowd to the dance floor.

In the bathroom, I overheard a drunk girl rambling about “heteronormative spaces” and declaring herself an “ally.” I practically ran to the bar and ordered a tequila soda with lime. A Lizzo remix thumped so loudly I couldn’t hear myself think.

When I got home, with my ears still ringing, I reconsidered my initial reaction. Not that I’m wrong to think of work. as corporate and generic. But maybe Raleigh’s LGBTQ community should have something as soulless as Glenwood South’s Cornerstone.

Why do all gay establishments have to be interesting? If people were having fun—and they were—who I am to judge?

Contact Raleigh news editor Leigh Tauss at ltauss@indyweek.com.

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